??? ???? ??????? Vanessa Valentine left the house with nothing and came home with a novel, on which read Animal Farm by George Orwell. She'd gone out around nine o'clock to ask Rachel if they could use her husband's eight-seater, if they could head north towards Archer's Creek and bring little Abigail Adams back to her mother. She explained that Tommy's vehicle wouldn't make so much as a step in this piss-poor weather and that it would probably end up freezing before making a start. Of course she agreed, though Terrence was unwilling about the whole thing. With a pandemic on the rise and 60MPH winds brushing by—in his eyes—it seemed pretty foolhardy to leave the house. But there was also the argument that food was scarce, and water pipes were frosting up by the hour, if they hadn't completely hardened by now. He was a very angry man, Terrence Coleman, used to work in the Navy some years back and hadn't been the same since. A part of this anger came from one of his best friends' deaths (his name: Jeremy Pitcher) in the winter of 1996 when an avalanche rolled down the Death Mountain in Russia and wiped out a class of marines.
Vanessa told Scarlet all about this when she came back and handed Abigail the book. It was a cute moment because Scarlet had read that book herself—loved it, rather. George Orwell sure had a way with words, and for the time he was one of the simplest novelists out there; everyone else was so boring with their lavish language and smart talk. But not Orwell; Scarlet found him simple.
Vanessa told Scarlet they were getting ready for the long trip ahead, and that Rachel felt terrible about Mr Adams' death, so much that she agreed—with little to no argument—that they should head north. Up there the disease wouldn't exist—hopefully, and by the time they got there, which could take anywhere from three days to a week, it would likely have calmed down a great deal, along with the blizzard. Best case scenario their signal came back and a quick phone call to the police was in tall order. That'd cut the journey short but at least she'd get home safe. Rachel suggested that they should stop at a police station in Henderson—it wouldn't do them any harm, even if the place was shut tight, as they expected it would, considering the circumstances of just about everything that unfolded within the last week or so.
And Scarlet, who never really thought about any of this, about contacting a police station—she didn't even know where the nearest station had been—felt relaxed, like only good things could come from this.
Rachel and Terrence pulled up the house around midday, the wheels of their white SUV muscling through the snow and unveiling lines of the macadamized road. Behind the wheel was Terrence—a man in his late fifties, though with all the stress of life he looked a little bit older, not by a lot but enough for Scarlet to scratch her head worrying if she would meet such a fate. Maybe she should work out more, she supposed, since that had something to do with ageing—so she heard. And having a six-pack didn't sound too bad either.
The car screeched to a halt amid a gust of winter, snow shooting down its hood and painting it in a thicker layer of white. Rachel and Terrence hopped out of the vehicle a couple seconds later, stuffed in heavy clothing. On the left, Terrence was wearing a scarf, beanie, tactical winter pants, and a thick, ebony jacket. On the right, Rachel was wearing the same clothing from the day Mr Adams was killed: a dowdy grey coat with cargo trousers.
In the background there was a constant hum of wind, an ambience that hmmed in a slightly muted tone. Scarlet listened to it from the comfort of her house. As she watched the two, they started giving each other angry looks, eventually bursting into chords of acrimonious shouting; it upset Scarlet moments before they even crossed up the pathway.
In response to their arrival, Darla shot up from her sleep and started barking, very noisily. Scarlet tried telling her to shut up a couple times, but it didn't work. So she just covered her ears and grimaced till they made it to the door. Her teeth came together in a loud click, her eyes fluttering for the merest fraction of a second.
"They're here!" Scarlet told her mother, who was still upstairs getting ready. By getting ready: scrounging together whatever food was left in the house, filling water bottles, packing a suitable amount of clothes for which to wear—she even offered Abigail some of Scarlet's clothes from when she was round her age, which she timidly denied—and stuffing a gun in her left pocket. She told Scarlet all about this when she made it downstairs and Rachel and Terrence came knocking. Vanessa popped the door open a moment later with her suitcase in hand.
"Terrence will carry that for you," Rachel suggested. "He's a strong man."
"Makin' me carry shit after we just got here, and you wonder why I don't wanna leave with you. You're at my back the whole time—a real pain in the ass." He sounded sulky, like a manbaby. Terrence took the suitcase with a firm grip. His sleeves were thick and military-like, covering what looked like modest mounds of spry muscle. You didn't need to take the sleeves off to know they were good arms, strong arms. Snow came swirling in from behind him, and already Scarlet felt her lips freezing up.
"There's also some water bottles in the kitchen—" Vanessa began.
"Ah, there's no need—we'll be bringin' our own, Ness. How're ye anyway? You look like you haven't missed a day of sleep. I haven't been able to all that well, you know—not since I saw Mr Adams hit the—" She paused when Abigail came up alongside Scarlet, dressed in the same pink slicker. Same blonde hair. Same cute button nose. In her hand was the book Vanessa had given her. And as if by some natural instinct, Rachel placed her thickly gloved knuckles on her knees and cooed, "Hi-iiiiii, Abigail! Are you enjoyin' that book, darlin'? I'm the one that got that for ya, I did."
Abigail didn't say anything, only looked down and held the book firmly. For a moment Scarlet considered nudging her on the shoulder to have her say something—like a good sister would—but realised that this girl was still a stranger, even if this whole journey was about her. Though Scarlet always wanted a little sibling—didn't matter if it was a girl or boy or a goddamn alien—only that they existed, and she'd be there to care about them as much a father does for their son in the soft moments when they realise they won't be a child forever. A smile formed on her own lips when she thought about this, and she pursed them tightly.
"Not much of a speaker, are ya?" Rachel joked. She looked back at Terrence, who popped open the trunk and hoisted the suitcase in, a loud grunt escaping his lips in the ever-screaming wind. He shut it a moment later and rubbed his hands against each other in a way that said, It's hard but it's honest work, it is. But Scarlet found it difficult to believe that such a feat would be difficult for him—not a chance. A man that large was built to move heavy objects year-round—a bit like a lumberjack, but without the beard and sex appeal.
"Oh, don't worry about him; he's a soft-hearted fool." Rachel laughed. Darla started jumping against her knee a second later, and her smile dissipated. In its place was a line of questions. "You bringin' the dog, Ness?" She furrowed her brow.
"Well, we can't leave her here. Not alone, anyway," Vanessa said.
"Can you say that again, Ness?" Rachel asked. "It's hard to hear with, you know, sixty-mile winds."
Ignoring her a moment, Vanessa sighed and yelled, "Yes, we're bringing her!"
And—to almost suggest Darla understood—she turned her head, a turn that she often used when words like 'food' and 'walkies' were said. But not 'washy' or anything that bore resemblance to water. Then she'd go running upstairs and hide under the bed till Vanessa left her alone; it didn't always work, but sometimes Vanessa was too lazy and tired to do anything about it.
"Don't tell me you're bringing that mutt, too," Terrence said, a scowl building upon his visage.
Scarlet's eyes softened. "She's going to starve if we leave her."
"She'll starve out there, too!" Terrence shouted, pointing towards the miles of piercing snowstorm. "There's no store open for miles! It's the damn apocalypse out here, that's what it is! And I don't wanna be cleanin' up dog-shit every few hours cause this thing can't hold it in."
Rachel slapped his shoulder and said, "Behave, wouldja?! The trip's not even started and you're already whining. We're bringing the dog and that's all there is to it. Don't like it? Stay at home and I'll drive them—we're doin' this for little Abigail."
"Oh, I would, Rachel." He laughed. "But I'm not lettin' you drive my SUV through eighty-five miles of piss weather, ya hear? It's too damn expensive to be in the hands of a woman. It's a man's vehicle."
"Oh, shut it, Sergeant Pepper. We both know you couldn't drive a boat through water. You can drive me mad, that's about it. Now you apologise to the both of them before I tell them about the time you woke up silly in the ni—"
"ALL RIGHT!" he said, extending the vowels. "I'm fuckin' sorry. The dog can come. Now can we get movin'? I'm gonna freeze my ass off if we stand here any longer."
They left for the road north no more than a minute later. Inside the vehicle, it was warm and cosy and a little friendly; a smell of wildflowers—lavender sprigs, garden roses, jasmine, everything under the sun—bathed the interior of the SUV. Scarlet was sitting at the back listening to music on her phone through miniature earphones—pink ones that Michael had bought for her on her twentieth birthday. That was a lovely day—they'd spent most of it motor karting and watching movies like a couple of kids. After all, that was how Scarlet saw herself—a woman with a more than manageable amount of immature traits, for the average person at least. There were times where she had to filter herself appropriately—mainly when she was applying for jobs or went out in public areas, such as parks. She and Mike used to go to a local park by their accommodation—a nice quiet place by the River Hera, taking in the fresh air of the college campus which extended farther than she could comfortably walk in one go.
This memory came back to her as they left Frostford. She knew by the sight of a metal sign in the distance—one that proclaimed ?????????—??? ??????? ????? ?? ????? between its squares—that they were on the right track. She caught a glimpse of more vehicles heading north, struggling through the snow with all the strength their wheels could muster. On the way Terrence was asking Vanessa all sorts of questions about this woman in Archer's Creek, firing them one after another like shells out of a mortar. And she did her best to answer each one. Though Scarlet didn't think they were necessary—besides a few, which couldn't be answered. The first posed the idea that there was no certainty surrounding Abigail Senior's whereabouts. The second suggested that Abigail could have been lying, or at the very least misinformed. Scarlet found that difficult to swallow. Yes, she was a child, but surely she wouldn't lie about such a thing if her father died. That seemed very unusual even for an eight-year-old. The last wasn't so much a question as it was a theory: Abigail Senior was a bad mother. Why else would she not have taken custody of her child? And Vanessa had to admit that that was strange—very strange indeed. But despite it, she was Abigail's mother—the closest thing to a guardian. They could look for her grandparents but that would probably take much longer than just driving her up to Northwood Bay and leaving her there.
Terrence kept going on about all the problems with the trip and was eventually stopped by an interjection from Rachel, who by the face she gave—one full of contempt—had enough of his shit. Scarlet wasn't unfamiliar with situations like this, where couples seemed to utterly despise one another. Her father and mother used to fight all the time, not too long before he was diagnosed. After that they seemed more quiet than usual; and Vanessa, depressed for weeks on end, acted as if Tommy had betrayed her. But of course he didn't—that was obvious. She also hated herself for not noticing it sooner—but how could she? It wasn't like she was a doctor with years of experience and knowledge in the field; she could hardly tell the difference between a dry cough and the flu.
The snow didn't let up for a full two hours and a half. And Scarlet's eyes fixed on the speedometer needle, which was slowing down with every sign they passed, dropping from an average of twenty miles an hour to a modest ten to a timid five. The engine seemed to be giving out. "We're runnin' low on gas," Terrence confided.
"I thought you refueled before we left?" Rachel said. She let out a sigh of frustration as if she'd been holding it like a bad fart.
"Well, it's not like I can go out and restock the fuel-pump, woman. The shits are closed the whole way round; and I also forgot. I don't check this shit religiously. And you were the last one driving this. Why didn't you refuel? Exactly. You couldn't."
Rachel's silence was loud as her anger seemed to bottle up and struggle to find its way out. She said nothing the next few moments.
Scarlet wondered why and then realised a building was emerging in the distance—a few buildings, actually. They were noticeably short and had red-brick exteriors, some vans at the front—except for one, which had a—
"Police car!" Vanessa said.
The lights on the vehicle were completely dim, but as they drew closer, Scarlet examined it more thoroughly. The doors were open, along with the trunk which seemed to have contents that spilt out into the snow like a pool of black paint. The SUV wound up in a smooth motion before stopping, a screech escaping the tires.
"'Bout goddamn time an officer came around." Terrence locked the SUV in place before popping the driver-side door open with a grunt. After which Rachel, Scarlet, and Vanessa joined him, but Vanessa told Abigail to wait inside with Darla and to not let the warmth seep out.
Scarlet's feet landed in the snow with a crunch. She had assumed that she would sink more deeply into the snow—surely it would be thicker by now—but was pleasantly surprised when her shins barely dipped beneath the frost. It was still cold and achy and discomfiting, but manageable. The sort of manageable that fathers put up with when their children nagged at them for a period of twenty minutes—that was the limit—and then they'd scream until they kept their traps shut. That hardly ever worked with Scarlet as a kid, mostly due to the fact that her father wasn't much of a yeller as he was a shusher.
She trod through the snow until tapering off on the road's shoulder, where a lamppost stood erect. She was wearing the same coat from the day Abigail joined the household, with new additions such as the blue beanie Mike had given her last August and a pair of cotton gloves. In spite of her wear, it was still—abso-fucking-lutely—freezing. Looking up to take a breath of fresh air, the sky was a brisk white colour, not a patch of blue in sight. It painted the buildings below in a soft greyish hue, shadowing off every square inch they had to offer.
But as she examined the buildings further, she concluded that they weren't police stations—nor was there one among all of them. They looked like suburban convenience stores; that must have meant that houses weren't too far away.
It took a full minute to make it to the other side of the road. When they made it to the police car, Scarlet saw it was empty.
Hugging herself in the cold, Vanessa yelled: "There's no one here!" The wind made it a challenge to hear her, but Scarlet understood every word.
"Maybe they just went inside!" Scarlet shouted, shivering intensely. "It's fuc—it's freezing out here! Can we check inside?!"
"Good idea!" Terrence said, though Scarlet couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not. She received her answer when he dutifully led the way up to one of the buildings. The path was far off, disclosing an alleyway that seemed to elongate into white mist, lined with signposts sticking out from the walls. They were impossible to read, but beneath them lay striped awnings sitting above the entranceways. A little Little Italy—how funny, thought Scarlet humorously.
Eventually, they came crunching to a stop. One of the buildings had a broken window and it made Scarlet feel a tad bit anxious. She was like a woman hiding around every corner in wait of a long-tongued alien from outer space, one that would gobble her up if she were to so much as make a sound. She didn't realise she was holding her breath till Vanessa patted her shoulder and asked, "You okay, sweetheart? You look stiff." She said it with strain.
Despite the howling winds, Scarlet could understand her soft voice clearly. And she pondered the question through a million different lenses, had been pondering it since Johnathon was shot. "Yeah, I'm fine, thanks. It's just so (fucking) cold, is all." She shivered some more. Every breath she took dispensed a tiny fog that dissipated into the wind.
"Well—" Vanessa began.
"Anyone in there?!" Terrence yelled before lunging his right leg forward and hoisting himself inside.
Vanessa shook her head and went in after him, then Rachel, then Scarlet.
The inside wasn't much warmer than the outside, but it was many shades darker. Everything was bathed in an ever-dimming shadow that kept dimming the farther in they walked. It gave Scarlet a strange feeling that she hadn't felt before, as though her life force had dwindled to a flicker and all her energy had been sucked out of her by a sexy succubus. Her eyes dilated and grew heavy. Around her were empty shelves and heavily damaged furniture: oak-wood chairs, a till that had no register to boast about, and paintings of random creatures: deer, bears, crocodiles—lots of things. They did very little—if anything—to put her mind at ease, but they did lead to a backdoor. Terrence opened it slowly and after a couple seconds recoiled, straightened his posture, and put his hands up.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Terrence said, and started backing up.
Scarlet looked in front of him and gasped. A man wearing a gas-mask and police outfit was aiming a shotgun at them, lying down against a wall, and coughing like crazy. A beam of grey light shone in through the windowpanes, giving light to the rest of the building.
"Who are you people?" the man asked. And he sure didn't look too happy—or well, for that matter.
