Page 52 of The Last Man on Earth
“Our first night inthe new house.”
I laugh when he says that, because the word house sounds so ridiculous out here. At the same time, it’s his little form of normalcy, so I get it. I even like it a little bit.
Our new “house” is slightly bigger, with thicker padding on the ceiling canopy and a little more room inside. I can tell Vincent is proud of it, like he just opened the door to our dream home.
“I love it,” I say. “Thank you for building it.”
“You helped,” he says as he tosses the last of the fish carcass in the fire. “Hold up. What you doin’?”
“What?” I look around the shelter. “I’m going to bed.”
“Not before I get my hands on them feet.”
I burst out laughing, watching as he kneels in front of me, bare-chested and fine in the glow of the fire. He takes my ankle gently, brushing off dirt and sand. It’s surprisingly tender and affecting, even though I’m the one who suggested—well, demanded it. I smile down at him because I can’t help it. He’s disarming me, and I didn’t expect it at all.
When he’s done, he goes to relieve himself and brush his teeth. After, he climbs in beside me, t-shirt and sweatpants on.
“How you feelin’?” he asks softly. “Now that we made the move.”
I stare up through the small gaps in the leaves overhead. It’s where the moonlight filters through. “I don’t know how to feel aboutanythingnow that reality’s setting in.”
“I feel you.”
“The routine helps,” I admit. “It’s a little thing that makes this all feel bearable.”
He lays down next to me. “Yeah. Bearable.”
A faint rustle cuts through the silence.
I freeze.
“Did you hear that?”
He listens. “Probably just birds,” he says after a moment. “It’s all good. Go to sleep.”
But I can’t. It didn’t sound like birds to me. It was…heavier. More deliberate.
There it is again.
He sits straight up, his head cocked, his body rigid, before he slides out of the shelter. I watch his shadow bend and reach as he picks up the axe and sets it down just below the platform. Then he tucks his knife into his pocket and says, “I’ll leave the fire going. Should keep the animals away.”
“Okay.” I’m not convinced.
But I lie back down anyway, trying to let the crash of the waves soothe me. It’s like my very own white noise machine.
I close my eyes and breathe slow and deep, waiting patiently as my fear slowly melts into exhaustion. My last thought before drifting off is that I’m still on a tropical vacation. I’m on a balcony at a five-star resort, lying in the hammock. I’m safe. And I’m happy.
I wake up with my heart in my throat. Something’s wrong. I don’t know what woke me, but even the air around me feels off.
“Vincent,” I whisper, shaking him gently. “Wake up. Did you hear that?”
He stirs, groggy when he says, “No. What—“
“Shhh!”
There it is again. Rustling. Slow. Deliberate. Then a sharp noise like a snort. My blood runs cold. I clap my hand over my mouth.
Another sound now, a deep grunt, low and wet, like something large breathing through its constricted nose. Then thumps against the dirt, like heavy footsteps.
