Savage (31 page)

The sounds from outside were growing louder, more forceful, and he knew it was only a matter of time before whatever was out there got into the house.

He wasn't sure if he really agreed with their plan to leave the relative safety of the house, but he knew the options were limited. And that's when he decided on a plan of his own.

He managed to slip into the garage unnoticed, feeling really positive about something for the first time since his stroke.

It felt strangely reassuring to finally know what his future would be.

“Weapons,” Sidney said, opening up the kitchen drawers and pulling out a tray of silverware and handfuls of cooking tools. “We need weapons if we're going to make it to Dad's truck in one piece.”

Rich joined her at the kitchen counter, helping her sort through the various pieces of kitchenware. “Knives are probably the best bet,” he said.

“Knives, forks, anything we can use to poke or stab,” she said as she picked up a particularly long carving knife, its blade sheathed with cardboard.

She pulled the cardboard away and brandished the blade. “I think I could do some damage with this,” she said.

Cody was back at the glass doors and had pulled the curtains slightly apart. “We're still going to have to get through them,” he said grimly. “They'll be swarming us whether we have a sharp knife or not.”

Sidney knew he was right. “We have to at least try to protect ourselves,” she said. “Maybe keep the bites to a minimum.”

“A suit of armor would be good,” Rich said, trying to find an appropriate weapon for himself. He seemed to be particularly enjoying a metal meat tenderizer, smashing invisible skulls in front of him.

His joke made a weird kind of sense.

“No armor,” she said, suddenly taking off down the hallway toward her bedroom. Just inside her closet door she found a large plastic bag and hauled it from the room. “But maybe these will help.”

She dumped the plastic bag on the floor in the kitchen and untied its top as Snowy gave it a good sniff. “We were going to donate these to Goodwill but never got around to making the call for pickup,” she said, pulling the bag open.

Cody and Rich approached to peer inside the open bag.

“Old clothes?” Cody asked.

“Yeah,” Sidney answered, reaching inside. “Mostly winter stuff. Heavy winter stuff.”

Rich bent over and pulled out a flowered shirt. “I think the color might clash with my eyes,” he said.

“Don't be a jackass,” she said, ripping it from his hands. “We can layer,” she explained, fishing around and finding a heavy plaid shirt that had belonged to her father. “Put this on over your shirt and whatever's biting hopefully won't be able to get through.”

“That's not a bad idea,” Cody said, bending down and fishing through the bag. He pulled out a heavy blue sweatshirt. “You were getting rid of this stuff?” he asked, looking at the New England Patriots hooded sweatshirt and then to her. “I gave you this.”

He sounded hurt, but she didn't look at him.

“I don't wear it anymore and will only have so much closet space at school,” she said.

“Nice,” Rich said, snatching it from Cody's clutches. “I'll take that.”

Sidney found some old winter hats and gloves and put them on the counter. “We layer up, and with the weapons we put together I think we have a chance.”

Cody grunted in agreement, finding a heavy flannel shirt, checking the size, and putting it aside.

She found a large fleece jacket. “This will fit you, Isaac,” she said, tossing it over to him.

The jacket landed at his feet and he looked at it. “Too warm for a jacket,” he said.

“Yeah, I know,” she told him, “but if you put it on, it might keep you from getting bit.”

He considered that, then leaned over from the chair, pulling the jacket toward him.

“We only have to make it from here to the driveway,” she said, the useful contents of the donation bag exhausted.

“And your dad is okay with this?” Cody asked.

“Can't imagine he wouldn't be,” she said, and then she paused. “Where is he, anyway?” she asked.

“He was in the living room last time I saw him,” Rich said, attempting to pull the Patriots sweatshirt on. It was a little snug, but he managed.

“Mr. Moore went to the garage,” Isaac said. He was playing with the zipper on the fleece. “I saw him when you were talking. He went to the garage.”

Sidney headed for the garage door. “Dad?” she called out. She grabbed the doorknob and turned it. “Dad, we've got to leave soon, and I want . . .”

What she saw as she opened the door stole her words away.

“Hey, kiddo,” her father said.

She stood at the top of the steps in shock.

“What . . . ?” she began but again couldn't finish.

He sat on an old folding chair close to the garage door—with a stick of dynamite in his hand.

“What the hell are you doing?” she finally managed to ask.

“Getting the dynamite ready,” he told her matter-of-factly.

“Ready for what?” she asked, rushing down the steps to join him.

“You're a smart kid, Sid,” he said. “What do you think?”

“You're going to blow something up?” She had slowed her pace and was cautiously moving closer.

“There's the smarty-pants I know and love,” he joked, but there was something in his tone that told her things weren't right.

“What are you going to blow up, Dad?”

He was checking the sticks of dynamite, prepping them, then setting them down on top of a box on the floor in front of him.

“Did you know that dynamite goes bad?” he asked instead of answering her question.

“Yeah,” she said, nervously watching him.

“You can tell that it isn't any good when it sweats,” he continued, and then laughed. “And do you know what the sweat is?”

“Besides dynamite sweat?” she asked him.

He chuckled some more. “Nitroglycerine.”

“Seriously?” she asked, actually finding the bit of information strangely interesting.

“Would I lie to you?” he asked, looking up and into her eyes.

“What's going on, Dad?” she asked him again.

“I heard you in the kitchen, talking with your friends about getting out to find Doc Martin.”

“Yeah,” she agreed slowly. “I think what's going on has some biological connection, and she's probably the best one to help us figure it out,” she explained.

Her father nodded as he gently placed another stick of dynamite on top of the box. “Sounds as good a plan as any. When are you leaving?”

“Soon,” she said. “We're getting some stuff together, you know, things we can use as weapons.”

“You taking my truck?”

She nodded. “If it's okay with you.”

“Sure you can.”

“We're layering up with those old clothes we were going to donate,” she explained. “Might help us get through whatever's waiting outside. There's plenty left for you—”

“I'm not going,” he interrupted flatly.

“What?”

“I'm not going,” he said again, looking at her and shaking his head.

“Bullshit!” she exclaimed, feeling her anger spike.

“Listen to me,” he said.

“No.” She could hear her voice rising. “I'm not going to listen to crazy shit like that. I'm not. You're coming with us.”

“Sid, I can barely get across the room without falling down. You know that.”

“That's no excuse,” she countered. “We can help you.”

“I'll do nothing but slow you down,” he said with finality. “You have no idea what you're going to encounter out there. You can't be worrying about me. I won't allow it.”

She immediately thought of Cody's father. She wasn't the least bit religious, but suddenly she felt as though she were somehow being punished by a higher power.

“You're crazy if you think—”

“I've made up my mind, Sid,” he said.

She felt scalding tears well in her eyes, and suddenly she couldn't stop the words. “You want to die, don't you? You've wanted to die ever since the stroke.”

He continued to check the dynamite sticks in silence.

“You're not saying anything because you know I'm right.”

Slowly he raised his eyes to meet hers. “Yes, you're right,” he said simply.

Sidney felt as though she'd been punched in the gut. She'd never expected him to admit something that she found so horrible.

“Maybe not right away,” he said. “I was terrified to die when it first happened and I didn't think I was going to make it. I would have given anything to live then.”

“So what happened?”

He seemed to consider his words before he spoke. “This isn't living, Sid,” he said after a moment. “I'm nothing but a burden . . . to you, and to myself.”

“That's bullshit and you know it.”

“It's not. The medication and physical therapy are only going to go so far. And when I get to the end, what will I get for my troubles? I'll have regained what? Maybe sixty percent of what I used to be?”

“You'll be alive.”

“This isn't being alive,” he snapped. “And it took the island going to shit for me to finally know it.”

She was furious with herself for not realizing this sooner. Here was an active man, once filled with nearly boundless energy, reduced to a shell of his former self. She could only imagine how she would have felt in his shoes.

But would she want to die?

“Dad,” she begged, “you're not thinking clearly.”

He smiled at her, but it was a sad smile. “I am. In fact, I haven't been this clear in months.”

She felt some tears let go and quickly wiped them from her cheeks.

“Do you really think I'll let you do this?” she asked.

“You know it's what I want.”

“But it's not what I want.”

“It's not about what you want, Sid.”

She glared at him.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm so very sorry, but I can't risk slowing you down. I won't have you risking your life to save my broken one.”

The sounds of things outside were louder now, and Sidney looked at the garage door, imagining the twisted forms trying to get in.

“And I'm not about to let them have me either,” he said, following her gaze.

She thought about all the ways she would drag him from the house, but he was stubborn and she knew he'd fight her. If that was the case, they'd never make it to the truck, and not only would he be dead, all of her friends would be too.

But how could she leave him here to die? To blow himself up? Would she even be able to live with herself?

“What if I told you that I need you?” she said. “That even if I manage to survive all this, living just wouldn't be worth it without you in my life.”

“I'd be flattered.”

“It's true.” Sidney knelt down in front of his chair and took his right hand, the one damaged by the stroke, in hers. “You're my dad. What would I be without you?”

She could feel his attempt at squeezing her hand, but it was so very weak.

“I've been lucky enough to see the woman you've become,” he told her. “I can only imagine what's ahead for you.”

“Please?” she begged, no longer fighting the tears.

“Go on, get out of here,” he said, pulling his hand roughly from hers. “I have things to do.” He leaned over to pull a battery and what looked like a detonator from inside another nearby box.

She couldn't move, her feet suddenly feeling as though they weighed thousands of pounds.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked, not looking at her. “Go,” he said firmly, but she still didn't—
couldn't
—move.

“God damn it, I told you to go!” he shouted, and she could see it all there in his eyes. All the anger and sadness that had collected inside of him since his debilitating stroke.

She found herself stepping back toward the stairs, knowing there was nothing more she could say. But as she set her foot on the first step, she realized there
was
one last thing to be said. She knew it wouldn't change anything, that his mind was made up, but she had to say it.

“I love you, Dad,” she said, turning back to face him, trying to keep her voice from cracking.

“I love you too, Sid,” he said as he twisted some wire around a terminal on top of the detonator.

And that was it. She turned and climbed the steps, leaving him there to his own devices.

Leaving him there to his fate.

Sidney had just entered the kitchen when all hell seemed to break loose outside.

It sounded as though the house was going to fall down around her. She stopped, almost going back to the garage, but didn't.

As much as it pained her, she had to leave her dad there.

It was his choice.

Cody turned toward her wearing a very serious expression. “We've got to get out of here now,” he said before she could even ask what was happening. “The glass in those doors isn't going to hold for much longer.”

Sidney saw that he was already wearing multiple layers, the shirts and jacket buttoned and zipped up to his throat. She needed to get her own layers on, and fast.

Rich and Isaac were in the midst of their own preparations, Snowy watching them intently. Rich was taping a steak knife to the stick end of a plunger. A broom handle with a carving fork attached to its end was leaning against the counter. Isaac was slowly pulling on a heavy sweatshirt.

Sidney grabbed an old sweatshirt covered in different colors of paint and slipped it on as quickly as she could.

“Where's your dad?” Cody asked.

“He's not coming with us,” she said, not wanting to elaborate.