Peter chuckled to himself. He hadn’t even kissed Sara yet and he was already thinking about murdering their kid!
Thoughts of death, thoughts of killing, had become so mundane. He remembered when he’d been afraid of death in the old-world—an abstract anxiety surrounding a great ponderous mystery. Death didn’t feel enigmatic anymore. That amorphous fear was replaced by a constant, vigilant paranoia. The surprise and wonder he’d formerly felt at a relative’s passing, or a friend of a friend—the sympathetic horror—had been thoroughly displaced by a kind of quotidian resignation.
Like everyone alive, Peter had killed. He’d killed a lot of people. He took no pride in it, but those first months after the curse had been a kind of cleansing—not a filtering of the strong from the weak, or the righteous from the damned, but a flushing out of panic and rage and repression and frustration. He believed that the rabid anarchy was part of the healing—not just from the curse itself, but from centuries of social tension leading up to that moment. The months of chaos were a prerequisite of the new world and the new society that, by necessity, would be even more civilized, more civil, than the old.
Peter jerked in surprise when Sara touched his hand, his head stopping hard against the concrete wall behind him.
“It’s okay,” she said, pulling on his arm and prompting him to his feet.
“Where’s Derek?”
“Gone.” Her voice echoed flat off the cold walls.
“He’ll be back.”
He felt Sara’s hands brush his cheeks. He lifted his own in defense, startled again by her touch, and grabbed her wrists. She was reaching for his bandana. He’d almost forgotten, in some impossible way, that he still wore a blindfold.
“Trust me.” Sara said.
Trust her? What an absurd request. Then again, she could be the future mother of his child. He took a long slow breath. His grip on her arms loosened. The new world had to start somewhere.
He didn’t turn away as she pulled down on the scarf. Peter blinked as his eyes adjusted. Sara wasn’t wearing eye protection either. Of course not. She’d walked out after Derek, come back, helped him up, reached up to his face, and now she looked up at him with those beautiful hazel eyes.
SARA
“Do you think you could kill someone by looking at them in a mirror?” Derek had slipped into the doorway behind her as she took advantage of one of the luxuries of her new accommodations—a hand mirror. She’d been examining her face and skin. She poked at her hair, as if prods from her fingers could bring life back into her limp, oily tresses.
She shot a glance at Derek’s image reflected in the glass before her. “Should I try?”
Derek’s eyes quickly dropped but he continued probing, undeterred by Sara’s jab. “Do you think you could kill yourself with a mirror?”
Sara didn’t answer.
They had been sitting in a circle after an evening meal. The group had formed quickly, gathering in the house with Sara and her husband. Her sister and nephew had been over for dinner when the Curse descended. The Redfelds, a young couple and toddler, that lived next door, knocked on the door about a week later. They brought their babysitter, a teenager who had run to them sometime in the first couple of days.
Sara cleared the dishes as her husband and Mr. Redfeld began their usual post meal debate—whether or not to move, and if so, whether into the city or away was the better choice. Should they stay together or split apart. Their volume increased and Sara heard her sister say:
“Hey guys, let’s cover our eyes!”
And then, after a short silence, all hell broke loose.
Not in a blur, exactly, but more of a collage, Sara’s memories of the moment crowded together all at once—the sound of the door crashing in, a barrage of gunshots and men shouting. Kicking automatically into self-preservation-mode, Sara scurried into the small half-bath off the kitchen. Women’s screams. Crashing noises. The laugh. A maniacal cackle.
“Why are they all blindfolded?!”
“Fuck if I know, but it sure makes things easier.”
Then another series of gunshots. Deliberate. Evenly paced. One, two. The women and children screaming. Three, four. Then only Mrs. Redfeld and the babysitter whimpering.
Sara stood in front of the mirror, staring into her own eyes, willing herself dead as she tried to block out the sounds of the two women being raped and beaten and raped again. She wanted more than anything to die right there, but the mirror held no magic. It wouldn’t reflect her will, only her own desperate tears. Eventually she slipped to the floor and prayed for the sounds to stop. She waited for the men to find her.
“Noooo!”
A mournful wail brought Sara back to the basement where she sat, still holding the dusty hand mirror. Derek turned to look behind him as the groan echoed off the walls.
Chad had found his daughter.
She’d come across the girl, weeping, alone in the middle of the basement’s cluttered main room. If not broken, the girl was fragile and cracked. Sara sat, put her arm around Phoebe, and listened to her ramble about an encounter with Derek, only minutes before. He hadn’t hurt the girl but he’d come on too strong. It knocked Phoebe for a loop. She hadn’t been sure until he walked away whether he’d go too far and now she didn’t know if she would ever feel safe in the basement again. Just one more leer, one groping hand might collapse Phoebe’s will and leave her bleeding, just a malleable piece of meat, defenseless but for some man’s mercy. A mercy Sara had little faith existed anywhere, especially not in this basement hideaway.
“I just want to go home.”
“I’m afraid this is home,” Sara said.
“No, it isn’t,” Phoebe clenched her fists. “This will never be home!”
Sara squeezed the girl’s shoulders, trying to calm her, provide some kind of comfort. “You’ll be okay.”
“You don’t know me!” Phoebe shook her off. “You’re not my friend.”
“I could….”
“You’re nobody!” Phoebe’s face dropped to her hands.
“It’s alright,” Sara said, reaching out again. “You can just cry a while. It’s okay.”
“Stop it!” Phoebe pushed away from her. “Just leave me alone! You’re not my mom! My mom’s fucking dead!”
You’re right, Sara thought bitterly, I’m not your fucking mom, and I’m goddamned glad for that. She took a breath, resolved. “You’re right,” she whispered aloud. “I’m sorry.”
Phoebe relaxed, wiping her nose with her sleeve.
“You know what I miss the most?” Sara watched closely, her arm back around Phoebe’s shoulders, then answered her own question. “I miss being able to look in people’s eyes.”
Phoebe’s gaze flashed up to Sara’s face—hopeful, understanding—certain of a shared sentiment that would bond her to a new sister. That single moment of hope gave Sara all she needed.
Phoebe folded and Sara eased the girl’s body to the floor.
The front door slammed, followed by a chorus of reckless whoops as the intruders leapt out into the street. Prudence would have Sara remain hidden for at least a few minutes after the men left her house, but she listened for only a second or two. Sara eased the door open and crept from the bathroom into carnage.