"Why?" he asked, anger simmering just below the flush of his cheeks.
"Because," said Mom, "You used your son as bait."
Dad threw his hands up, "Guilty. But I think there's a better way to handle situations than a smack in the back of the head."
"Ditto." Mom said, referring to the Zed incident.
Dad got a little flustered and went into the garage. Bethany came downstairs, "What's the bickering?"
"I smacked Dad."
"Good." she said, "I'm not cool with what happened out there."
"It worked." I said, the guilt creeping on.
"Still."
"I think in the moment it was quick thinking."
"But no one should be used as bait." she retorted, "Not even Daddy."
"I'm going to go apologize." I said.
"Yeah." said Bethany, "Then come up to my room!"
I told Dad I was sorry. He didn't reply, just nodded his head. In his eyes I saw a world of burden, and that made me feel worse.
"Look," I said, "I'm fast. I think I'm kinda brave. I'll do it again, if it's necessary." I took hold of his shoulder, "Just don't hold me in place, man. You have a grip like a vice."
He smiled, some tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry, too, son."
I left the garage and went inside. Dad is a brave man. Mom is a great woman. She sat in a recliner watching a DVD, the 9mm on the side table. I chuckled for a moment, imagining Mom going Rambo on a zombie as it broke through the boarded up windows. That's hard to imagine. She's been locked in her room most hours of the day. I have to sympathize, though. I suffer the heebie-jeebies, but Mom makes me look like Sir Gawain when she gets jumpy.
I smiled at Mom as I walked up the stairs. For me, walking up the stairs involves clearing the staircase in under 1.5 seconds. Mom hates that, and sure enough before I reached the top Mom's voice followed me, "Martin! Stop bangin' up those stairs. You sound like a . . ." I walked far enough down the hall to lose the last part.
I knocked on Beth's door. Her round, smiling face appeared in the crack. She scrunched her nose, "Come check it out." she whispered, and opened the door.
I walked into her room, instantly overwhelmed by the color purple. A year ago she had painted her walls a deep hue, the trimming a light purple, and her bed a purple more red than blue. Pillows, stuffed animals, and a purple vanity all heightened the experience. I smiled in spite of my corneas. At the center of the floor, on a wrinkled and beat up patch of plastic, sat her dollhouse. It was . . . impressive.
Three floors, about four feet high, each floor was 28 inches by 28 inches, it resembled a Victorian style home. It's siding matched the trim in her room. I sat on the floor next to her as she gave her presentation. She had even made furniture from popsicle sticks, cotton balls, and leftover fabric. She had been locked in here a long time, making little to no noise, and it showed. The place was immaculate. It even had working lights.
She grinned, watching my face as I took it all in. "Christmas lights?" I asked. She nodded, extremely pleased with herself. "This is great work, Beth. Absolutely beautiful."
"Thanks!" she laughed, "I learned a lot helping Scott work on his Dad's addition to their house last month." Scott Hamblin, her crush. I could feel some of the spirit go out of her after she said that. Neither of us had seen our friends in weeks.
"I still text him," she said, "But I don't know how much longer the grid is going to stay up."
I shrugged. None of us did. The military had concentrated in Cedar City and had clamped the place down tight. We weren't allowed to leave our homes at all. "Any supplies you need," said the Sergeant who had come to our door two days ago, "You talk to us." Dad still wasn't buying.
I patted her shoulder. She hugged me around the midsection. I held her while she cried, quietly. Now that her dollhouse is done, she has had to put her focus on the negative. I am just grateful for four sturdy walls and good locks.
Zed has been creeping around, and by creeping I mean creeping. They don't move much like man. Their movement is more erratic, frighteningly animal. Voracious animal, like a skin-and-bones coyote just dying for a taste of blood. These are freshers, freshly killed and reanimated, wandering the neighborhood. Often the military will cleanse them. They have little shooting frenzies. There go the heebie jeebies, again.
Yeah, I've killed Zed, but they are people. I don't let myself think who they used to be. I don't want to know what happens when I run into a Zed I know. I really don't want to think about that.
"You okay, hon?" I asked her as her sobbing stuttered to a stop. I excused myself and went to the bathroom to dig up some TP for her. Fortunately Dad has always been a bit paranoid, so he bought in bulk.
"Thanks." she said, blowing her nose.
I smiled, "Let's do something, me and you."
"Okay." she said, looking me in the eye. I may only be 17 years old, but I know a child when it looks me in the eyes.
"I see, uh," I stammer, "You don't really have any people to live in your house."
She blows out a laugh and shakes her head, "No. I was thinking that I would use some of those Tyco toys we used to have? We called them people, remember?"
"Remember?" I answered, "I was just playing with them before you interrupted my day."
I got a real laugh that time. I felt good about the people thing because, last week I was digging around in storage trying to entertain myself when I spotted a couple of them floating around inside one of my boxes.
We went to the garage together, Beth a little reluctant to step out. I told her Dad was out there and he was heavily armed. Sure enough, he was working on reinforcing the door with brackets and a heavy piece of wood.
I let her go through most of the boxes, grateful that just this once, things felt normal. We came up with a dozen people. They were a terrible mess, all scratched up and dirty. I swear there was a bit of barbecue sauce stuck to three of them that dated back about 13 years. We filled the sink with water, which ran cold these days, put in a mixture of cleaners, and let them soak.
"I know." said Beth, "We use those acrylics left over from the house, and ask . . . Mom? Mom!"
"What Beth." answered Mom.
"Can me and Martin use your acrylics to fix our people?"
Now imagine you are sitting in a recliner absorbed in a good movie and your child, two rooms away asks you a question like that. I didn't think anything of it because I was in the room with Beth, but something deep inside instantly understood my Mother's bewildered look as she peeked into the kitchen. Beth and I laughed, and Mom joined us a moment later as she glimpsed the situation.
Apparently it had been some time since Mom had laughed. After a minute, Beth and I were laughing because Mom was laughing. By the time she was done we were all hoarse, and on the floor.
"Yes you may." said Mom, brushing away tears, "So long as you show me when you are done."
"Do you want to paint some of them with us?" asked Beth.
Mom paused, "Why, uh . . . yes I do!"
"Cool."
We were still painting away when Dad came back in the house. "What are you guys up to?" he asked. Bethany showed him one of her people, a pretty little thing with long red hair.
"I've named her Bella, after great-grandma."
Dad smiled, "That's awesome, Sweetheart."
He sat down with us, but he didn't paint. He just watched. I made sure mine were as eccentric as possible. Beth caught me with one of my more creative pieces.
"Martin!" she squealed.
"What?" I asked, "Every elegant house needs a lucha libre."
She just giggled. She didn't divert my project, so now there's a Mexican professional wrestler sitting on her couch. I named him Nacho. I couldn't help it.
The sun was setting by the time we got done. We gathered up our people and put them to the side while we cleaned up.
"I barred the doors in the garage." said Dad as we rinsed paint down the sink. I could tell something was eating at him.
"Why?" I asked.
He shook his head, putting on a plastic smile. He didn't want to ruin the evening. In his eyes a worry. He is sleeping next to his gun.
"Dad," I said, "The grid is going to go down. Do you think we could ask the military for a generator?"
He shook his head, but not in answer. He was telling me this wasn't the time, "Let's talk about this later. You go upstairs, now."
I did.
Beth and I played. Yep. Played. We set up scenarios with a most eccentric East Coast family we named the Vandertripps. By the time we got done with our soap opera half of them had married and divorced, three became illegitimate children, and the other three were forming a complex love triangle. It was all in good fun, but I found it a little disconcerting. I was suddenly grateful cable had died.
I hugged my sister goodnight, and left impressed at her talent and imagination. As I walked to my room, and as I sat down on my bed tonight I couldn't remember the last time we had a moment like that. I guess being locked in a house with family while the world falls apart outside might possibly be the best place for someone like me.
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