Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
My parents must be so scared. Dean can’t be right about the world ending. He just can’t be. I refuse to believe we’re on the brink of societal collapse and most everyone I have ever met is going to die this week, or is in the process of dying. The very thought is like worms in my brain.
“What do you normally do?” I pace back and forth. “When you’re not seeing to the caging, feeding, and care of the modern woman?”
This time his grunt is one of mirth. I have amused him again. Go, me.
“I work as a contractor,” he says. “What about you?”
“Online customer service. How old are you?”
“Forty-two.” He finishes wrapping tape around his hands and starts hitting the speed bag. A move that shows the muscles in his arms. “You?”
“Thirty-three. Are you trying to impress me with the boxing display?”
“That depends. Are you impressed?”
“No.”
He just smiles.
There’s a small chance that by friends I actually meant frenemies. It would seem my acting skills are insufficient for anything else.
I wondered what was going on when he reappeared after breakfast having changed out of last night’s abduction outfit (jeans and a tee) into a different tee, a pair of sweatpants, and some jogging shoes. Perchance he would go running, giving me time to make a daring escape. I would have somehow grown the strength to bend iron bars and liberate myself. Just gone Godzilla on the cage. It would have been so great.
I never did like zoos as a child. All of the watching wild animals pace back and forth behind the bars. Having now been on the receiving end of just such a situation, I can confirm it is complete and utter bullshit. Zero stars. Do not recommend. Big jungle cats mauling their keepers makes so much more sense to me now. I am surprised it doesn’t happen more often.
“Did you grow up around here?” I ask, resting my arms on the bars.
“Yeah.”
“I’m from San Francisco originally.”
“You mentioned a mother.” He holds to his rhythm, hitting the bag. His feet move almost as if he’s dancing. “She still down there?”
“Both of my parents are, and my brother lives near them with his partner. We had Christmas together. It was nice.”
The reporting on the TV changes to traffic jams and pileups. Seems people are trying to flee the cities to escape the virus. It’s not a bad idea, but it’s obviously not an original one. Every bridge and expressway exiting a city is now bumper-to-bumper.
“I don’t have any family,” he says without prompting. This must be the getting-to-know-you stage of things. He seems willing to open up when it comes to personal information, if not cage doors.
“Do you have many close friends?” I ask.
He just shrugs. Guess the personal information stage is over already. That was fast.
Someone’s car alarm has been sounding off for about fifteen minutes now. Bizarre how no one has done anything about it. This is generally a nice neighborhood. Helicopters also keep flying overhead. It would seem the skies are busy today.
My hands are shaking again. But I’ve found any time the bars start to press in on me, some nice deep, even breathing calms things down. Having a panic attack isn’t going to help anything. Just hope I can keep it under control.
“There are people I talk to regularly and watch films with or go out to dinner or to a concert or whatever…but I’m okay just doing stuff on my own,” I say. “I guess I’ve always spent time reading or hanging out alone. Baking, crafting, taking a class or going to a museum or something. Sounds like you’re maybe the same. Comfortable with your own company.”
Nothing from him. What’s up with his cheekbones? They’re so angular. And his eyes are this incessant shade of blue. Talk about too much. Pretty people are the worst.
I pick at the paint on the iron bars. It keeps my hands busy. “You know, according to what you said, you don’t actually need me.”
“How do you figure that?”
“The epidemiologists said almost everyone would die,” I say. “There are three hundred million people in this country. So your figure of ninety-nine percent still allows for a few hundred thousand to survive. That’s a lot of people. I guess some will be immune and others are hiding in bunkers or whatever. Prepping has been big for ages. They must be so excited to finally get to eat canned food and live in a hole in the ground.”
“I don’t know.” His hands don’t stop with their smooth rhythm. Thump, thump, thump. “When the alternative is dying miserably from a juiced-up version of the common cold, I would happily eat canned food in a hole.”
“You have a point. But we still don’t know if that’s what’s happening.” I go back to pacing. “Do you think it’s a biological weapon that escaped some secret lab or Mother Nature calling a halt to our bullshit or what?”