Alamort | Troy Otto

2.6

[2.6]

The house wasn't warm. The grayish colors of the walls made it seem colder than it actually was. Most windows were broken and the one that wasn't was wide open, the cold air of the upcoming autumn slipping through the broken glass and cracked wood. Some walls were dirty, dried blood that was once red, now a dark brown coating those wallpapers.

While it was certainly not the best place, it was safe. Or at least, it seemed so.

Thena was walking through one of the rooms, a windowless room, one large bed in the far right corner. Candles were scattered all around, lighting up the dark room. Anita was lying on the bed, a small children's book that she found in her hands. Thena's eyes traveled on the walls, staring at the newspaper fragments. Her hand went to touch the small calendar hanging from the wall, staring at the days crossed off the month of September. She let out a small scoff, remembering the sunny June days of Los Angeles, right before the outbreak.

The door opened and Troy walked in, but Thena couldn't take her eyes off the calendar. "The house's safe," he said, letting his backpack fall next to the closed door, "But there's a storm coming. We might be stuck here for a while." The man glanced at Anita, whose brown eyes were staring at him intensely, before he turned to Thena. "Are you listening to me?"

"How long since the dead started walking?" she asked, still not taking her eyes off the calendar.

"What?" asked Troy confused with a shake of his head.

"How long?"

For a moment, he stared at her questionably. When he realized she wouldn't be backing down from her question, he let out a sigh and shook his head. From the wide pocket of his military trousers, he took out a small notebook. Glancing at him, Thena hadn't even realized he still had the notebook. From what she remembered, he used to take notes while at the border's military base. It was the same notebook she'd ripped the pages off while at the ranch. Thena didn't even remember him using it in the days they've spent together. But he did. He must have waited until she was asleep.

"About two, two and a half months... maybe even three," he said, flipping through the pages, "if I'm not wrong, we should be on the nineteenth of September. ...Why?"

Without a word, Thena pointed to the calendar and with her other hand, opened a small notepad on the desk. She pointed to the last entry and the last day crossed off the month of September. "Eighteenth," she whispered, not wanting Anita to hear.

"It could be a mistake," said Troy, "did you check the date?"

"2010, our year," said the woman, pointing to the diary's date.

"It's not a mistake, Troy," she added after a few seconds, "this place is too clean compared to the rest of the house. Someone is staying here."

"Well, let's hope the storm delays their arrival," muttered the man, "what does the diary say?"

Thena took one of the candles and placed it closer to the diary. She read the words in silence, trying to ignore Troy's breath on her cheek from the proximity of his body. He was glancing at the diary from behind her, reading the words over her shoulder. "Nothing of use," she muttered, placing the candles back on the small desk.

She looked up, her hazel eyes meeting Troy's blue ones. "We can't just stay here hoping no one comes home," she whispered, her eyes glancing at Anita over Troy's shoulder, "it's not safe."