Page 92 of Last Light

Nine

WE STAY AT THE HOUSEfor four days.

It’s the third day before Travis is able to put much weight on his ankle. He still limps, but he can finally move pretty easily. I assume this is the sign that we need to leave, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

I don’t either.

The truth is I don’t really want to move on.

This weird little house is as safe and comfortable as it’s possible to be in today’s world. We have sustainable power. Running water. Reinforced windows and doors. Plenty of food and supplies. We’re in the middle of nowhere and haven’t seen a sign of another living soul. We can sleep well, eat well, and not worry about getting attacked at any second.

I want to stay here, but we can’t. Not unless I’m prepared to sacrifice everyone I care about.

And I’m not.

I know for sure Travis isn’t going to sacrifice Cheryl.

Which means we need to leave as soon as we can.

One afternoon we bury the bones of the man who built and stocked this house. I say a little prayer over his grave. I don’t know a thing about the man. He might have been a paranoid nutjob or the world’s biggest asshole, but what he left behind has been a blessing to us, and I want to do right by his remains.

On the third day, Travis swears he hears wild turkeys in the woods, so he takes his hunting rifle to go look for them, still limping slightly.

Most vegetation died a few years ago from the ash and blocked sun, but some of it is finally starting to return. We’ve heard bugs. We’ve seen birds.

It’s not impossible that other animals are slowly coming back as well.

I don’t have any desire to hunt for wild turkey, so I stay at the house. Travis tries to get the dog to go with him, but the dog climbs onto the couch with me instead.

The more I get to know this dog, the smarter I realize he is.

Travis has been gone for two hours now, and I’m still stretched out on the couch, reading an old spy novel I found in a box under the bed. It’s not my kind of book, but it’s better than nothing. The dog is stretched out too, squeezed between my legs and the back of the couch and snoring loudly.

Every once in a while, I’ll reach down and stroke the dog’s head.

It’s a good afternoon. I’m clean and full and cozy and have a book to read. And Travis locked the door behind him, so I’m safe.

I tell myself we need to leave tomorrow. I need to mention it to Travis as soon as he returns.

As if my thoughts have summoned him, I hear Travis unlocking the front door. He steps into the main room, looking hot and rugged in his worn jeans and an old gray T-shirt with the sleeves torn off.

I smile at him as he puts his hunting rifle down. “Didn’t find any turkeys?”

“I did,” he says, stepping over to scratch behind the ears of the dog, who gives a few little wags without moving or opening his eyes. “But there were only two. A male and a female. Didn’t wanna kill one of ’em since we got plenty of food here.”

---