The Seventh Day (Book 2): The Last Hour Read online

  "What if I'm dying."

  "Then I want to be the last thing you remember. The good thing in a sea of bad."

  I don’t hesitate another second, not even to stare at her a little longer. Instead, I close the distance between us and satisfy my hands with another touch. I lift them to her cheeks, gently tilting her head back. I wait the one second I need, not to live some demented fantasy in my head, but to get the permission I suddenly require. She smiles, giving it.

  I swallow, scared of everything from here on out. I lower my face, closing my eyes at the last second, and brush my lips against hers ever so gently.

  She inhales through her nose suddenly, almost a nose gasp. There’s no electricity or connection in the kiss. It’s normal and not. It’s not magical in the sense I expected. It’s beautiful in the way only a perfect kiss can be. I never knew that. I watched cartoons when I was a kid, I saw the hero kiss the girl. I saw the magic in the air around them.

  It’s a lie. There’s no magic.

  But there’s something.

  It’s a declaration and tearing down of walls. It’s forgiveness and permission to go further. It’s fuel and food and friction.

  My lips consume hers, sliding against them and sucking them in. I kiss with fervor, unable to stop.

  Hands grab at shirts and pants and feet take steps in directions neither of us knows. We don’t know where bedrooms are or if all the blinds are closed. We don’t stop. We move, slamming into walls and clinging to each other. She becomes air and aphrodisiac. She becomes everything. I see nothing but her. Perfect lips and hair and the subtle smell of vanilla. Her mocha skin is warm and silky. She’s everything I didn’t know I was missing.

  The entire event is more than magical.

  I didn’t know there was more than magical.

  A lifetime of bars and cruelty and self-inflicted solitary confinement has made a mark on me, scarred my soul. I scarred it myself.

  She heals those scars.

  She fixes all the pain I didn’t know I felt, gives me things I didn’t know I needed.

  Human touch. Tenderness. Pleasure.

  A lifetime flashes before my eyes, and when I open them, the scenes dance in the air around her. She doesn’t just chase away the shadows, the ones I left in basements when I was a kid. She plucks the good that was hiding in the dark. She brings it out and makes me remember it happened.

  She is hope. She is grace. She is an angel.

  When it’s over and she’s lying on my chest, sleeping like she trusts me more than anything in the world, a single tear escapes my eye. It rolls down my cheek and in behind my ear. My cold heart aches, not because I’m sad but because I’m feeling something. I’m aware of my heart’s location and its purpose for the first time in a long time.

  It isn’t the first time.

  I felt it when I was a kid. Before.

  Before the bars and the cruelty and the scars and the basements.

  She reminds me of it.

  She sleeps for a long time. I brush her hair. I watch her sleep. I memorize every detail of her face. And at some point, I fall asleep too, but I wake way before she does.

  I want to get up and finish getting the house ready, but I don’t want this moment to end. It will be the only moment I get if I die in thirty hours.

  So I lie with her, wrapped in her, and I remember.

  I make myself see them, all seven.

  The first time, I was ten. I was sloppy and silly about it, choosing a gun to kill someone. I staged it, weakly. The sheriff in our town was an idiot, which bought me time.

  No one ever blamed me. No one imagined it was me. He died quietly in the woods, an accidental shooting during hunting season.

  The problem with the death, for me, was the detachment. It didn’t solve anything. I didn’t feel anything.

  No one knew our secret, mine and his, his more than mine, so no one saw me as the killer.

  His death, our life, his abuse, my scars, all a secret.

  I don’t feel sad about killing him, but I don’t have the same justification or pleasure. Seeing him fall and the way his body twitched with spasm, as he lost too much blood to survive, doesn’t fill me up. It takes something away.

  The blood that moves on its own, the nanorobots, they’re fixing me. Or breaking me.

  Either way they’re changing me.

  Maybe it’s her. I run my eyes down her face, mesmerized by the way she looks sleeping. So peaceful and beautiful. She’s perfect and imperfect and the mixture of sharp edges and soft spots makes her even more.

  I brush my fingers down her cheek at the same moment a noise comes from the hallway. I pull from her, tucking her into the blankets of the bed we managed to find, lifting my jeans off the floor. I step into them and slip from the room, tiptoeing down the hall, listening.

  There’s no one.

  I sneak around the main floor, pausing when I get to the kitchen to find Lester eating Rice Krispies from the box, sitting at the table in his underwear.

  He holds the box out, his wet fingers covered in cereal.

  “No, thanks.” I narrow my gaze. “You hear something?”

  He shakes his head but I hear it again. We both turn and stare at the window; clearly he heard it this time.

  He drops the box and grabs his crowbar from where it sits next to him. He contemplates it for a second before passing it to me. I pull the curtain to the side, checking out the yard and driveway. It’s hard to tell where the noise is coming from with the orchard, carport, shed, and barn all blocking the view, but after a second of scanning the driveway, I see it.

  “It’s a dog.” I turn to leave but Lester walks for the door.

  I follow, almost worried he’ll hurt the dog.

  It’s a German shepherd and she’s limping a bit, whining and sniffing the ground. She growls when she sees us, whimpering and snarling as if she isn’t sure which she wants, help or to eat us. I lift the crowbar but Lester drops to the ground, sitting down. The dog lifts her lips, baring her teeth but still walks to him, her head down. She hobbles over, growling until she gets to his lap and then lowers, going passive. She crawls into his lap and shows her belly.

  She looks like a guard dog, but Lester completely calms her. He rubs her belly until he gets to the leg with the obvious injury. He runs his hands down the leg slowly, earning her trust. She growls and whines, snorting at him as he takes the foot in his massive hand. He holds her so delicately I am confused. He’s never been delicate with anything.

  The dog groans as he leans in, getting his face too close for my comfort. I cringe, waiting for it, but instead of biting his face off, she licks it. He yanks something from the foot, making blood pour out of the pad and run down his hand. He tears the sleeve from his shirt and wraps it around her foot, securing it like a bandage by tucking it in. He pulls off his gross sock and drags it up the dog’s leg.

  I’m beyond baffled.

  If he’d been normal he could have been a vet tech or something. It’s strange seeing the way he strokes her and pets and scratches until she’s calm again and then scoops her up and carries her into the house as though she doesn’t weigh over a hundred pounds. As though this isn’t a big deal and he’s incredibly comfortable with animals.

  I follow him in, a bit lost but more so impressed.

  I never pegged him as an animal guy.

  I never pegged him as someone who did anything soft.

  But as he carries her to the sofa, he sets her next to him on a huge blanket, the one I assume he was using to sleep, and tucks her in.

  She licks him again and curls up, closing her eyes and opening them a few times before losing the battle and passing out.

  He sits and strokes her, keeping her safe and calm.

  It's the calmest I’ve seen him too.

  “Where’d the dog come from?” Grace asks softly as she enters the living room.

  “Lester rescued her. Now they’re best friends.” I don’t want to talk about the dog so I get up an
d hurry into the kitchen, hoping she’ll follow me. I want to know if she’s okay. If what we did was okay. If she regrets it all today in the light of the morning.

  Her eyes meet mine and the glistening smile that fills her whole face relaxes all of me. The tension exhales out as I take a step to her, cautious and scared and excited. She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me. “I woke up and you were gone and I was worried.”

  “The dog.” I place a soft kiss on her cheek. “I heard the dog in the yard, she was crying. We went out and Lester pulled something from her foot. She’s bleeding.”

  Grace’s eyes flash to the dog. “Is she okay?”

  “Better,” I say as Lester glances our way and grunts. “He’s actually quite good at the whole dog thing.” I don’t know how else to say it.

  “And how are you?” she asks, pushing me out of Lester’s line of sight.

  “I’m good.”

  “Are you?” She grins. “Because I think you’re being weird. Like what happened before is making you uncomfortable.”

  “It is.”

  She laughs at my answer. “You’re so weird.” Her answer makes me stiffen, but she shakes her head and kisses me softly. “No, not in a bad way. In an unexpected way. You’re different.”

  “It’s the bite,” I whisper to her, scared of the words and the confession and trusting her with it. But if the bite is changing me, even slowly, that means the nanorobots aren’t fried from the electricity. They’re still working, healing me or fixing me or making me normal. Having the opposite effect on me than they have on everyone else. And that means they’re going to expire.

  “What?” Her humor drifts away as she stares at me. “What do you mean?”

  “Those robots. The doctor said they were designed to judge people and then kill them or let them live, based on what they found in the memories.”

  “And you shocked your robots.” She says it like she’s feeding me the answer.

  “Right, but what if resetting the programming just changed the job the nanobots had, but didn't change the expiry date?”

  “So you think you’ll die on the seventh day?” She swallows hard.

  “Well, if they’re working, changing me, which we both know they are, they’re clearly working, so—”

  “No.” She steps back, folding her arms and filling with attitude. “No. Maybe they’re fixing you, which we don't know if that’s possible. But this whole ‘they’re going to kill you anyway’—no. I can’t even with this.”

  “I just mean if they’re working, they might still—”

  “No.” She shakes her head, indignant. “You’ll be fine, in fact you’re better than fine. You have a tiny team of super robots in there, healing you. You probably won’t get sick or feel tired. You might not even age, that’s a form of wearing down.” She rushes back in, wrapping her arms around me. “And tomorrow, when you’re alive and I’m right, you’ll admit it.”

  “Fine.” I force a smile across my lips but I’m not happy. I wish I hadn’t made her care about me. Because when I’m not alive, she’ll be alone with Lester, the dog, and whatever I can help her with between then and now.

  I have twenty-eight hours left.

  And that means I need to get to work.

  Chapter Ten

  “Google,” I say to Lester and the dog as I try the pull cable once more to start the generator. “I miss Google.” The generator fires up, not because I did anything other than try it repeatedly.

  Lester claps and I sigh, taking a couple of deep breaths.

  The dog licks Lester and nudges his hand until he pets her again.

  “Generator works, but you have to pull it a lot,” I say as I write in the journal I’m keeping.

  I’ve found seven gas jugs and filled them all, syphoning like I saw in movies.

  Turning it off after the black smokes stops, I carry the key with me as I hurry to the fruit trees.

  Lester and I pick the fruit while the dog keeps watch.

  She’s a great guard dog.

  When we have a large basket of apples, apricots, and pears, we head inside to add them to the cold storage below, in the basement.

  This house isn’t creepy like the last one. The basement isn’t scary. They finished it, and they have a cold storage room filled with all kinds of amazing food. Jars of fruit and condiments and bags of things I don't recognize line the shelves.

  Lester and the dog are partial to the apple chips we found.

  “You have to stop. You’re acting crazy,” Grace laughs at me as she finishes bringing in wood from the pile I chopped for hours on end. I never tired. It was weird.

  “No.” I shake my head. “I need to make sure you can survive if anything happens to me.”

  “What will you do if the people who owned this house come back?” She raises a dark eyebrow.

  “Be useful and hope they’ll let us stay.” It’s a bit of a lie. A tiny one. Even if I told myself I wouldn't lie to her, this one can’t be helped. I don't want to admit that things might go downhill. The truthful answer is I don't know what I’ll do. If they come back and they’re hostile, that’s not how it’s going to play out. I might be different now, but the tiny robots won’t determine my future. I still choose whether we live or die and how we do it.

  If I live through tomorrow.

  “I think we should board up windows and make the gate sturdier.” I gaze out the window to the front yard.

  “Why? If they’re going to be dead by tomorrow, who cares?”

  She is so naïve. I’m not sure how to burst the bubble I’m about to burst without being rude so I take a moment to plot it out. I don't want to hurt her feelings, but saying bad things has always been a pleasure of mine. Clueless on how to deliver a gross story without making it worse and inflicting pain on the listener.

  “We aren’t doing any of this for the zombies.” I wonder if that sentence alone will be enough, but her eyes don't change, suggesting she isn’t getting it. “The people who are hiding from the zombies, or who have fled from their homes into the wilderness, will come back. People who have nothing, no reason to stay where they are, power, heat, water, jobs, will migrate. Humans used to migrate.”

  “Migrate?” I’m making this worse.

  “They’ll travel, looking for the easiest solution to their problem of no food, no water, and no shelter.”

  “Oh.” She pales and the sweet horror show begins behind her eyes. I don't get the same feeling from it I used to, but it’s still impressive to see. Every possible outcome flashes in her eyes, forcing responses and fear to dance across her face.

  “So we need to make sure that we’re safe and protected but also that we’re ready for bad people.”

  “Is that why you chose this place?”

  “Yeah, it’s off the beaten path.” And if I die you’ll stand a chance. “It’ll be winter soon and up here they have to stay warm. They burn wood. They have fires for heat and cooking that make smoke. People smell the smoke and they come to it, wanting food and warmth.”

  “Maybe a lot of people will move south for the winter.” The eternal optimist.

  “Maybe.” I can’t fight the smile. It’s a little bitter because I’m still me, just not sick. “But we can’t bet on maybe. Smart people don't prepare for the good things in life. They enjoy the good parts and prepare for the other moments.” I wink and walk out of the kitchen, taking a bite of a sweet pear.

  By the end of the day we have a lot of supplies.

  The sun is setting when I stack the last piece of wood that will fit. I didn't know how much to chop but the shed that held the wood seemed like probably the amount they need here for winter. Why have a wood shed that big if you don't fill it?

  I got Lester to cut down trees and drag them back with the tractor and I chopped until it was full.

  We ensured the hand pump on the well is working and brought buckets to the house for bathing, cooking, and drinking.

  We stored food and we gathered and me
nded fences where the animals are, ensuring no predators can get to them.

  I’ve never worked so hard in my life but my body isn’t sore and I’m not tired.

  I don't break, neither does Lester but he’s double my size. He lifts far more and hits far harder and halls twice as much.

  When the sun’s set and Lester goes in, I do rounds, checking the fences and looking for the zombies or even people. I walk alone in the dark, noting it isn’t hard for me to see. My eyes don't fight against the lack of light to zoom in.

  Nothing moves.

  Nothing breathes.

  Nothing has a heartbeat within fifty yards.

  I make my way back to the horses, hearing them as I get closer, and bring them into the barn. There are five and they know their stall.

  I get them water and fork hay like I’ve seen on TV, assuming this is what I’m supposed to do.

  Not being a farm kid, or a poor kid, or a rugged kid, I have to rely on my smarts.

  I don't know anything about horseshoes or saddles or how to harvest hay. I don't know how to do anything mechanical. I got lucky with the generator.

  But I’ll need to learn.

  And computers are done.

  If I live, I’ll need a trip to the library.

  “Go to the library and get books to learn about farming, hay, horses and their needs, cattle, sheep, chickens, pigs, and vegetable gardens. Don't get followed home.” I write in the journal, underlining the part about not getting followed.

  She won’t think of stuff like that.

  She’ll assume no one is following.

  She might even invite them home to be with her.

  I don't like that.

  I really don't like that.

  I need to stay alive.

  I also need to go to bed.

  She’s sleeping when I get there. She’s peaceful.

  I lie down next to her and stare, waiting for either sleep or death.

  Waiting for one of them, I brush her hair from her face, closing my eyes and living through the feel of her skin against my fingertips.

  She moans and turns over, snuggling her body to mine.

  I tell myself she’s seeking warmth, but I want her to be seeking me, and even though she’s sleeping, maybe she’s aware of us and what we mean to each other.