The Last Mile Read Online Free Page B

nourishment since the Arrival, and what little she did eat or drink, she did so only because Dan forced her.
    She shook her head. “No. But even if I was, it’s not like we have anything.”
    “We have food.” But even as he said it, he knew it was, if not exactly a lie, a refusal to acknowledge the complete truth. They’d been in need of a grocery run before the Arrival, and since…well, once Dan had made it back to his house, he hadn’t unlocked any of the doors, let alone set foot outside. He doubted any of the stores were open anymore, or ever would be again, but even if they were, he knew he wouldn’t survive long enough to cross his yard, not with that abomination standing out there watching. For the foreseeable future, they’d have to make do with what they had, and that wasn’t much. Some stuff in cans that they couldn’t heat up and a couple liters of diet soda that they couldn’t chill. And once that was gone…How long could a person survive without eating or drinking? A couple weeks without food, but only a few days without water. He planned to ration the soda, but even if they could survive on a drop apiece each day, he knew it wouldn’t last long enough.
    He leaned down and gave Lindsey a kiss on the top of her head. She flinched as his lips touched her hair, but she didn’t pull away, and for that Dan was grateful.
    He stood. “I think I’ll go check on your mother.” He didn’t ask Lindsey if she wanted to come. He didn’t want her to. She hadn’t seen her mother since a few hours after the Arrival, and Dan intended to keep it that way.
    Lindsey didn’t reply, didn’t do anything to acknowledge he’d spoken. He considered telling her not to peek through the blinds, but she rarely left the chair since the Arrival, and he didn’t want to remind her of what was waiting outside. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile but felt more like a grimace. Not that it mattered since she wasn’t looking at him. Then he turned and left the living room, and though the blinds remained closed, he nevertheless felt the cow creature’s unsettling gaze upon him as he walked past the couch.
    They lived in one-story ranch. A nice home, nothing fancy and not huge, but big enough for the three of them. While it was the most house they could afford, they wouldn’t have been happy with anything bigger, for they were a close family and liked spending time near each other. At least, they used to.
    Dan walked down the hall, his nose wrinkling as he passed the closed door of the hallway bathroom. Without running water, they had no way to flush the toilet, and since it wasn’t safe to go outside—or even open a window to dump the contents of a makeshift chamber pot—the stink was starting to build up. He knew he was going to have to do something about the toilet soon, but he didn’t know what. Plus, there was another problem. The filthy toilet was beginning to draw insects. Roaches, Dan figured, though he hadn’t actually seen them. The last time he’d opened the bathroom door, he’d shined a flashlight inside and heard the scuttling of what seemed like hundreds of tiny legs as the scavengers fled the light. Shuddering, he’d kept the flashlight turned on while he pissed, but when he finished, he’d heard a soft ululating sound, as if a multitude of tiny voices was singing. The tone had struck Dan as one of gratitude, as if the singers were thanking him for providing them with more nourishment.
    Dan had rushed out of the bathroom, slammed the door, and hadn’t opened it since. The next time he’d had to urinate, he’d gone out into the garage and pissed in a corner.
    He thrust the thought of the roaches’ singing from his mind—he was getting real good at not thinking about things, especially bad things—and continued down the hall to the master bedroom. This door was shut, too, though it wasn’t locked. Across the hall, the door to Lindsey’s room was open, just as it had been on the day