Page 2 of Glitter Rose
“He’s probably got a whole army somewhere. A wife. Kids. People who depend on him.”
The afternoon sun slants through the windows, reminding me of my schedule. Garden time. I place the binoculars in their designated spot on the windowsill and head toward the sliding glass doors leading to my balcony sanctuary before grabbing my pruning shears from their hook.
The greenhouse I’ve cobbled together from scavenged materials isn’t pretty, but it’s functional. Inside, warm, humid air rich with the smell of soil surrounds me. My strawberry plants need attention, their runners threatening to take over the cucumber bed.
“What do you think about romance, Berta?” I ask the largest fig plant as I trim dead leaves. “Overrated, right?”
Berta’s leaves rustle in agreement. Or maybe it’s the breeze from the solar-powered window in the ceiling I rigged up.
A romance like in those books doesn’t exist.
I check each container, making sure all my plants are well.
“Besides,” I continue, “what kind of weirdo wanders around alone in zombie territory?” I snip a runner with more force than necessary. “Someone with a death wish, that’s who. I don’t need him.”
The tomatoes are dry. I fill my watering can from the rainwater collection system, every time smiling and oddly proud of my engineering accomplishment.
Maybe not so spoiled after all.
The sun warms my shoulders as I work, almost making it possible to forget that the world below is filled with walking corpses. Almost. From this height, the city looks peaceful, abandoned rather than infested.
I finish with the vegetables and move to Freddie, fingers gentle as I check for ripening strawberries. Finding one perfect red berry, I pop it into my mouth. The burst of sweetness makes me close my eyes. Small pleasures are all that’s left. I move on to the basil.
“Looks like pesto tonight.” I pinch off a leaf, crushing it between my fingers and inhaling the sharp, sweet scent. “What do you think? Ready to fulfill your destiny?”
I glance toward the street where Hot Guy disappeared, half-expecting to see him emerge, but the road remains empty, except for the fresh corpse he left behind.
“Maybe next time.”
I gather all the basil leaves into my harvest basket before moving back inside as the sun begins to dip toward the horizon.
The sliding door clicks shut behind me, and I lock it, though I’m not sure why I bother anymore.
No one’s coming. No one ever comes.
Slowly darkness creeps across the penthouse like spilled ink, and I move from window to window, drawing heavy curtains against the night. Not that the zombies can see this high up, but the living could spot the flicker of light.
The city below disappears behind expensive fabric, leaving me in familiar shadows pierced only by the match I strike. The flame catches, and I light a single thick vanilla-scented candle, cupping my hand around it protectively before setting it into its glass.
“Dinner for one.” I carry the candle and the harvest basket toward the kitchen. “What do we have on the menu today?”
I set out my ingredients on the marble countertop. Tonight’s menu: pasta with sun-dried tomatoes from my stockpile and fresh basil from the garden. “The apocalypse is no excuse for poor taste.”
I fill a pot with filtered rainwater and set it on my portable camping stove. The blue flame hisses to life, the only sound besides my breathing in the cavernous kitchen.
“You know what I miss?” I ask the candlelight as I chop basil. “Delivery. Imagine. ‘Sorry your driver was eaten, would you like store credit?’”
The glass jar of sun-dried tomatoes packed in oil makes a satisfying pop as I twist it open. I inhale deeply, savoring the rich scent. Preserved food from the Before times is like opening a time capsule.
“Should’ve bought more pasta.” I examine my dwindling supply. “Next scavenging run, carbs are priority one. Put it on the list, Candle.”
The water begins to bubble, steam rising in ghostlytendrils that dance in the candlelight. I sprinkle salt from a crystal shaker into the pot, then add the pasta.
My stomach growls.
A metallic screech tears through the night, followed by a tremendous crash that shakes the entire building. I freeze, wooden spoon suspended mid-stir, ears straining.
That wasn’t my belly.
