Exsequor

The cicadas were screaming in a fever pitch. Without anything else to fight their song, they just seemed to sing louder. I wanted to complain to Jay about it but he was agitated, so I stayed quiet. We found ourselves in the suburbs, tiny houses with tiny yards. "This one," he said abruptly and turned onto a cracked walkway, the weeds punching their way up into the humid air.

We did our usual routine. The front door was unlocked but he knocked, a knife gripped in his other fist. I walked around back through the knee-high grass, watching for snakes. The back porch was littered with sun-bleached toys. A ball with a smiley face just barely visible looked up at me expectantly. I took the hatchet from my pack and held it at my side.

The back door was unlocked too. I knocked on it. I counted to ten, holding my breath. Nothing. Not even the scratch and scrape of mice. I opened the back door and had a clear view to the front door, where Jay was standing. We moved into the house, shutting and locking our respective doors. Searching all the rooms, we made sure no one was there. No one was ever there. But this was Jay's way. I could tell he was extra antsy because he checked the attic and had me double check there wasn't a basement.

When he was satisfied we were well and truly alone, he sat down on the couch. I took off my backpack and sat down on the loveseat. We sat in silence for a bit. I instinctively turned to look at the TV, it's dark screen reflecting us. I watched him through his reflection, afraid to look at him directly. "Quit," he said quietly and pulled his baseball cap down over his eyes.

I left him to his thoughts and roamed the house, sweat leaking out through my shirt. I'd wait until night fell to check the upstairs rooms. Downstairs there was the master bedroom and bath. I didn't feel weird anymore, digging through people's stuff. They weren't coming back for it. They weren't in any place to know I was doing it.

For the outside of the house to be such a wreck, it was neat inside. The bed was made, although a layer of dust had settled on the comforter. Wouldn't need that in the heat anyway. Staring at the bed, I thought of the night a few weeks ago. The house we claimed as ours. Whoever lived there had a generator that heated water for us to wash in, cooked our meal, turned the blades of a fan that cooled the night that had started to become damp and sticky.

We laid in bed that night, our bellies full and our skin clean. It was easy to feel like that's the way it had always been. In the dark, he reached out to me for the first time since it had all began. His hands, wrinkled from the water, roved down my chest and along my stomach. I tried hard not to move, to not disturb the little bubble of fantasy I was living. The one thing I had wanted so badly all along. It felt like forever ago and forever away now. It could have stayed that way, I thought, yanking the comforter from the bed in frustration. If not for my big mouth. Since then he had insisted we keep moving, keep searching for someone else out there. I turned away from the bed, forcing myself to think of something else.

The bathroom offered some distractions. I knew I couldn't take most of it with me, so I used it all. Dry shampoo felt like heaven. The water had stopped running forever ago, but I still put a dab of toothpaste on a brush and scrubbed, spitting and spitting. I took the lid off of a clear bottle filled with bright pink body spray and poured it into my hands. I rubbed myself all over with it, finally masking some of the reek that rolled off of me.

After a while of this I felt somewhat human again. I walked back into the living room. Jay was snoring, his head tilted back at a broken angle, his face hidden beneath his cap. I figured I'd do something to cheer him up. The pantry yielded some cans of not too expired raviolis. I cranked them open with a can opener and set them on a small square table near a window. As a finishing touch, I fished a couple of flowers growing wild in the backyard and placed them in a cup.

Back inside, I sat down next to Jay and gently touched his arm. He jerked at first but settled quickly, sighing. "Bad dream?" I asked.

"What ain't a bad dream?" he asked, his mouth dry.

"I made us some dinner," I offered and he lifted the cap from his face. I pointed to the table and he stood. He took his can of raviolis and started shoving them in his mouth. The red sauce dribbled out onto his beard that had grown as wild as the weeds outside. I picked up my can and poked around at the pockets of meat.

"Thanks," he said and tossed his can onto the table. It's hollow clang rang throughout the kitchen.

"Should we talk about why you're still so mad?" I asked. I saw him bristle and regretted saying anything.

"I said thank you," he said, his voice low.

"Jay, c'mon. You can't stay mad forever." In an instant he closed the gap between us.

"I'll stay mad however long I want to," he said, the smell of tomato sauce and processed meat wafting on his breath. His eyes darted between mine.

"I'm sorry, I don't know how else to say it, I'm sorry. I didn't know this would happen," I said, tears welling up.

"Oh God, with the crybaby shit," he said and turned away.

"Then leave," I said. "If you're so sick of me, just go." My voice cracked as I screamed, feeling my temper take me away. The cicadas ebbed and we were left in the silence.

"I can't," he said, his eyes trained on the ground. He let out a shuddering sigh. "I've tried."

"You what?" I asked, my heart sinking into my stomach.

"Every night for the past week when you go to sleep I walk away. I just walk and keep on walking." He picked up the can on the table and set it back upright. I could hear his voice tremble. "But no matter what, I gotta blink, I gotta think about something else and I wind up right beside you." He looked towards me, but not at me, chewing his bottom lip. His hand gripped the can and his knuckles turned white.

"What if," I said, swallowing a knot in my throat. "What if I...wasn't alive anymore." I had thought about it plenty of times, even before the world went away.

"And what? Leave me to be the last person on earth? Believe me, I've thought that route through more than once." Him saying this, the frankness of it, made the hair on my neck stand on end. Would he do it? Could he do it? Eventually, his grip loosened and he ran a finger along the jagged edge of the can's lid. He tapped the empty can on the table. "But this is what it is. We're all we've got left in the world."

I moved closer, unable to look him in the eye. He didn't look at me either, but drew me close to him. He squeezed me so hard, I thought he might be trying to kill me. But I wouldn't move away for anything. I cried into his neck and he stood still. The heat and his stench were almost unbearable but it was also everything I had ever wanted. "Just promise me," he whispered and I felt the edge of his knife against my stomach, "just promise that if you can bring them all back, you will." He was crying now, and I knew he was thinking of everyone he lost. "Whatever it takes."

"I promise, I will. I promise, I promise," I said into the skin of his neck, feeling the goosebumps rise to meet my lips.

I wasn't sure if it was the truth.