Nayima wiped her tears, turning her face away. She did not let herself cry often, or she’d never stop. She wasn’t ready to share tears with Karen. “What?”
“These jokes. Not all of them, definitely—but some of them are good.”
To prove it, Karen smiled. The sea crashed like cymbals to mark the occasion. Nayima had never see Karen smile. Gram’s blood-soaked pillowcase washed away with the tide.
“Really?” Karen’s smile sparked across Nayima’s lips too.
Karen read from Nayima’s notes in a deadpan: “‘I always wanted to move to Malibu, but I had to wait for the prices to drop.’”
“It’s the delivery,” Nayima said. “When you say it like that—”
“I’m not a comedian, but I’m just saying, I think it could be funny. To some people.”
Some people. That phrase sounded strange, dual plurals in the land of the singular. Nayima noticed faint freckles on Karen’s lips and traced them with her fingertip.
“Like… if I did a comedy show?” Nayima said, teasing her.
Karen’s lips moved closer. “You can do your show for me.”
Except for Nayima’s kiss from Darryn Stephens, who had surprised her with a declaration of his affection at a house party when she’d been Brandon Paul’s date, kissing mostly had felt like an obligatory activity before sex. But kissing Karen was a discovery each time, an exploration. Nayima could kiss Karen for an hour and lose track of time.
They opened the glass sliding door, and the sound of the ocean became a gale. They waded through the sound to the deck’s corner bed, which was covered in a thin blanket damp from saltwater spray. The bathrobe fell away. Nayima tasted the salt on Karen’s lips, on her neck, on her shoulders.
They were naked in the moonlight, sharp contrasts wherever their skin touched. When Nayima sang out her pleasure, the ocean answered her. Afterward, they lay together, hugging in the chilly breeze. Nayima thought of how warm it must be inland, where she and Gram had lived. She thought of the ghost cities west of them.
“That day on the beach?” Karen said.
They spent all their days on the beach, but only one day mattered. Nayima grinned.
Karen’s short-lived smile was gone. Her voice fell to a whisper, a tear creeping from the corner of her eye. “I didn’t know… I was immune.”
A cold ball knotted in Nayima’s stomach, but she kept her voice playful. “I was a test?” she said. “Cool. I don’t mind being your guinea pig.”
“No, not that,” Karen said. “I said to myself, I’m gonna get it from someone, so it might as well be her—the most beautiful woman left in the world.”
Only Gram had called her beautiful. She imagined Gram’s face—alive, bloodless.
“You could have killed me,” Nayima said. “You didn’t know anything about me.”
“I swear… I had no idea about me. I expected…”
“A kiss of death?”
“I thought so,” Karen said. In her voice, Nayima heard I hoped so.
Because it was too terrible, she didn’t tell Karen the irony: she had killed a man by kissing him. A year and three months ago, she’d met a man on State Road 46 outside of Lost Hills, only briefly. She’d fooled herself into imagining a future together. She hadn’t come across a survivor in so long that she’d been eager to latch onto him. And she was sure he was immune, like her.
But no. Only six hours later, he was already sick. Throwing up. Because of her.
Kyle. His name had been Kyle. Nayima didn’t think of him often, but she owed him remembering his name. She had leaned over him in the dark, giggling with mischief after he’d asked her, so politely, to stay away. She had kissed him—killed him—in his sleep.
Was Kyle the one standing between her and Karen? Who made her itch to flee? Karen and all of Malibu felt like nothing but a mirage.
The surf’s mighty hiss buried the rest of their unspoken words.
By morning, Nayima was using her neatest handwriting to write out her flyer, page after page of repetitive motion, all caps for clarity. Her sweaty hands were sticky inside her gloves, but she didn’t want the paper to spread the flu. Whatever she touched might turn to dust.
It was Wednesday, so people had two days to hear about the show. Maybe their seaside hamlet would be stable for two more days. Sleeping beside Karen, hearing her breathing between the swells, she’d had a premonition: they should grab their backpacks and leave Malibu. Too many people were coming, and the word would spread. Mister Mom might already have sent out an alarm. Then they would be invaded by marshals looking for carriers to punish for the end of the world.
But Karen had said that some people would find her jokes funny. And if that were true, why not give them a show? She’d always wanted to try stand-up comedy, and this was her only chance.
She might give someone their last laugh.
“Free water?” Karen said, reading her flyer. As if Nayima had promised the moon.
“I could purify a few cups. There’s only about ten.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” Karen said. “People are hiding. Besides, no one will take water from you. They don’t know you. They won’t go near you. I wouldn’t take it. You make your own water, or it’s an unopened bottle. That’s it. Think like one of them.”
Karen was in her Mommy mode again. She was insufferable sometimes. Nayima wasn’t going to cross off free water from every page in her stack. Or deny someone who might not have time to desalinate it themselves.
Nayima made fresh water every day, more than she needed: slowly boiling a covered pot of water with a glass in the center on her deck fire pit, allowing the freshly condensed water to drip into the glass, or simply leaving bowls and glasses wrapped in plastic wrap in the sun. The kitchen cabinet had been full of bowls and glasses to use. Not everyone had that, or even knew how to ensure the water you had was safe to drink. She herself had learned how long ago at camp.
“I’m bringing the water,” Nayima said. “It’s my show.”
Silence. Nayima braced for what she knew Karen wanted to say: “They won’t come. Don’t expect them to come.” A quiet plea.
Karen’s shitty attitude again.
Nayima figured the others wouldn’t come—they were all fugitives, whether it was from the flu or from flu-hunters, and fugitives did not gather on the bones of the world to take in a show. Hell, either she or Karen—or neither of them—might not make it back to the apartment. But hearing it from Karen infuriated her.
Nayima snatched up her pages and stood up to pack her backpack: her Glock, her key, and the plastic box of thumb tacks she’d found in the kitchen drawer—at least a hundred—with heads in the soft pastel colors of Easter eggs. As an afterthought, she packed a hammer, and water bottles, beef jerky and an extra pair of sneakers were always inside her pack, just in case.
“I’m coming with you,” Karen said. “We’re not supposed to go out alone, remember?”
That had been Karen’s rule, not Nayima’s, and probably served Karen more. If trouble came, Nayima might not have time to slow down and see after Karen, which she told Karen with a look. Nayima had made her no promises of heroics and she didn’t expect heroics in return, but Karen’s hangdog eyes wanted to stay with her always. Karen might kill or die for her.
Why did that simple caring repel her so much?
“Come on, then,” Nayima said. “Post office first.”