In the After (7 page)

“Swanky,” the girl says once we are inside. I look at her, unwilling to speak. Her
dark eyes and hair contrast sharply with the whiteness of her skin. She is painfully
pale, but then, so am I.

We should give her food
. Baby suggests. I nod and Baby runs to make us breakfast.

I show the girl to the basement. It used to be my dad’s work space, but Baby and I
made it our reading room. I scavenged a ton of pillows to give it an
Arabian Nights
feel.

The girl sits on my beanbag chair, unsmiling but not appearing overly distressed.
I cross my arms and stare her down.

She scratches her nose and looks back at me, expecting me to speak. Her dark hair
is flat against her head, dirty and oily. She is thin, but not painfully skinny, like
most of the survivors I encounter.

“Look, I didn’t know those guys. . . . Well, actually, I knew one of them. He’s my
brother, I . . . do you even understand me?”

I nod.

She starts again. “My name is Amber.” She pauses, waiting for me to respond. When
I don’t, she narrows her eyes. “I don’t know what all this silent treatment is about,
but I don’t like it.”

I sigh. My silence has kept me alive. I’m not about to break years of habit for a
stranger. I lick my lips, my mouth painfully dry . . . besides, I’m not even sure
if I can talk anymore, it’s been so long. I go to my dad’s desk and scrounge around
for a notepad and pen. I write,
We have to be quiet, the creatures are attracted to noise. They know that voices mean
people. There is safety in silence
. It would be foolish to drop our guard now, to begin speaking aloud. It could be
deadly.

I hand it to Amber and as she reads, understanding dawns on her face.

“It all makes sense now,” she whispers. Her voice carries through the room, making
me nervous.

Where have you been?
I write.
Whisper as quietly as you can
.

“My brother, Paul, and I were shut up in a bomb shelter until a few days ago. My parents
. . .” She falters. “My parents died right away, my little sister too. Paul and I
had lots of food down there without them. My parents were end-of-the-world nuts, you
know.”

I nod. I had a great aunt who was like that. She always thought everyone ought to
be prepared in case something crazy happened. Like an alien invasion, I suppose. Too
bad Aunt Ellie died before she was vindicated.

“We ran out of food,” Amber was saying, “a few days ago. There was only supposed to
be enough for a year, but with the rest of my family not making it . . .” She trails
off and stares over my shoulder before snapping back. “We probably should have left
way before then. We had water but the sewage system stopped working a long time ago.
We couldn’t shower and had to . . . use a bucket for a toilet. Paul went first, to
see what was going on. He came back last night with those psychos. They said something
about creatures, but I didn’t understand. They sent me into the store to look for
food. I didn’t know. . . .” She pauses, a look of realization emerges on her face.
“Oh, I think I was the bait.”

Bingo
.

“Oh God, I can’t believe Paul left me there.” Amber begins to cry softly.

I feel for her. I can’t imagine emerging from a safe, secure place completely unprepared
for what the world has become. Amber is so helpless, so loud. There is no way she
can survive on her own.

Baby joins us with a tray and three plates piled high with breakfast. She places it
on the table in front of Amber. Baby has gone all out. Baked beans, eggs from the
pigeons that roost below our solar panels, and Twinkies: the breakfast of champions.

Eat
, she signs. Amber nods. Even an idiot can decipher that one. She begins to shovel
beans into her mouth, the brown juice running down her chin. She wipes her face on
her sleeve.

Can she stay here?
Baby asks as if Amber is a puppy. Baby’s eyes are wide and hopeful.

I think for a moment while Amber eats. She unwraps the Twinkie and shoves the whole
thing in her mouth.

“These
do
last forever,” she says. Her mouth is so filled with yellow cake that she spits some
out onto the floor. “Sorry,” she apologizes loudly. I hear the electric fence spark.
It is day now, and They will be out in full force.

I make the “shush” sign again, pointer finger pressed to my mouth.

Amber nods, exaggerating the motion. She’s finished her meal and licks the plate clean.
I give her my share. I’m not very hungry, still unsettled by the bizarre massacre
and the arrival of Amber. Baby, on the other hand seems to have forgotten about the
commotion. She eats her food slowly, more occupied with staring at Amber curiously.

When they are done eating, Baby stands to clear the plates. Amber grabs her wrist.
I move forward to stop her.

“Thank you,” she whispers. I realize she doesn’t mean Baby any harm and I relax.

Baby looks at her blankly. She hasn’t heard English since she was a toddler. By now
she’s probably forgotten all she ever knew.

Amber turns to me. “How do you say ‘thank you’?”

I show her. I put my hand to my chin and gesture out and down in a small arc.

Amber turns back to Baby and makes the same motion. Baby’s eyes shine and she smiles.

You’re welcome
, she signs, her face glowing as she retreats upstairs.

I give Amber a pillow and a blanket.
Sleep
, I tell her, using another easy sign. She lies down on the couch and closes her eyes.
She must have been exhausted because she falls asleep almost immediately, her breathing
slow and deep.

I walk upstairs to talk with Baby. I know she likes the idea of Amber, and I do as
well. She is another person to scavenge with us, someone else to watch our backs.
We can teach her our language and how to survive in the After. She needs us.

Unfortunately I know that liking the idea of something and dealing with the reality
of it are two very different things. What if Amber is more of a burden than a help?
What if she never gets the hang of being quiet? What if she can’t deal, turns schizoid,
and kills us in our sleep? I stop and take a breath. Amber doesn’t really seem like
the murdering type.

Baby is in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher. It is one of those energy-efficient
ones my dad insisted on, which works out great because it runs super quiet. I think
of Amber and realize how easy I have it. It is the end of the world and we have a
dishwasher, not to mention all the other appliances I take for granted. Sometimes
if it hasn’t rained in a while we have to go without washing clothes or taking showers,
but never for very long.

Even though I don’t make a noise, Baby senses me behind her and turns.

What do you think?
I ask her.

She’s so
. . . Baby thinks for a moment. She shakes her head.
She’s so loud!
She throws her arms up to illustrate her point.

I know. We have to show her how to be silent
.

Baby grins and I notice one of her baby teeth is missing, the front one that was loose.
She must have lost it during the commotion. No tooth fairy for her, though. She wouldn’t
understand.

Can she stay?
Baby asks.

We don’t have a choice
. But we do have a choice. We can send Amber packing. Good-bye and good luck. Don’t
let the electric gate hit you on the way out.
She can stay
, I decide.

Fan
. Baby holds her hand up to her face and waves, overjoyed.

I smile at her enthusiasm, but I can’t help but think,
Fan-fricken-tastic. Please, don’t make me wrong about Amber
.

I’m unsure about Amber at first, mainly because everything about her annoys me. She
is the kind of girl I would have never been friends with Before. My friends and I
competed in class. We went to poetry readings and volunteered for political candidates
we were too young to vote for. We ran track and thought it was the only acceptable
sport. So much of who I used to be was about being good in school and having friends
who were also good in school. We were, to put it simply, arrogant little know-it-alls.
But I miss that.

Amber, on the other hand, is the girl who hung out with the football players. She
is the one who squeaked by with a D average and was thrilled to get the occasional
C. She didn’t think about college, and probably never faced the eventuality that high
school would one day end. I would have made fun of her behind her back, while I secretly
envied her popular, carefree life.

But we aren’t in high school, and having to deal with a self-centered dimwit can have
deadly consequences. I have to make her understand.

The first thing I show Amber is the electric fence and warn her not to touch it. I
am a bit dramatic with that, pointing at the fence and then clutching my hands to
my neck, my tongue hanging out. I am pretty sure she gets the idea. Then I show her
the small area around the lock where it is safe to touch.

In actuality, the fence won’t kill her, or anyone. The shock isn’t pleasant, and if
you hang on for long enough it will take you out of commission and leave you unconscious.
I tested it out once when I was twelve and my arm was numb for a couple of hours.
My dad totally freaked out on my mom then, told her he didn’t want us living in a
“gold-plated prison.” I thought for a little while they were going to get divorced
over it, but they made up eventually, like they always did.

The fence’s real purpose was to stop people from trying to break in. It was hooked
up to an alarm system that alerted the police if someone touched it. There is no one
to come running now when They try to get through, but the shock seems to stop Them,
move Them on their way. Unless, of course, we are standing right in front of the creatures’
beady yellow eyes; then nothing can break their focus. I don’t want to test just how
much damage the fence can take, so I still need Amber to be quiet.

We set her up in the basement with the couch as her bed. I let her wear my clothes
at first, but I eventually allow her to raid my mother’s closet. Amber is beside herself.
My mom had good taste and bought expensive things, but I’d always thought of it as
“middle-aged fashion.” Amber loves it all, especially the Dolce & Gabbana skirts and
the DKNY jeans. That is another thing that shows we would not have been friends Before.
I would not have been caught dead wearing designer anything. My dad always assumed
it was because I shared his eco-sensibilities, that I would rather spend the money
to plant a tree or save a whale. Truthfully not all my friends were as wealthy as
we were and I didn’t want them to know how much money we had. I didn’t want them to
think I was a snob, especially Sabrina.

It’s weird to see Amber wear my mother’s shirts or scarves, but I find it strangely
comforting too. I’ve avoided going through my parents’ closet for years; mostly I
stay away from their room altogether. It’s all too painful, but giving Amber free
range of my mother’s things breaks that spell.

After Amber picks out her new wardrobe, I show her the rooftop garden and she gets
to work at once, which I am grateful for. The garden is a chore I never enjoyed, even
though I recognize the need for fresh vegetables. Amber seems to know what she is
doing and I leave her to it. She likes to be up on the roof, especially during the
day. She comes downstairs, sunburned and glowing. Three years without any sunlight
is a long time.

At first, I am afraid to leave her alone with Baby. I imagine every horrible thing
that can happen. Amber accidentally letting Them inside. Amber convincing Baby to
eat some questionable canned food. Amber letting it all get to her and going crazy,
maybe trying to end her own life and not caring who she hurts in the process.

All these thoughts rumble around in my head while I watch Amber playing with Baby,
eating our food, doing her chores. I pay close attention to how she interacts with
Baby and even check on her when she’s sleeping. She curls on the basement couch, mouth
open, breathing loudly. I’m glad we set her up downstairs because if she were in one
of the upstairs bedrooms, her snores would bring Them.

After about a week, I start to relax. Amber doesn’t seem like she is on the verge
of a nervous breakdown, in fact she is making an incredible effort, especially with
Baby. Sometimes she looks out the window, staring at nothing. She was abandoned by
her brother. I’d be a little depressed too.

I don’t know when it is exactly that I start to like Amber, but one day, I just do.
It’s nice to have someone around who is about my age. She takes such pleasure in our
life, in our home. She sits and watches the dishwasher run. She helps Baby make a
pillow fort. She plucks a pigeon without complaint. I am especially glad that she
gets the hint after that first night and stops talking. Well, mostly stops talking.
We speak to her in a broken language:
Amber sleep now
, or
Amber go up, eat now
.

She understands more each day. Baby and I sign in front of her, trying to let her
see as much as she can so she can learn to communicate with us. I show her which appliances
are “safe” and which can only be used if all the doors and windows are shut, to lessen
the noise. She falls in love with the shower and I have to limit her to only ten minutes
a day, unless it is raining. Otherwise our water supply will run out and we’ll have
to trek to the lake for drinking water.

It doesn’t take very long for Amber’s presence to feel normal. Baby loves her at once.
She wants to be near Amber all the time. I am a little jealous at first, but I get
over it. Baby is Amber’s shadow and signs to her constantly; explaining this or that,
or sometimes just telling her stories she’s made up. Amber likes to watch Baby sign,
though sometimes I notice she zones out. Baby doesn’t seem to mind, though, and continues
signing, glancing at me every once in a while with a smile.