I saw him again in the most unlikely of circumstances. I mean, sure he was moving in my general direction, but there was a lot of space in which to move. It was very general. Everyone was migrating south, myself included. I kind of already lived in the south, but it was north-south, on the border, and the winter was still unkind there. People had been moving south since September, but now, in early November, the Changers had started a mandatory evacuation. We were supposed to go deep into the continent, close to the equator, although no one knew specifically where. We just had to follow everyone else, they said. Soon children would only dream of sledding down cotton ball hillsides; snow would only fall in old tall tales spun by older generations.
While many people were heartbroken about leaving their homes, possessions, and memories of this border place behind, I was more than ready, or at least I had been. Even before the Change, I was chomping at the bit to leave, standing as far to the edge of cliff as I could, waiting to jump. I’m seventeen years old. What seventeen year-old doesn’t want to try their hand at the world? The Change, as they call it, never changed my desire to leave. It gave me a reason to leave.
I’d be lying if I said being forced to leave was exactly the same as choosing to leave though. Before, I was eager to leave my parents and their protection behind. Now…I would give anything to be wrapped in my mom’s arms or to become victim to one my dad’s bristly kisses. Because you don’t exactly realize how much you will miss those things until they are gone.
I don’t know where my parents are. I haven’t seen them for nearly two weeks. They both work for the EPA, my dad is a research scientist developing better water treatment technology and my mother is a corporate lawyer. Last Monday morning they both went to work and last Monday evening neither came home. I didn’t really know what to do with myself. Of course, there was no way to communicate with them. Cell towers had been down for months and private internet via cable modem or other devices was shoddy at best. Even the mail had gone under. I couldn’t think of a rational reason why they would be missing, why they would not come home—no business trips, no visits to the hospital a couple hours away to see my grandparents—these are things they wouldn’t do spontaneously or without telling me. I tried email, even calling—it was all pointless. I curled up in my parent’s bed, wearing my dad’s favorite scratchy sweater, and didn’t move for three days.
People came to the house—neighbors, mostly, knocking and yelling for me. They all left after about ten minutes. Ignoring them became easy, but it was annoying to put up with the knocking, so eventually I filled out the evacuation form and put it on my door, making it look like I had left. I had to wait for my parents. I couldn’t evacuate without them. I couldn’t leave by myself—I was only seventeen for godsakes!
At three weeks, I was beginning to think the worst. Kidnapped by some Changers? Not a stretch—they had information. Simply killed like so many people have been? Possible. It stopped mattering at week four. Whether they were coming home or not, I was staying home. The radio had stopped at three and a half weeks. The streets were silent now. I was rationing the food—my parents had stocked enough for a few months. Ramen never got old, right? It seemed like some kind of sick joke. Here I was, living on my own, parent free, weeks at a time, eating Ramen noodles like a starving college student. I couldn’t go outside—Changers patrolled every few hours or so, driving down every street, looking for looters or rebels. As long as I stayed inside, I felt somewhat safe. Somewhere in week four, I found a semi-automatic that my dad had hidden in the back of his closet. I didn’t know how it worked or what I would do if I ever had a reason to use it, but I had this feeling that a gun was better than no gun.
I tried to keep busy. I read, I read a lot. There were tons of books stacked in every open space in the house, it was a hobby of my dad’s. He bought books constantly, convinced that someday he would read all of them. After five weeks, I was closer than ever to achieving this goal. I finished Tender is the Night around the time the electricity went out. Halfway through Leaves of Grass I took my last hot shower.
I had just started 1984 when someone broke through a window. It was downstairs, in the kitchen. At least that is what it sounded like. For a second, I didn’t do anything except finish the sentence I was reading. It had not sunk in, not really. My life had been silent for a month now. December ninth and 30 days had passed without talking to anyone. The idea of people interacting with me or having to interact with anyone else was foreign and strange.
But that was beside the point. The window had shattered, and now I heard someone walking around. I stood up from my perch in the corner of my parent’s bedroom. Lately I had been curled up in the chair in the corner, with blankets cocooned around me like a nest. My situation was not great. Being upstairs, I was sort of cornered—whoever was in the house could very well come up and where would I go? I had to beat them, get downstairs. I reached for the gun I always kept few feet away. I was wearing leggings and another sweater of my father’s. I wasn’t quick, or very quiet, and hardly knew my way around a gun. But I had to try—I had waited for so long—what if my parents were trying to break into the house I had locked up? This may be good—this may mean I don’t have to fend for myself anymore.
The rational part of my brain knew this was unlikely.
I heard the person downstairs walking around loudly—it sounded like they were wearing heavy shoes or boots and obviously thought they were alone for the noise. I crept towards the bedroom door, terrified to open it, half convinced the intruder would be on the other side. Slowly I turned the knob, the gun held limply in my right hand.
Nothing. I paused, waiting to hear if the person had noticed. They didn’t seem to, but it sounded as if they were in the living room. If it was a looter, they would be heading for the tv. For some reason, you could still make money off of that stuff or at least that’s what the radio broadcasts were saying three weeks ago, even though it had very little purpose anymore. I don’t think the value would last much longer.
My heart seemed to catch in my throat as I made my way down the hall and towards the stairs. I had to make a decision—when to announce myself. Should I do it now in case it’s my parents? Should I wait if it is a looter? If it is a looter should I shoot them? I was hesitant to use the gun—I don’t think I could kill another person. Besides that, someone may hear, and I may be found. That would be terrible. And what would I do with the body? I would have to use it to threaten only.
I took the first step down the stairs. I was bare foot, which at least made me quiet.
Second step, and the person hadn’t stopped moving. They were shuffling around the television.
Three four five six seven…eight was a creaky step. This would give me away. I stood, perched on the seventh step, halfway down, waiting for the intruder to make a noise loud enough to make the way down without them noticing.
Ten twenty thirty forty fifty sixty seconds GO! Something was dropped, apparently on their feet, and in the shower of expletives I ran down the stairs and turned into the living room, raising my gun and waiting for him—it was a him, not my dad or mom but just some guy—to look up. He looked up at me after about five seconds, and then we both froze.
“Peter?”
