Page 61 of To Have and to Hold

I was lying on my back, pretending to count stars, when the door opened. It was the lightest sound, but anything could have me up on my feet, flashlight poised handle first, and that is exactly what I did.

The sound that followed had me scurrying back and damn it—screeching. It was a hollow clatter, a clash with the wall before rolling across the ground. A soft thud followed.

“Don’t piss on my floor.”

The Skull didn’t come in any farther. He disappeared behind the locked door.

Coaxing my breathing into regular intervals again, I took a few tentative steps forward, double-checking that it was the latrine instead of who knew what else. Scorpions. Poison. Food.

It was. He also provided a small roll of cheap toilet paper that was found after multiple sweeps of my hands across the floor. I set the bucket to rights under the tiny, barely-there crack of light from the bottom of the door. He was still in the other room, doing something in that basement.

I knelt in front of the bucket for a time, pressing my lips so tightly together I’d feel physical pain instead of mental. I wanted to cry.

I’d been bursting with need, that need soon becoming pure agony, as I laid on that mattress, pretending to count stars. The fruit punch I drank ran right through me, but I couldn’t reduce myself to crouch in a corner, to hear the splash of liquid on concrete. He would love the idea of me living in my own filth. Would hold it over me and laugh, asking if I want a shower but denying me all the same.

His ways, while cruel, were easily read.

I chose to suffer instead, but some part of him must have known, because he brought my bucket back.

I whipped my gaze to the ceiling.

Not he must’ve known, he did know. Somehow, he was watching me. Cameras were capable of night vision. Even now, he could be watching me.

But God, I had to go. The mere thought of the bucket had my bladder melting into a burn, the pressure sending my hands to my abdomen as I doubled over.

Gritting my teeth, I grabbed the bucket and went to the mattress, set the bucket aside, then propped the mattress against two walls, leaving a gap in the corner that was the perfect human size. I retrieved the bucket, squeezed behind the mattress, and bent down and did my business. I swiped my palms across my tear-tracked face. I’d preserve the sliver of pride I had left.

When I was finished, I pushed the mattress flat, adjusted it, and sat cross-legged with the flashlight in my hands. It didn’t leave my side throughout the entire ordeal. I tested it by hefting its weight and thinking how I could use it. Right when he came in, I could swing for his head. But I was deprived of 20/20 vision…I could miss. Hit his shoulder. Crack him in the nose and receive a beating for the mistake.

The flashlight was a defensive tool but it wasn’t my weapon. He could’ve left it here deliberately, as some kind of bait. If there were indeed cameras in here, he’d already seen that I had it and so far wasn’t making any moves to get it back. He could be making me think I could take him before coming in with a semi-automatic and taking me out instead. I stared ahead, picturing a black hole opening wide in front of me, floating closer, sinking into my pores, its ink running rivulets under my skin and through the canals of my brain.

This place was eating away at my flesh.

The thought brought me to Becca. She loved stories about zombies. My lips lifted at the remembrance. Of all the memories I’d scrolled through, I’d missed this one. She’d constantly host themed dinner and drinks every time Walking Dead was on or some blockbuster zombie movie came out. I’d head over with Spence and Jade would already be there, peeling grapes for eyeballs to put in Becca’s carefully crafted cocktails. Becca’s blond curls would be at the top of her head in a halo of a bun, she’d be in her pajama finest, and her freckled arms would curl around me in a hard, bony hug. She’d then peck Spence on the cheek and pull him into the room, spouting apocalypse facts at him to see if she could best his wide, weird knowledge about random trivia. Jade would try to save him by pouring him an extra stiff gin martini. And then all four of us would pile on the couch, sometimes with one of Becca or Jade’s dates, and grimace at the television while Becca’s red-lipsticked smile would stretch wide.

When it was over—when Spence and I broke up—Becca, Jade and I kept up the tradition. His absence was palpable for a while, and I was so quiet and hollow I’d become Becca’s pet zombie for months. No amount of coaxing could get me out of this funk, until I met Dave. A friend of a co-worker, he was at an event I’d planned and I’d stayed late to make sure everything went smoothly since it was such a clusterfuck to begin with. The caterer canceled, and the last-minute caterer had no Chilean Sea Bass, the client’s single non-negotiable request. The linens came bright pink instead of warm blush—a mix-up with a sixteen-year-old’s party on the Upper West Side. I handled it on the outside but my organs were shutting down from stress. It was my job to fix it, and somehow my fates were aligned because I did and the client, a forty-year-old self-esteem author, loved it. And there was Dave, handing me a cocktail and bending close to my ear saying that he maybe walked into the wrong ballroom.

Yet he stuck around, and I found myself looking forward to his quips as I passed by, and soon I was finding him across the room and smiling. Plus, the Boston accent got me. The way he hit his “Rs” and “As.” Despite my year of feeling like a seashell, fragile and empty, he had my attention, filling me with warmth in the way that a person stuck in winter so sorely misses. It ended up being the most comfortable relationship I’d ever had. I brought him around Becca and Jade, and while they were polite and included him by asking interesting questions, the connection was lost. I told myself not all guys I introduced to them would jibe so seamlessly with my best friends, just as Becca sometimes dated men or women that didn’t impress me, or Jade dating lumps of brick who didn’t say much. Which was exactly why people dated who they connected with, not the people around them. The disappointment wouldn’t go away, though. That almost-smile that hits a friend’s face when you ask to bring your boyfriend along wasn’t exactly the makings of a road-trip posse that travel across the country together. That kind of close is what I missed.

Becca allowed Dave’s presence during one of our zombie nights, and at that point she’d moved on to the same interests as 90% of the population—reality television. Specifically, surviving the zombie apocalypse. Dave entertained the idea, but cocked his head when Becca quizzed him on why a virus causing zombies could possibly be a misnomer because they’re technically dead and viruses are living. His answer was to laugh and shrug.

Becca retreated into her drink after that. She didn’t have to say anything anyway, because I knew: Spence would’ve debated with me.

That night we watched how to build a fire with the few ingredients left after all stores, pantries, and basements had been raided. It was a quiet audience, with Jade curled on the floor and Becca perched on the opposite end. I nursed my drink and never paid more attention to an apocalypse episode before due to the uncomfortableness surrounding the couch. I pictured the four of us in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. Becca would sacrifice Dave first.

The TV hosts had compiled simple items to light a—

I tossed the flashlight aside and dug my knuckles into the mattress so hard my cracked nails threatened to break clean off. The hosts—those TV guys—outlined a few variants, as not everybody has the items required for each option. One such possibility involved polyester filling from a mattress, because it turns to liquid when heated.

My brows were tight over my eyes. My stomach rolled with the queasiness of adrenaline. I was thinking too hard, clinging to the single shred of an image with those two guys talking to the camera lens, holding…holding…why could I picture their shirts but not what was in their hands? One blue, the other white. Basic T-shirts. I saw the camera panning to the table in between them, reclaimed barn wood, cluttered with objects, but they were shadowed in my head. Malformed. I couldn’t put together exactly what they were. But red camping chairs were propped behind their standing forms, with a shoulder-length, oak fence as the background and a horizon of blue sky above. My event planner mind couldn’t take a break for one second.

Never did I think a single Wednesday evening with Becca’s shows would be so crucial to my single apocalypse survival.

Batteries. There were batteries on that table. They could be flammable if met with the right chemistry contact. I fumbled with the flashlight, feeling for the catch that would open the hold for the batteries. There they were. AA, I presumed, but that didn’t matter because all types could create a spark.

With what?

I smacked a palm to my forehead as if that knock would jostle free the lost memory. What options did they give? The Australian host was forefront in my mind. I pictured the scene keenly. He was outside, surrounded by greenery, and holding something. Gesturing with it. A simple source, one available in everyone’s pockets…

Fuck, what was it. Come on, Emme.

It was silver, wasn’t it? It hit the sunlight and flashed, so it…

I broke out into a full smile. Yes. Yes. A gum wrapper.

I scuttled to the floor beside my mattress, feeling for the pack of gum. I could do something with this, so long as I executed it perfectly. Excitement only led to mistakes. After I calmed down and the adrenaline of this idea depleted, I could come up with a defense. If anything, the Skull gave me a lot of time to think.

And, the best part…

Everyone was afraid of fire.

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