Page 44 of Dating After the End of the World
My expression quickly fades as I’m pulled to the ground by Blake’s massive hands. He lies across me, putting the bulk of his weight on my chest, sapping me of any air. I try to free my arms from under him, but it’s no use. All my strength and energy are gone.
“Get ... off ... me,” I wheeze with the little oxygen I have left.
“Say please,” he whispers. His hot breath enters my ear, making the tiny hairs rise to meet it.
“Plee ...” I gasp for air.
“Sorry. What was that?”
“Pleeeease.”
In a flash, all the air in the world seems to rush into my lungs at once as Blake crawls off me. He grabs my hand, and with one fell swoop, I’m shot back up onto my feet. Doubling over, I pant and cough.
Blake pats me on the back and says, “You’ll be all right.”
He adds, “Everyone, another round of applause for Casey!” His words evoke the same tepid and bewildered response from the group.
I stand up straight, still breathless, and smack my hand onto his shoulder.
Blake flinches, turning to me with a fixed gaze.
“I almost had you,” I say.
“Almostis the key word.”
“One day, your ass will be mine, Blake.”
He simpers. “I can’t wait.” Before I can respond, he leans into me and whispers, “But until then, you’re still not ready.”
Chapter 19
The flames from the burn pit flicker and shake as they consume what’s left of Chris. His funeral, if you could call it that, was hours ago, and like all funerals, it wasn’t really for him. Funerals are for the living because the dead don’t give a damn. His family wanted a burial, but others were worried about contamination, fearing the infection could spread to the drinking water or crops.
I’ve been sitting out here alone for a while now in this old, rickety lawn chair because I can’t seem to pull myself away from the fire. A reminder of a simpler time. I slap my hand against my forearm, squashing a mosquito midbite. I flick the crushed bug into the grass, leaving behind a droplet of smeared blood. It’s quiet tonight, like nature is giving Chris a moment of silence. But the silence is soon interrupted by boots squelching over damp grass, growing louder as they approach.
Dad appears at my side, pulling up a lawn chair and plopping it down next to me. He exhales sharply as he takes a seat, staring at the flames, which create dancing shadows across his tired face.
“How’re you doing, Casey?”
“Fine,” I say.
Dad tilts his head and looks to me. “How are you really doing?”
I exhale and turn to meet his gaze. “I’m surviving.” There’s nothing in my voice. It’s as though a robot is speaking, not a human with thoughts and feelings.
Dad reaches over, resting his hand on mine as it grips the arm of my chair. “I’m sorry. I know this must have brought up some bad memories for you.”
He’s right about that. I think that’s why I’m death-gripping the arms of this chair and why I haven’t moved in hours. It feels like the past is pulling me back, forcing me to relive a painful memory I thought I had stored in a box and locked away. I glance back at the fire and blink and it’s 2006 again.
A teddy bear I got when I was six was tucked under my arm, just like I was tucked under the covers, lying in bed. My eyes were shut tight as I tried to fall into a dream—but sleep wouldn’t come. The sound of shattering glass made me sit up in bed. A door creaked open from somewhere in the house. Then there were footsteps—heavy ones, and more than one pair.
My mom called out, “Hello?” I slid out of bed and tiptoed to my partially open bedroom door. “Dale?” my mom said, clearly hoping that my dad had returned home early from an emergency plumbing-service call and the noise was just him being clumsy in the dark.
Dressed in a set of pink pajamas, I quietly walked down the hall, pausing at the staircase to listen. Someone else was in the house, someone other than my mother and me. I took the steps slow, careful to avoid the ones I knew creaked and moaned. Mom screamed, and I froze in place. My heart pounded so hard I thought I could hear it. I thought whoever was in the house could hear it. There was a loud noise in the kitchen, followed by boots squeaking against the tile floor. I crept slowly and stopped in front of the swinging door that led to the kitchen.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” said a male voice.
“Casey, get out of the house. Run!” Mom screamed.
