All Our Tomorrows Page 16

  Steve touches softly at my arm. He must see me drifting into another world. His kind, gentle fingers drag me back to reality.

  “I was just wondering if the shower worked. I mean, is there? Could there be warm water?”

  “I don’t know,” Steve replies, walking in and leaning past me. He turns each of the old fashioned taps. Nothing comes out. For a few seconds, there’s clanging and wheezing in the pipes behind the cracked, tiled wall. Slowly, water starts dribbling from the shower head, but it’s an off-gray color and smells like an open sewer. Then suddenly there’s a rush of water spraying out into the bath. I jump to one side, not wanting a single drop of putrid water to touch me. Steve winds the taps back a little, balancing the flow, and the water runs clear. I touch at the spray. It’s icy cold. I’m not having another freezing cold shower.

  “Shame,” I say, shaking my hand dry and turning to leave.

  “Wait. It’s getting warm.”

  “Really?”

  I have to feel the warmth for myself.

  “Oh, yes,” I cry aloud, doing a little dance and pumping my fists. I run on the spot for a couple of seconds, twirling in my drab cotton surgical smock. Suddenly, everything is right with the world.

  I grab the shampoo and soap and rest them beside the bath.

  Slowly, steam rises from the shower.

  A light mist forms on the aging mirror above the sink.

  Steve says, “I’ll leave you alone,” and walks toward the door.

  “Wait a minute,” I say, taking him by the hand and tugging gently, stopping him from leaving. Our eyes meet and I smile, saying, “I never want to be alone again.”

  “I—Ah.”

  Steve is flustered. He doesn’t know where to look. I’ve taken him by surprise and his eyes dart around, looking at my feet, at the sink, up at the ceiling, across at the light switch, even at my thin cotton gown—everywhere except back into my eyes.

  “Hey,” I say, taking both of his hands and drawing him further into the bathroom. “It’s okay.”

  “Oh, I, umm—”

  He’s speechless, which is funny. I laugh, lightening the moment, and his face radiates warmth. He starts to say something, but I lean in and kiss him softly on the lips. It’s nothing passionate, but our lips linger.

  Reaching around behind him, I pull on the drawstrings of his gown, feeling them come loose.

  “I—I have to say,” he splutters. It’s uncharacteristic of him to stutter like this, which reveals the conflict he feels inside. He’s shy. He’s a nice guy. A gentleman. To me, his awkward demeanor is cute. The other boys in the commune would have me pinned against the wall of the bathroom by now, kissing me passionately and groping at my breasts.

  “You have to say what?” I ask, teasing him as his gown falls to his feet. His body is covered in bruises, cuts, scratches, and bandages. Every muscle in his body goes tense, but not from the cold. Am I moving too fast?

  “Are you okay?” I ask, my fingers touching lightly on his forearm.

  “Just a little sore and stiff,” he says, standing before me naked with clean white bandages wrapped around his chest and his upper thigh.

  “Some parts are a little stiffer than others,” I say, unable to suppress a grin.

  He’s embarrassed, but he laughs. His hands drop to cover his groin, but I take his fingers and guide his hands lightly onto my hips, pulling his body hard against me.

  We kiss again, and he relaxes as my arms slide around his waist. I feel his hands slip around behind me, pulling gently at the strings on the back of my gown, only somehow he manages to tighten the bows into knots. I laugh as he struggles with the thin strands, giggling as he gets slightly frustrated.

  “I’m all thumbs,” he says, giving up, but I won’t be deterred by some flimsy cotton. I pull the smock up over my head like a dress. And with that I’m naked too.

  “WOW!” he says, his eyes going wide as he stares down at my breasts.

  “You like?” I ask, faking a curtsey. I thought it would feel strange taking off my clothes in front of a boy, but it doesn’t. It feels natural. I guess it happened so quickly there wasn’t any time for second thoughts. Just one swift motion and I was done. And this is by my choosing. There’s no one about to scrub my skin raw with a horse brush, or strike me on the back of the head with a rifle.

  Naked is a bit of a misnomer, as we’re both still covered in bandages, but Steve smiles. Our eyes meet, and for the first time in years, I feel safe. We’re both surprisingly relaxed in each other’s presence.

  My fingers rest on the bandages wrapped around his chest. Slowly, I unravel the white bandaging as the water from the shower falls like rain behind me. Warmth radiates through the air.

  “Are you sure about this?” he asks.

  “Aren’t you?” I ask in reply as the humidity builds in the bathroom. Water sprays softly on the tiles, spitting out of the bathtub and catching the back of my legs.

  Steve lifts his arms as I gently roll the bandage backwards, unwinding the wrapping from his chest.

  “Bruised and cracked,” he says, grimacing in pain, unable to complete a full sentence. “Not broken.”

  With the bandage off, I touch gently at a deep blue welt on his ribcage.

  “Easy,” he says, as my fingers barely touch his chest.

  He unwinds a bandage from his arm and then his leg.

  “Oh, Steve,” I say, copying him and unraveling the bandages from my arms and hands. “We’re a crazy couple of kids, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, we are,” he replies and we softly butt heads, rubbing our foreheads together in a show of intimacy. I sneak a quick kiss. It’s silly, really, but fun. Perhaps that’s something I never understood about love before. Love was always serious in my mind. Love was a decision rather than a feeling, something that was grave and important because it would affect the rest of my life. I think love is supposed to be fun. To hell with tomorrow. I want to live today.

  The shower beckons with the promise of a warm, relaxing massage. Slowly, Steve hobbles toward the bathtub, shedding the last of his bandages. He’s sore. Although I meant well, removing his bandages wasn’t a good idea. He holds onto a handrail as he steps into the shower, adjusting the temperature of the water.

  “I’m sorry,” Steve says, glancing down at his injuries. He has a massive black bruise on one hip. The bruise is roughly the size of a dinner plate. The poor boy must be in agony. “I guess this isn’t quite the romantic moment you imagined. Hardly a sexy body, huh?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I respond, feeling cheeky. “You’ve got a cute ass, even if it is covered in bruises.”

  Steve smiles and tries to laugh. It’s forced, but he wants to be here with me, that’s clear. I suspect the warmth of the shower isn’t quite as soothing for his aching body as I’d hoped.

  I step into the shower with him and lather some soap in my hands.

  “Relax,” I say, gently rubbing my hands on his shoulders.

  Water cascades over us, splashing around us. The heat is luxurious. This time last night, I was alone, clinging to the side of a railroad bridge in the freezing cold rain. I’m loving this. I feel like I’m melting in the shower.

  Steve closes his eyes and groans softly as my hands slip over his body, running over his muscles, down across his abs and slowly around his thighs.

  Chapter 11: Warehouse

  It’s dark when I wake, and it takes me a moment to realize that’s probably not unusual when it comes to life in a basement. With no windows, the only light seeps in beneath the door from the hallway.

  My hand rests on Steve’s waist. Apart from our bandages, we’re both still buck naked, which feels wonderfully natural and surprisingly normal. Steve snores softly. I let him sleep, getting up and going to the bathroom. I really want to steal that toilet paper. I’d love nothing more than to stuff dozens of rolls of toilet paper into a backpack and hike back to the commune. At the very least, it would be lightweight.

  I’m curious
about the time. Although I have no idea what time it is, I’m well rested. I feel as though I’ve slept in, which isn’t something that happens too often in the commune. Us teens tend to sneak around at night instead of going to bed, staying up into the crazy hours of the morning, and we still have to be up with the dawn, ready for chores.

  I crack the door to the hallway, allowing light to spill in so I can search through the drawers for clothing. There are tank tops, t-shirts, shorts, pants, but they’re all plain. Rather than belonging to someone, it looks as though the drawers were stocked by a department store clerk. Either that or someone has a really weird fetish for drab olive green, as that’s the only color I can find.

  There’s no underwear, but some of the shorts are stretchy. I guess there’s a name for this type of clothing, but I don’t know it. No one cares about brands or styles anymore. I slip them on and then slip on a pair of cotton pants, rolling up the cuffs so they won’t drag on the floor. A tight t-shirt doubles as a bra and a loose fitting t-shirt gives me a bit of comfort and warmth.

  “You awake?” Steve says in a groggy voice.

  Given I’m standing by the door fully dressed, I say, “Yes.”

  Steve tries to get up and his body rebels. I see him freeze in a spasm of pain before trying to push through it and turn sideways on the bed. His feet plop on the floor as he sits up.

  “Rest,” I say. “I’ll go and see what time it is.”

  “Okay,” he says, slumping back onto the pillow. I didn’t think he’d need too much encouragement.

  As I turn to walk out of the room, Steve says, “Hey.”

  I look back, surprised by his one word sentence.

  “Be safe.”

  “Relax,” I say. “Go back to sleep.”

  In bare feet, I walk across the cold tile floor and reach for the handle to the thick steel door. Locked. No surprise there.

  I knock on the tiny glass window in the middle of the door, knowing there are soldiers posted outside.

  “Hello?”

  There’s no answer.

  I peer to one side, trying to get a glimpse down the corridor.

  Lights flicker out of sight.

  “Is there anyone out there?” I ask, pounding a little harder on the door.

  I jump as a bloodied hand slaps the window, leaving deep red streaks on the glass.

  Bloodshot eyes appear as a zombie examines me from behind the door. He snarls. I can see his lips move, but I can’t hear him. He slams himself into the door and the force of his impact echoes around me. He’s enraged, mad with anger, but his blows are fleeting through the thick, heavy door.

  “No,” I whisper, stepping backwards. Our eyes lock. Zee bites at the glass, rabid in his frenzy to get at me. “No, you can’t be in here. You can’t.”

  As my feet slide across the tiles, I’m suddenly aware of someone else standing behind me. A dark shadow falls on the ground. My heart skips a beat. A hand grabs me by the elbow and I scream, jumping as I turn.

  “Hey,” Steve says. “Are you okay?”

  I could punch him.

  Steve quickly assesses what’s happened. Even though he’s naked, he moves me behind him, sizing up the zombie behind the door.

  “One of the guards?” he asks, the tone of his voice having changed considerably.

  “I think so.”

  “And the door?”

  “Locked,” I say.

  “Well, that’s good and bad.”

  “Bad? How?” I ask.

  “Ajeet said this corridor’s a dead end. They can’t get in. But we can’t get out.”

  For a second, panic washes over me. Something, anything, I have to do something. I have to run.

  “It’s okay,” Steve says, recognizing my anguish. “We’ve got time to figure this out. For once, we don’t need to be on the run.”

  He leads me back into the room, but I don’t want to lose sight of the zombie. I fear that if he’s out of sight, he could sneak up on me. Even though that’s irrational, I can’t help but feel a sense of dread.

  Steve turns on the light. The bed is messy. He puts on some shorts and, to my utter dismay, straightens the sheets, fluffing the pillows and putting them in place at the head of the bed.

  “Steve!” I say. “We need to get out of here.”

  “We do,” he says. “But there’s no rush. We’re perfectly safe in here. For all we know, Doyle and Ajeet are working their way toward us as we speak. Relax, Haze.”

  “For all we know,” I say, turning his logic against him. “Ajeet and Doyle are dead. Or worse. We could be trapped here forever.”

  Steve looks at me with tender eyes. Oh, how I love him. He doesn’t even need to say anything. Just a look is enough. I know.

  “Okay,” I confess. “Forever? A bit melodramatic.”

  Steve squeezes between me and the bed, sneaking a kiss as his hands rest on my hips. A kiss? Really? Now? You’re feeling amorous now? I want to say something, but I’m reading too much into things. He’s just trying to be nice.

  He grabs a shirt and slips it gingerly over his head, feeding the cotton gently over his bandaged chest. I’m such an idiot. He’s right. We can’t run. We’re trapped. Even if we could run, he couldn’t. For once, going slow is advantageous. Time is on our side, not Zee’s.

  “What size shoe do you wear?” Steve asks, finding dozens of moldy sneakers stuffed in the large bottom drawer.

  “Seven,” I say, watching as Steve tosses shoe after shoe to one side.

  “There sure were a lot of people here with one left foot,” he says, laughing, tossing a bunch of shoes to one side. I sit beside him on the bed, holding the sole of several shoes against the underside of my foot until I find one that looks about right.

  “Another one like this,” I say, as Steve puts two shoes aside for himself.

  “Here you go,” he says, picking out a shoe for my left foot. It’s slightly too big but it’ll do. There are no socks, and the shoes are all worn. Most of them have lost their tread beneath the sole, but I’m not complaining.

  “You think we can get that door open?” I ask.

  “I doubt it,” Steve says, kneeling and looking under the bed. Smart. He’s being resourceful, looking for anything we can use. Someone could have stashed a gun under there or a crowbar. But he gets back to his feet with nothing in his hands.

  “Help me with this desk,” he says. I grab one end and we turn the desk upside down on the bed. He wants the legs. He’s thinking we can use them like baseball bats. I smile. Panic fades. We’re good. I want to say that aloud, but my anxiety is no big deal to him. Steve’s already moved on. He’s so matter-0f-fact about everything. Maybe that’s what draws me to him. We’re not opposites, but we are different. We compliment each other nicely.

  “Wing nuts,” he says, getting his fingers in and twisting at a small brass nut. “They’re stiff.”

  I try, and my wing nut won’t budge even though the flat brass fitting gives me plenty of leverage. Steve pulls part of his shirt away from his waist, grabbing at the wing nut again, but with some fabric to soften the harsh metal. He grits his teeth, twisting, and the nut comes loose. I want to celebrate. I’ve gone from panic to manic in a matter of seconds, but Steve remains levelheaded, and that helps me more than he knows.

  “Here,” he says, handing me the freed desk leg. “Grab a shirt or something to wrap around the base of the leg when you hold it. Hitting a zombie with one of these legs is going to be like smacking a brick wall. The shock through the wood will sting. Wrap a shirt around the narrow end and you’ll lessen that.”

  “Sure thing, David,” I reply, watching for Steve’s reaction. He has his head down, working with another wing nut as I speak those words, but he stops instantly, looking up at me in surprise. He smiles, laughing.

  “Yeah, I sure miss him too,” he says.

  With a shirt wrapped around the base of the desk leg, and feeling like I’m holding a baseball bat again, I poke my head around the corner, looking
out into the hallway. Zee is still there at the window, but it’s surprising what a difference it makes having a weapon in my hand. My confidence is high.

  “There’s a camera,” Steve says, pointing at a small black dome in the corner of the corridor. A tiny red light blinks on the side of the dome, signaling that the camera is on.

  “Do you think there’s someone watching?” I ask, waving with my arms, swinging the desk leg back and forth and jumping a little. I’m hoping some movement will attract attention.

  “I don’t know,” Steve says. “Like you said, we may have been the only ones to survive the night, and only because we were locked in behind a steel door.”

  That’s a sobering thought, dampening my enthusiasm at seeing what I thought of as a sign of life. That flashing LED is a sign of live electricity. Nothing else.

  “So, how do we get out of here?” Steve asks.

  “Not fair,” I say, trying to keep the mood light. “I was going to ask you the same question.”

  I walk down the hallway, peering into the rooms on one side and switching on lights, looking for anything that might allow us to escape. Not all the lights work, but the rooms are duplicates. They mirror each other. Occasionally, the color of the blankets is different, but the layout is the same—queen sized bed, two sets of drawers, a desk, a single chair, and a bathroom backing onto the bathroom from the other room. Steve copies me, checking the rooms on the other side of the corridor. It feels good to be doing something. Although we aren’t any closer to getting out of here, it feels as though we are because we’re taking the initiative.

  “You got anything?” Steve asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “Wait a minute,” he says, opening the last door. “Janitor’s closet.”

  I jog over. There are mops, buckets, plungers for clearing a blocked sink, bottles of chemicals with names that are meaningless to me, rags, brushes, and a hand-powered Bissell for plucking bits of fluff from the carpet.

  “Great,” I say, pointing at a vacuum cleaner behind the mops. “If Zee gets in here, we can suck his brains out.”

  Steve finds a screwdriver and a hammer.

  “These will come in handy. We can use the screwdriver as a chisel on that lock.”