The Nightworld - Jack Blaine [19]
“It’s getting ugly out there, folks.” The guy shakes his head. “I’d stay in tonight if I were you.” He gives a nervous little laugh before the television cuts out again. I switch around, but no other stations come in either. It’s weird how little they’re saying about why it’s dark. They just keep saying the situation’s under control and showing looters smashing things.
By dinner, Tank and I have thoroughly inspected every inch of the fence line in the backyard because he seems convinced the raccoon will be back for an encore. I’ve tried my phone multiple times with no luck. I doubt they can trace a dead phone, so that’s good. I catch three more bits of television news coverage and check all the locks on the doors and windows twice. I peek out the windows pretty often, and I’ve seen a couple of people walking down the street now, lit by the streetlights. People who don’t look like they know where they’re going.
I fix us a dinner of Hamburger Helper, and after we eat I wash all the dishes that have been piling up. When I take a shower, Tank stations himself in a guard position on the bathroom rug until I get out. I think he’s worried that I’m going to disappear, like his whole family did. He watches every move I make with worried brown eyes.
Back downstairs, I get my backpack and take it with me to the couch. I flop down and open it up, and out falls the box. Optimus Prime. Hot tears spring to my eyes, and I shove the box back into the backpack. I dig past it and come up with a book. Lord of the Flies. It makes me think of Mrs. Martin—what happened to her? I think she lives in the city. I wonder if she’s safe. Did she manage to get out before it got crazy? Thinking of her makes me think of school, which makes me think of Lara. I hope she’s okay. Did her brother get her out, or is she still in the city? I wish I could call her. I wish I could call anyone, really.
The television is nothing but static. It’s so quiet, and so dark—even inside the house. I’m afraid to turn on too many lights now, ever since I noticed the people wandering down the street. I figure they’re refugees from the city, and I don’t want to draw too much attention. Right now the only illumination in the living room is a small table lamp next to the couch, and I’ve thrown a bandana over it to make it dim. I don’t think any of the glow can get past the curtains.
I’m not sure what I should do. Do I stay here for a while like I planned? It seemed like a good idea at first, but the wanderers give me the creeps. As long as they keep just wandering and don’t start trying doors, it’s fine, but I wonder how long that can last.
I’m so tired. I don’t want to think too hard right now. Every time I start to think, I see Dad, with three red blooms spreading across the front of his shirt. I see his eyes cloud over as the life leaves his body. The last thing I did was blame him for this whole mess. The last words I said to him were angry. I don’t want to remember any of it.
I pick up the book Mrs. Martin gave me and glance at the back. Doesn’t sound too uplifting, but it’s what I’ve got. Maybe it will keep my mind off other things. I stretch out on the couch and Tank lies next to me on the floor, and I start to read about a world with no grown-ups at all.
Chapter 11
During the next few days, I stay inside the house, frozen in some sort of strange numbness. There have been gunshots but they’ve been far away. Twice I’ve heard screaming, but when I went to the window to peek out, I couldn’t see any sign of who was doing it. Tank follows me around looking worried, and when I let him out in the backyard to pee, he always stares up at me before he goes through the door, as though he thinks I might not let him back in.
I bring some sheets and blankets from upstairs and make a bed on the couch. I drag Tank’s bed