Jacob's Odyssey (The Berne Project Book 1) (12 page)

As far as the Josephsons' departure was concerned, the only thing I could be certain of was that they had left in her car. Maybe someone in the family had gotten sick and the elderly Josephsons had gone to help. Who knows? What kept coming back to me was how well prepared they were for an apocalyptic event, yet they somehow seemed to have been swallowed up by it. They could have easily held on for six months with the stores of food and water in the garage, but they'd left it all behind and disappeared without leaving a trace.

I wondered what kind of apocalypse the Josephsons were preparing themselves for. Maybe they expected a global financial meltdown or a government shutdown. Both seemed plausible. Or perhaps like so many others, the Josephsons had envisioned some kind of biblical apocalypse. Religious apocalypses certainly had their share of dedicated followers. I'd never really given much thought to apocalyptic myth. The rationale for religious apocalypses always seemed to be entangled with a belief in God's retribution for humanity's sinful nature. I just didn't grasp the logic of the concept, nor did I want to. I had enough difficulty navigating my way through this life without worrying about an ever-impending apocalypse. I had always viewed it as a kind of mass hysteria brought on by religious fervor. But what did I know? Because here it was, a vicious apocalypse unleashed upon a flawed humanity. But God's retribution? I didn't buy that for a minute. Human beings were responsible for this fratricidal insanity, as they always were.

The basement felt pleasantly cool and the paranoia I'd experienced over the Swimmer had all but evaporated. I felt relieved and confident. I had memorized the route and familiarized myself with the surrounding neighborhoods. I'd even picked an alternate route in case I ran into any problems. I would leave nothing to chance. I would get up early and give myself an extra hour to travel the ten blocks to the underpass. I believed I could make it to the area of the underpass in three hours or so. It would depend on how often and how long I had to wait for any streets to be clear of the infected before I could cross. Normally, I didn't like spending more than about two hours traveling on a given day. I liked to remain fresh and save my energy, just in case. Tomorrow I would leave at first light, long before the morning sun crested the mountains. Whenever I planned things out with precision and detail, I always felt better. I had been a planner for as long as I could remember. And I knew the genesis of my obsession—my childhood.

My mother reveled in unbridled spontaneity and as a result Alex and I had precious little stability in our lives. Our mother drifted through relationships and jobs and she could never be relied upon to get us anywhere on time. We'd be late for school, miss dental appointments, and Alex would be late for football practice. It didn't matter what it was, we'd always be late or we'd miss it altogether. And I would always fret about it. But all that came to an end when I purchased my first car, a well-traveled 1992 Toyota Corolla. It was essentially an antique but very reliable. And it allowed me to take control. I would drive Alex and myself everywhere we needed to go, and I made sure we were always on time. Our mother was fine with me doing the driving because it meant she didn't have to drive. I loved getting us places on time and it wasn't long before I became addicted to punctuality. Over the years, I became a skilled planner and organizer. It all seemed so natural. And even though I was perfectly aware that my obsessive need for fastidiousness in my life was a result of my relationship with my mother, I never blamed her. I was grateful more than anything. Being a fanatic planner had worked out quite well for me. It had made my life easier.

It was evening and I was already feeling tired. I had led myself on an emotional roller coaster ride throughout the afternoon and it had worn me out. I could have easily drifted off to sleep, but I didn't want to go to sleep too early. At least that's what I told myself, and it made perfect sense. Staying awake another hour or so would be best. But even as I thought about staying awake a while longer, I could feel my resolve waning. I set the iPad down on the floor and let gravity have its way with my eyelids. They fluttered dreamily for a few seconds before drifting all the way down. And then I let the velvety darkness sweep over me.

I woke with a start but not all the way, my mind and body still hibernating in a state of slumber, pleasantly numb as if I were just coming out of anesthesia. I had been sleeping deeply, drifting peacefully in a nebulous haze and feeling pretty wonderful. And while I was aware of a vague memory of a shrill sound, the sound had faded so quickly, it was as if it had never existed. And a compliant part of my mind reasoned that the sound wasn't real and never had been—nothing more than an illusory dream fragment. Relieved, I let myself sink back into the soothing darkness. But then the shrill sound returned, unrelentingly insistent upon being heard.

This time I woke in a panic. I looked across the room in the general direction of where I believed the sound had come from. The room was immersed in long shadows cast from the glowing nightlight plugged into an outlet across the room. I realized the importance of finding the source of the sound, and I pestered my groggy mind with its importance. I scanned the room, trying to be as thorough as possible despite the dense fog lingering in my head. And then I located the source of the sound. A landline phone sitting on an end table across the room between two armchairs. I couldn't believe it was there. I had seen it before but never gave it a second thought. And then I remembered that there was another one just like it upstairs in the living room. I stumbled off the couch and lumbered across the room, going as fast as I could while trying to maintain my balance. The phone began to ring again but I picked it up, cutting off the irritating sound as it trailed off into a faint echo.

I stared uncomprehending at the handset cradled in my hand. How could I have been so stupid? I noticed the phones the first day I was here but never grasped the danger associated with them. This was the first time I had heard a phone ring since the first weekend after the attack. I had never expected there to be any more phone calls.

I wondered how long it would be before the infected arrived. They had to have heard the high-pitched ringing.

I could hear a faint whisper coming from the handset. I raised it up to my ear and heard a woman's voice, "...is that you, grandfather?"

It was a bit strange to hear the voice of another human being. I found it exciting and annoying at the same time. I was tempted to say hello, but I was too embarrassed. How could I possibly explain what I was doing at her grandparents' home? A part of me knew I wouldn't have to explain if I just hung the phone up and disconnected the line.

"Are you there, grandfather? Grandma?" she whispered quietly. "It's Sarah. We could... um... we could really use your help." There was a note of forced supplication in her voice. She was struggling to ask for help.

And then I heard a young girl's excited voice in the background. "Are they there, mom? Are they there?"

I assumed they were in trouble. One thing was clear—the woman hadn't wanted to make the call. And I couldn't help but wonder why she would be so hesitant to ask for help from her own grandparents. And before I knew what I was doing, before I could stop myself, I heard a familiar voice saying, "They're not here."

The other end of the line fell silent for several seconds. Then I heard her voice again, no more than a soft whisper. "Who are you? What are you doing there? Where are my grandparents?"

I certainly didn't want to explain who I was or what I was doing in her grandparent's home, but I had to say something. "I needed a place to stay for the night..." I told her, as if it adequately explained my presence in her grandparents' home. But I knew it wasn't enough. And then I said the only thing I could think of to finish off the sentence, "...and I could tell no one was home."

"Where are my grandparents?" she asked.

"I don't know," I whispered. And then I tried to reassure her. "The house looks fine. Everything's in its place. Nothing's been disturbed. It doesn't look like anything happened here." I was nervous and rambling incoherently, not making a lot of sense.

She didn't say anything, and then I went on, unable to stop myself. "There's just one car in the garage. It's a Cadillac. If they had two cars, they must have left in the other car." Then I tried to make her feel better. "They might still be okay," I said.

I knew I needed to stop talking.

The line was silent. I didn't have any idea what she was thinking. Then she suddenly asked, "Is there still food storage in the garage?"

"Yes. There's plenty of food and water."

"We need food," she said, matter-of-factly. And she said it as if I were somehow responsible for providing them with food. And while I was sure she was trying her best to mask it, I sensed an underlying desperation in her voice.

"If you're not too far away," I told her. "Maybe you could find your way here. You could travel through backyards. That's how I travel. I'm going to leave in the morning. I could leave the back door unlocked for you."

She paused for several more seconds, and then she said, "We live too far away."

I wasn't sure what she thought I could do for her, and I was starting to get concerned. The infected had to have heard the phone ringing. I imagined them somewhere nearby searching for the source of the sound. It was only a matter of time before they showed up. I knew I had to get upstairs to see if they were coming. I might have to leave at any moment.

"We're out of food," she whispered urgently. "We really need some food. Can you help us?"

I wasn't sure what she had in mind or how she thought I could help them. It wasn't as if they lived next door and I could take food to them. Sure, I wanted to help her, help them, but I was ever so close to getting out of the valley—two days away at most. I realized I should have been feeling some kind of moral imperative to help them, but I was hesitant and felt conflicted, and I vacillated between feelings of compassion and a nagging visceral fear.

I felt compelled to say something, anything. "Where do you live?" I asked her.

"We live at 2885 East Craig Drive," she said, sounding hopeful. "It's around two miles or so from my grandparents' home."

"Craig Drive?"

"It's about 3600 South," she said.

I did some mental calculations and determined they were about nineteen blocks from the Josephsons'. Not that far away. But it would still take at least two days, most likely three to reach them.

I shared my calculations with her, hoping she would see the need for a better option. "I don't know," I said, a hint of doubt in my voice. "Could take me three days to get there."

"We can't wait that long," she said, no longer whispering or trying to hide the desperation in her voice. "We haven't eaten in two days. You could be here in ten minutes if you drove. You could put some food in the Cadillac. All you'd have to do is find the key fob. We need your help. Could you please help us?"

She was determined and insistent, and I felt pressured. A part of me wanted to hang up, but for whatever reason, I couldn't. And then I wondered if my hesitancy had to do with Alex.

But even if I helped them, driving around the valley was an insane idea. And if it were so easy to drive around the valley, she could have driven here herself anytime. Then I came up with what I thought was a reasonable alternative. "Maybe you could find a neighbor to help you," I suggested.

"What? A neighbor?" she asked, incredulously. "You expect me to go around the neighborhood knocking on doors? Even if I could, what makes you think they'd have extra food?"

She was right of course. It wasn't a realistic solution. Just a feeble attempt on my part to find a way to help her that didn't involve me. I gave up on the idea. She wasn't going for it anyway. And then it occurred to me that Alex wouldn't have hesitated for a moment. He likely would have driven straight to their home to bring them food, infected be damned. And he would have done it without blinking an eye. But I wasn't Alex.

A wave of exhaustion swept over me, hitting me like a rogue tidal wave. Its heaviness overwhelmed me and I felt incredibly fatigued. I had a sudden, desperate need to get off the phone and end the conversation. I found talking to her to be exhausting. And that's when I told her what she wanted to hear, or at least as close as I could come to telling her what she wanted to hear. "I'll come tomorrow," I told her. "Late afternoon. I'll find you some food then. But I can't drive. If I tried driving, I'd never make it. There's too many infected out there."

I didn't know to what extent I was being honest with her. I'd essentially told her what she wanted to hear so I could get her off the phone. And while I did want to help them, getting there tomorrow afternoon was a pipe dream. And I couldn't figure out why I'd told her I could be there tomorrow.

She didn't answer right away as if she were mulling over her options. But she didn't really have any. Then she said, "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"It's all right," I told her.

"My name's Sarah," she said, suddenly as friendly and cordial as a Jehovah's Witness. "Sarah Josephson. My daughter's name is Becky. Rebecca. But she doesn't like being called Rebecca."

It appeared we were fast friends now. I thought it odd they both had biblical names. Coincidental too. My mother had named me Jacob. Jacob was the father of the twelve tribes of Israel. A pretty prominent guy in Old Testament days, renowned as a bit of a schemer. Robbed his brother of his birthright, something like that. His name translated means, "he deceives." And while I was no relation to the biblical Jacob, it occurred to me that I was deceiving Sarah with my promise to come to their home tomorrow and bring them food. Of course, my mother didn't name me after the Jacob of Old Testament fame. She named me after one of her high school boyfriends.

"I'm Jake," I finally told her, reluctantly letting go of my anonymity, though I didn't share my last name with her. "We should probably hang up now," I said. "And just so you know, I'm going to unplug the phones after I hang up. It's nothing to worry about. I'll see you and your daughter tomorrow."

"Oh, okay," she said, not really sounding as if it were okay. But what else could she say?

"Goodbye," I whispered. And then I hung up.

I unplugged the phone. Something I should have done the day I arrived. I wouldn't make that mistake again. If there were any good news, it was that I still hadn't heard any sounds out of the ordinary. Nothing at all. I stood quietly for a couple minutes next to the table, head bent in concentration, listening intently. The air conditioning had gone off some time ago and the house was remarkably quiet, almost coffin-like. I could hear the faint distant hum of the refrigerator upstairs along with the thin whisper of my own breath. But nothing else.

I felt utterly gassed from a long tedious day of anxiety, most of it of my own making. A little paranoia can do that for you. And then came the phone call. Though the phone call couldn't have lasted more than five minutes, it seemed interminably long. It sapped what was left of my energy. But I knew no matter how fatigued I might feel now, I couldn't give in to my exhaustion.

I moved quickly across the room. My eyes had adjusted to the shadowy darkness and the soft amber glow from the nightlight gave off enough light for me to see okay. I picked my iPad up off the floor and checked for the time. I was surprised to find it was only 9:30. I'd actually thought I'd been sleeping for hours. Turns out I'd been asleep for less than an hour. I turned the iPad off and packed everything tightly into my backpack as if I were leaving in the next five minutes, which was certainly a possibility.

I slipped my arms through the backpack straps and adjusted them as I always did for a snug fit, then buckled the front. I headed upstairs, using the guard rail to help propel myself up the stairs two steps at a time. I found taking the steps two at a time lessened the chance of making the stairs creak. It seemed whenever I took the stairs one step at a time, being as cautious as possible, I'd always end up making the wood stairs groan.

When I reached the top of the stairs, I opened the door quietly and moved into the hallway connecting the kitchen to the living room. The garage door was down the hallway to my left. The main floor wasn't as dark as I thought it would be. A diagonal shaft of moonlight spilled through the kitchen window and lit up the hallway floor all the way to the living room entrance.

I went into the kitchen first and unlocked the back door, then opened it a crack. I wasn't worried about them coming in the back door. If they came, it would be a frontal assault. And I'd be gone in a heartbeat out the back. But I didn't want the infected to hear me open or close the back door. It would be best if they believed their meal was still in the house.

The living room was much darker than the kitchen and hallway, but I could still see well enough in the semi-darkness. It was dark enough that I doubted the infected would be able to spot me from outside. But I wouldn't take any chances. The first thing I did was to disconnect the second phone. The phone sat innocent as could be on a mahogany end table next to the couch. Same place it was at when I first arrived at the Josephsons'. I was amazed at my lack of foresight with the landline phones. It never occurred to me that there would be any need to disconnect them. I never saw the danger.

Because the Josephsons' home had no upstairs level, the front picture window would have to serve as my lookout. I cursed myself for breaking one of my cardinal rules. The picture window wouldn't afford me as comprehensive a view as the windows to an upstairs level would have. But all I could think of the day I arrived was to get inside and get away from the Swimmer. I had convinced myself I'd be okay without the upstairs level just this one time.