Others were not there to get food but electricity. Ralph’s was on the highway, outside of the town proper. Obviously it still had electricity, because extension cords had been strung through the front door and power strips attached. Kids were lined up charging iPods, rechargeable flashlights, and lap-tops.
Bug would tell Caine about the electricity at the store. That would earn him some brownie points. Caine would get Jack to find a way to cut it off.
The fact that the power was still on meant that the automatic door also still worked. Bug had to be careful to follow someone else in.
The store was an eerie place. The produce section, which was the first thing he saw, was empty. Most of the rotting produce had been shoveled out, but they had not done a thorough job. A big squash was so rotted, it had been reduced to a liquid smear. There were corn-on-the-cob leaves scattered, onion skins, and on the floors a sticky gray goo that was the residue of the cleanup effort.
The meat section stank, but it was empty nonetheless.
Shelves were acres of emptiness. All the remaining food was gathered into a single aisle in the middle of the store.
Careful to avoid brushing against any of the half dozen or so workers, Bug walked along the aisle.
Jars of gravy. Packets of powdered chili mix. Jars of pimentos and pickled onions. Artificial sweetener. Clam juice. Canned sauerkraut. Wax beans.
In a separate section with its own guard was a slightly more inviting shelf. A sign read, “Day Care Only.” Here, there were cylinders of oatmeal, cans of condensed milk, boiled potatoes, and cans of V8 juice, though not many.
Things were bad in Perdido Beach, Bug reflected. The days of candy and chips were definitely gone. Not even a cracker to be seen, let alone a cookie. He’d been really lucky to score that handful of Junior Mints on his spy mission to the power plant.
That was luck. And now, Bug had some more luck. It was purely by chance that he discovered the secret of Ralph’s. He had dodged aside to avoid a couple of kids and ended up cowering in front of the swinging doors that led to the storeroom area. A swing of the door had revealed two kids manhandling a plastic tub filled with ice.
Bug couldn’t enter the storeroom without pushing the door and risking discovery. But he figured it might be worth it: anything someone else wanted to hide was something Bug wanted to find out about.
He took a deep breath, ready to run for it if necessary. He pushed the swinging door open and slid through. The kids with the bin were gone. But he heard movement around the corner, behind a wall of cartons marked “plastic cups.”
There was the work area that had once belonged to the butchers. Now four kids, in rubber aprons that dragged to the floor, were wielding knives.
They were cutting up fish.
Bug stood and stared, not believing what he was seeing. Some of the fish were big—maybe three feet long—silver and gray, with white and pink insides. Other fish were smaller, brown, flat. One of the fish looked so ugly, Bug figured it must be deformed. And two of the fish didn’t look like fish at all, but rather like soggy, featherless blue birds, or maybe like bats.
The aproned kids were chatting happily—like people who were eating well, Bug thought bitterly—as they sliced open the fish and, with many cries of, “Ewww, this is so gross,” sluiced the fish guts into big, white plastic tubs.
Others then took the cleaned fish, cut off their heads and tails, and scraped the scales from them under running water.
Bug hated fish. Really, really hated it. But he would have given anything, done anything, to have a plate full of fried fish. Ketchup would have helped, but even without it, even knowing that ketchup might never be seen again, the idea of a big plate of hot anything seemed wonderful.
It made Bug want to swoon. Fish! Fried, steamed, microwaved, he didn’t care.
Bug considered his options. He could grab a fish and run. But although people couldn’t see him easily, they’d sure be able to see a fish flying through the store and out the door. And those kids at the door and on the roof probably weren’t good shots, but they didn’t have to be when they were firing machine guns.
He could try to conceal a fish down his pants or under his shirt. But that assumed the kids with the gutting knives were slow to react.
A kid Bug recognized came in: Quinn. One of Sam’s friends, although at one point, he’d been with Caine.
“Hey, guys,” Quinn said. “How’s it going?”
“We’re almost done,” one answered.
“We had a good day, huh?” Quinn said. There was obvious pride in his tone. “Did you guys all get some to eat?”
“It was, like, the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten in my entire life,” a girl said fervently. She almost choked up with emotion. “I never even used to like fish.”
Quinn patted her on the shoulder. “Amazing what tastes good when you get hungry enough.”
“Can I take some home for my little brother?”
Quinn looked pained. “Albert says no. I know this looks like a lot of fish, but it wouldn’t even be a mouthful per person in the FAYZ. We want to wait till we have some more frozen. And…”
“And what?”
Quinn shrugged. “Nothing. Albert just has a little project he’s working on. When he’s ready, we’ll tell everyone that we have a little fish available.”
“You’ll catch more, though, right?”
“I’m not counting on anything. Listen, though, guys, you know you have to keep this to yourselves, right? Albert says anyone tells about this, they lose their job.”
All four nodded vigorously. The price of disobedience was losing access to a fried-fish meal. That would be enough to scare most kids into behaving.
One of the guys looked around, like he was suspicious. He looked right at Bug, though his eyes slid right over him. Like he sensed something but couldn’t put his finger on it.
The hunger was terrible. It had been bad when all Bug hoped to get was a can of beets. But the mere existence of fresh fish…he was imagining the smell. He was imagining the flavor. He was slavering, drooling, his stomach…
“If you give me some fish, I’ll tell you a secret,” Bug said suddenly.
Quinn jumped about a foot.
Bug turned off his camouflage.
Quinn reached for one of the knives and yelled, “Guards! Guards, in here!”
Bug held out his hands, showing he had no weapon. “I’m just hungry. I’m just so hungry.”
“How did you get in here?”
“I want some fish. Give me some fish,” Bug pleaded. “I’ll tell you everything. I’ll tell what Caine’s doing. I am so hungry.”
Quinn looked profoundly uncomfortable. Even nervous. Two armed kids rushed into the room. They looked to Quinn for direction, and pointed their guns without any real conviction.
Quinn said, “Oh, man. Oh, man.”
“I just want to eat,” Bug said. He broke down crying. Sobbing like a baby. “I want some fish.”
“I have to take you to Sam,” Quinn said. He didn’t seem to be happy about the idea.
Bug fell to his knees. “Fish,” he begged.
“Give him one bite,” Quinn said, making his decision. “One single bite. One of you go and bring Sam and Astrid. They can decide whether to give this little creep any more.”
One of the guards took off.
Quinn looked down at the weeping Bug. “Man, you have picked a bad time to switch sides.”
His surfboard was still leaning against the washing machine in the tiny room off the kitchen. A Channel Island MBM.
Sam wanted to touch it, but couldn’t bring himself to. It was everything he had lost in the FAYZ.
His wetsuit hung from a peg. The can of wax was on the rickety shelf next to the laundry detergent and the fabric softener.
The ball of light was still there in his bedroom. Still floating in the air, just outside of Sam’s bedroom closet.
He hadn’t been back to his old home in a long time. He’d forgo
tten the light would be there.
Strange.
He passed his hand through it. Not much of a sensation.
He remembered when it first happened. He’d been scared of the dark. Back then. Back when he was Sam Temple, some kid, some random kid who just wanted to surf.
No. That wasn’t true, either. He’d already stopped being just some random kid. He’d already been School Bus Sam, the quick-thinking seventh grader who had taken the wheel when the bus driver had had a heart attack.
He’d been that.
And he’d been the kid who had freaked out, not understanding that the argument between his mother and stepfather was no big thing. He’d thought his stepfather was going to hit his mother.
So, by the time Sam, in a panic, had created the light that would not die, he had already been School Bus Sam, and the person who’d burned a grown man’s hand off.
Not some random teenager.
He hated this house and hated this room. Why had he come here?
Because everyone knew he hated it, so they wouldn’t come looking for him here. They’d search for him everywhere and not find him.
The stuff he had in his room—the clothes, the books, the old school notebooks, the pictures he had taken once with a waterproof camera while he was surfing—none of it meant anything to him. Some other kid’s stuff, not his. Not anymore.
He sat on the end of his bed, feeling like an intruder. A strange feeling since this was the only place he’d stayed in the last three months that he had any real claim to.
He gazed at the ball of light. “Turn off,” he said.
The ball did not respond.
Sam raised his palms, aimed them toward the light, and thought the single word, Dark.
The light disappeared.
The room was plunged into darkness. So dark, he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. All over town, kids were sitting in the dark, just like this. He supposed he could go around and create little light balls in every house in town. Sam, the electrician.
He was no longer afraid of the dark. That realization surprised him. The dark almost felt cozy, now. Safe. No one could see him in the dark.
There was a list in his head, a list that kept scrolling and scrolling. Words and phrases. One after another. Each representing a thing he should be doing.
Zekes. Caine and the power plant. Little Pete and his monsters. Food. Zil and Hunter. Lana and…whatever. Water. Jack. Albert.
Those were the headlines. Buzzing around those great big things were thousands of smaller things, like a nest of hornets. Kids fighting. Dogs and cats. Broken windows. Grass. Gasoline that needed to be rationed. Trash piling up. Toilets plugged. Teeth needing to be brushed. Kids drinking. Bedtimes. Mary throwing up. Cigarettes and pot.
Things to do. Decisions to make.
No one listening.
And what about Astrid?
And what about Quinn?
And what about kids talking more openly about stepping off when the Big One-Five rolled around?
And around and around and around it whirled through his head.
He sat in the dark on the end of his bed. He wanted to cry. That’s what he wanted to do. But there wouldn’t be anyone to come and pat him on the shoulder and tell him everything would be okay.
There was no one. And things wouldn’t be okay.
It was all coming apart.
He imagined himself facing a tribunal. Stone faces glaring at him. Accusations. You let them starve, Sam. You let normals turn against freaks.
Tell us about the death of E.Z., Mr. Temple.
Tell us what you did to save the kids at the power plant.
Tell us how you failed to find a way out of the FAYZ.
Tell us why, when the FAYZ wall came down, we found kids dead in the dark.
They were down to eating rats, Mr. Temple.
We have evidence of cannibalism.
Explain that to us, Mr. Temple.
Sam heard soft footsteps in the family room. Of course. There was one person who would know where he was hiding.
The bedroom door opened with a squeak. A flashlight found his face. He closed his eyes to block the light.
The flashlight snapped off. Without a word she came and sat beside him.
For the longest time neither of them spoke. They sat side by side. Her leg was against his.
“I’m feeling sorry for myself,” he said at last.
“Why?”
It took him a few beats to realize she was kidding. She knew the list in his head as well as he did.
“Whatever vitally important thing you came here to tell me?” he said. “Just don’t, okay? I’m sure it’s absolutely life or death. But just don’t.”
He could sense her hesitation. With sinking heart he realized he had guessed correctly. There was some new crisis. Some new thing that absolutely demanded Sam Temple’s attention, his decisiveness, his leadership.
He didn’t care.
Astrid remained silent. Silent for too long. But she seemed to be rocking back and forth, just slightly. And he almost thought he heard her whispering.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m praying.”
“What for?”
“A miracle. A clue. Food.”
Sam sighed. “What food?”
“A Quiznos. Turkey, bacon, and guacamole.”
“Yeah? If God gives you a Quiznos, can I have a bite?”
“No way. You have to pray for your own food.”
“Three hundred kids are praying for food. And yet, we have no food. Three hundred kids praying for their parents. Praying for this all to be over.”
“Yeah,” she admitted. “Sometimes it’s hard having faith.”
“If there’s a God, I wonder if he’s sitting in the dark on the end of his bed wondering how he managed to screw everything up.”
“Maybe,” Astrid said with just a little bit of a laugh.
Sam was not in a laughing mood. “Yeah? Well to hell with your God.”
He heard a sharp intake of breath. It gratified him. Good. Let her be shocked. Let her be so shocked, she went away and left him to sit here alone in the dark.
Neither of them spoke for a long while. Then Astrid stood up, breaking the slight physical contact between them.
“You don’t want to hear this,” Astrid said, “but they couldn’t find you, so they found me. And now I’ve found you.”
“I really don’t care,” Sam warned.
But Astrid would not stop. “Bug has come over to our side. He was on a mission for Caine. They have a freak who can see dreams and Caine wanted Bug to get her, take her to some mine in the hills. Some monster.”
“Yeah?” Sam said. Not like he cared. Like he was just being polite.
“And Cookie showed up. He had to walk all the way back to town. He walked through the night. He had a note from Lana.”
Nothing. Sam had nothing to say to that.
Astrid sat quiet for a second then added, “Bug says they call it the gaiaphage. Lana calls it the Darkness.”
Sam covered his face with his hands. “I don’t care, Astrid. Handle it yourself. Pray to Jesus and maybe He’ll handle it.”
“You know, Sam, I’ve never thought you were perfect. I know you have a temper. But I’ve never known you to be mean.”
“I’m mean?” He laughed bitterly.
“Mean. Yes, that was mean.”
Their voices were rising swiftly. “I’m mean? That’s the worst you can throw at me?”
“Mean and self-pitying. Does that make it better?”
“And what are you, Astrid?” he shouted. “A smug know-it-all! You point your finger at me and say, ‘Hey, Sam, you make the decisions, and you take all the heat.’”
“Oh, it’s my fault? No way. I didn’t anoint you.”
“Yeah, you did, Astrid. You guilted me into it. You think I don’t know what you’re all about? You used me to protect Little Pete. You use me to get your way. You manip
ulate me anytime you feel like it.”
“You really are a jerk, you know that?”
“No, I’m not a jerk, Astrid. You know what I am? I’m the guy getting people killed,” Sam said quietly.
Then, “My head is exploding from it. I can’t get my brain around it. I can’t do this. I can’t be that guy, Astrid, I’m a kid, I should be studying algebra or whatever. I should be hanging out. I should be watching TV.”
His voice rose, higher and louder till he was screaming. “What do you want from me? I’m not Little Pete’s father. I’m not everybody’s father. Do you ever stop to think what people are asking me to do? You know what they want me to do? Do you? They want me to kill my brother so the lights will come back on. They want me to kill kids! Kill Drake. Kill Diana. Get our own kids killed.
“That’s what they ask. Why not, Sam? Why aren’t you doing what you have to do, Sam? Tell kids to get eaten alive by zekes, Sam. Tell Edilio to dig some more holes in the square, Sam.”
He had gone from yelling to sobbing. “I’m fifteen years old. I’m fifteen.”
He sat down hard on the edge of the bed. “Oh, my God, Astrid. It’s in my head, all these things. I can’t get rid of them. It’s like some filthy animal inside my head and I will never, ever, ever get rid of it. It makes me feel so bad. It’s disgusting. I want to throw up. I want to die. I want someone to shoot me in the head so I don’t have to think about everything.”
Astrid was beside him, and her arms were around him. He was ashamed, but he couldn’t stop the tears. He was sobbing like he had when he was a little kid, like when he had a nightmare. Out of control. Sobbing.
Gradually the spasms slowed. Then stopped. His breathing went from ragged to regular.
“I’m really glad the lights weren’t on,” Sam said. “Bad enough you had to hear it.”
“I’m falling apart,” he said.
Astrid gave no answer, just held him close. And after what felt like a very long time, Sam moved away from her, gently putting distance between them again.
“Listen. You won’t ever tell anyone…”
“No. But, Sam…”
“Please don’t tell me it’s okay,” Sam said. “Don’t be nice to me anymore. Don’t even tell me you love me. I’m about a millimeter from falling apart again.”