Storm (22 page)

I sit on the table, shuddering with geological-sized sobs. Brother-brat beloved Dan sits on the kitchen counter. The woman that was with my dad (it is not Dan's mom) has left us to it. My dad is sitting in a chair, but back to front—so he's got something to lean on, I suppose. He has his arms resting on it, his chin resting on them. Still he manages to talk, quietly. He stops every time a sob goes juddering through me; then he carries on. The Princess sits on a chair the normal way around, stuffing herself with more cookies from the pile of food Dan's put in front of her.

After the first rain fell, my dad went looking for Dan and Kara. He found only Dan. Kara had died on the very first night; my brother had survived because he had been at his mate's, indoors, on the Xbox. Then they came to get me. They got to Dartbridge, wrote the message on the wall. They went to look for Grandma. Grandma wasn't there. They came back for me. They were
coming back for me
when they got stopped at an army checkpoint. They didn't run like I did; they went to a base. Not Salisbury, one in the Midlands. It seemed like the sensible thing to do. They asked if I was there. The army “checked” their Apocalypse Lite computer system. They got told I was dead.

A massive sob shakes through my body.

“Ruby…” my dad says.

He gets up off his chair, takes me down from the table like I'm a baby. Scrapes up another chair and plonks me on it. He sits back down, close to me. He strokes my hair. Dabs a dish towel at my tears.

“You wanna see my room?” I hear Dan ask the Princess, sliding off the kitchen counter.

Incredibly, she goes with him.

My dad waits a moment. Waits for me to calm down. I cannot take my eyes off him; if I look away, he might disappear.

“They told us you'd been reported dead. They told us everyone was dead.”

“They lie. They tell terrible lies. They're terrible people.”

“Hush,” he says, and he leans and puts his arms around me. “You're safe now.”

My daddy. I'm with my daddy. The dream I dreamed, the wish I wished. It's come true.

“You're safe now. You're with us. Ru! You smell like a bonfire!” He laughs.

His arms fall away from me; his hand reaches out—and takes the hand of the woman I had been in too much of an emotional meltdown to be introduced to. My dad draws the woman to him; his arm scoops round her waist.

“Ruby,” my dad says. “This is Tilly.”

He beams up at her. She's younger than him. By, like, about a million miles. She smiles an awkward smile at me. I decide two things: (1) that smile doesn't fool me; she looks like a total
; and (2) I have been here before.

My dad has a long history of inappropriate girlfriends—or “floozies” as I heard my mom tell my auntie Kate. Whatever-her-name-is is just the latest chapter in that history. My dad isn't looking at me anymore; he's gazing up all dewy-eyed at what's-her-name. I've seen that look before. My dad is in love.

Any doubts about whether this horrific turn of events could actually be true are totally erased over the food my dad serves up, calling it lunch when it's got to be nearly the end of the afternoon already. My dad is in Sunday supplement mode, when he'd attempt glossy, try-once, never-again recipes with nice pictures and fail, but it's worse than it ever was because now he's totally improvising, trying to turn canned items and dried stuff into gourmet dishes. The results are as horrible as ever. The dried sausage is OK, if a little chewy, if you scrape the beans and garlic-paste tomato sauce off it. My dad doesn't seem to have noticed I am no longer a vegetarian. Dan does.

“So how come you're eating meat?” he pipes up.

I roll my eyes at him. “Because,” I say.

Because the world is in meltdown and I got hungry, and the stuff that used to seem to matter doesn't seem to matter anymore: that's what I want to say, but I feel like I can't…because my dad isn't just in weekend-chef mode; he's in lurve. Know what that means? It's the same every time there's a new girlfriend; me and Dan get introduced, then my dad chatters on so much no one actually gets to speak to anyone else. We don't usually mind because they don't usually last all that long (though if the rain doesn't get her, Tilly might be around for a bit, under the circumstances). In any case, today I'm so tired and frayed, I'm as silent as the Princess. Dan's pretty quiet too, and Tilly seems happy to just let my dad run on. So he does.

The upshot is that, basically, my dad is loving the apocalypse. He doesn't have to go to work anymore—he hated his job—and all the things he's gone on about doing if only he didn't have to do the job he hated, he can now do. This house
is
only temporary; he's on the hunt for a bigger (For why? I glance at Tilly: Is she pregnant?! Are there going to be more of us?!) and better place, where he can do all that solar-power stuff, where he can grow biofuel, and vegetables, hydroponically (I don't even know what that means).

He doesn't stop for a second, telling us how marvelous it's going to be.

I don't get it. Like…everything's for free now, isn't it? Like…who cares about how much gas or whatever you burn? There's so few people left, all that stuff he's going on about, what does it matter now? I don't say anything about that. I don't even say, “Yeah, but what about when the water runs out?” I just smile a little and try to pull myself together. Or at least not to lose it again.

As my dad clears away our plates, I tell him the food was lovely. I've said that so many times before—“That was lovely, Dad!”—it's our joke, from before Dan was old enough to get it. I don't even know how old I was the first time I said it—but he'd laughed, and we'd laughed about it so many times since. He's OK about stuff like that, my dad; he knows he's a terrible cook, but he never stops trying. He always thinks the next dish will turn out better. Today, he doesn't even seem to notice that I've said it.

I'm thinking how I'm really going to have to excuse myself from whatever Dad's got planned next—my head hurts and I want to lie down—but what Dad has planned next most certainly doesn't involve us anyway.

“I could do with a nap,” he says, yawning and giving Tilly yet another hug.

Yeurch.
They're going to go and do sex, aren't they?
Thinking that, I sound about eight years old, even to myself. I look away from the horrible sight of my dad going all smooch gooey—and catch Dan's eye for a nanosecond. I deduce, instantly, that he doesn't like it any more than I do. My brother-brat and I, we need to talk.

They smooch off.

I have—literally—walked through fire to get to him. And he smooches off.

There's just us kids left in the kitchen. It is all somewhat weird.

“We'd better go out for a while,” says Dan gloomily, as he pulls a sex-is-disgusting face.

I pull a face back. Yeurch. The thought of my dad doing it
is
revolting.

“I could show you my stuff,” the Danster says, doing excited “secret stuff” eyes.

It's going to make him happy, I can see that. I do also think how Dan is just like my dad. You can tell he's desperate to show us things, and I already know I'm going to have to listen to him go on about them. But he's a kid, still, isn't he? And isn't that what every kid wants? Someone to take an interest in their stuff?

We traipse outside after him.

There is a massive, crumpled heap of plastic right outside the house. Dan has got his very own bouncy castle. I'm not quite sure where this fits in with my dad's vision of our lovely eco future…and it certainly doesn't fit in with Dan's now.

“
A bouncy castle?
!
” I laugh at him.

“Dad got it,” Dan mutters and shoots me a weary look.

My dad isn't always exactly the best at, um, knowing what is
age-appropriate
for us. Sometimes it's a total disaster (I got a pink bike with tassels on the handles for my twelfth birthday); sometimes it works out really well for us because it means you get stuff other kids can only dream of. Dan got to go deep-sea fishing (in a storm) when he was seven (there was a Kara storm when she found out); and me, I've had tons of stuff—a laptop that was nearly as big as me (I spilled cola into it about ten minutes after I got it) and the gift that has turned out to be most excellent of all: my dad let me have a go at driving the car when I was thirteen.

“They're mine too,” Dan says, pointing at the paddock, showing off. “Thunder and Lightning.”

You don't have to be some kind of genius—as I am—to work out that Thunder must be the little black pony and Lightning must be the little white one. They don't look stormy at all; they look fat and lazy—and mean. The Princess is entranced, heads straight for them.

“You don't touch them!” I yell after her.

Dan, on a showing-off mission, takes a step after her. I take a step after him and grab his arm. Brother-brat turns to face me. So…before I even ask one single question, I detect a thing—and then realize a thing. The thing I detect is…my brother-brat has become a teen. It's not just that he's grown—like loads!—or that I feel muscle in his puny arm. It's that…

“Dan!” I say, and I grab him in a hug. He's gone awkward. He's embarrassed. He doesn't one hundred percent want to be hugged. The thing I realize is…

“I missed your birthday!” I squawk, as I let him go.

It's such a stupid thing to say, really. What? Was the whole apocalypse thing going to pause so I could go find my brother and wish him a happy birthday and then get on with the whole survival thing?

“Happy birthday!” I squawk. “Happy thirteenth!”

Dan shells out a kind-of smile. A “thank you, but don't go on about it” smile. “It's good to see you, Ru,” he says.

Whoa! Mr. Grown-up and Sophisticated!
It's good to see
you
?!

“Yeah!” I say—and I do what I dreamed I would one day get to do again: I ruffle his hair.

Oh my
! He'd always pretend he didn't like that, but he did really—and now…

“Gerroff,” he says. Not too nastily, but…he means it.

He's a teenager! So that must mean, does it, that I can talk to him like a teenager?

“So how long has all that been going on?!” I ask him, rolling my eyes in the direction of the house.

“I don't know,” he says, kicking the grass. “I don't really care.”

He's a teenager! My brother-brat's a teenager! I want to hug him all over again and tell him that I get it and—oh, I have this terrible thought:

“I'm sorry about your mom,” I tell him. I see him crumple into himself. “I'm so sorry.”

“Yeah,” Dan says, and kicks the ground harder.

“You know my mom died too…”

It hurts so much, I can't look at him. I look at the Princess.

“YOU DO NOT TOUCH THOSE HORSES!” I screech at her.

Dan's “tour” doesn't get better. It gets worse, so much worse. My Xbox-loving brother has picked a fine time to discover outdoor pursuits. The ponies are bad enough; he's got a quad bike—no helmet!—and he's built himself his own assault course. He's doing us a demo on that, the Princess attempting to follow, when I see what he's about to dive in to…sloshing around inside the tire hanging from the tree, I see rainwater. A dark, deathly puddle of it, cradled, waiting. Sight of it—I've been getting madder and madder—I grab hold of my brother. Hard.

“NO! NO! NO!” I shriek. “That's enough, Dan! Are you crazy?! Look!”

I shove his head so he sees what lurks.

“I'm telling Dad!”

“
off!” says Dan.

He's never, ever said that to me before. We call each other all sorts of names, say all kinds of terrible things—but that? Never.

I see kid terror on his face—and teen defiance.

And what I feel is…stuff that lay deep in the earthquake fault, raging and clawing to get out. What I feel is
angry with my
dad
.

“I so am,” I inform him. I march off.

“Don't care!” Dan shouts.

My dad… It's hard to imagine him getting worked up about anything, but the brother-brat has kid fear that he might.

“If you tell him, I won't even show you my other stuff!” Dan shouts after me.

He's desperate now, I can tell. I hesitate—not because I want to see the Danster's “other stuff,” but because I hear his desperation. I turn around.

“What other stuff?” I say. My hands… Are they on my hips? They're on my hips. “What stuff, Dan?”

My hands are clenched into fists by the time Dan has finished showing me and the Princess his “other stuff.”

In a cottage down the road, my brother has his own petting zoo. There are creatures in cages, but most are free-range. Rabbits and guinea pigs hop and scuttle around what was someone's front room. A gerbil stands alert on the top of the sofa…

“Moses!” my brother shrieks, hopping through creatures to get to him.

The Princess, eyes saucer wide, joins in the futile recapture attempt.

A friendly rabbit hops up to me.

“Dan! Have you been touching these animals?!”

“Yes!” says Dan, fishing around under the sofa.

I hear the unspoken “Dur!”

“It's fine! They're all from pet shops and people's houses and stuff!”

They better be OK; my brother and the Princess are lying on pet poo and pee to try to reach Moses. Seems like my brother is about as keen on cleaning up after pets as I was.

“It stinks in here, Dan!”

“Yeah…” he says.

I hear guilt—and irritation.

I pick the rabbit up—too cute!—and take a tour of the room, petting the bunny. Dan's dragged the dining-room table in and set up a vast hamster city on top of it. (Guilt attack about Fluffysnuggles, the abandoned hamster.)

“I don't think you're meant to keep hamsters together, Dan.”

“Mmm…no. They fight sometimes.”

They're also doing other things; weensy batches of hamster babies huddle together. Thought crosses my mind:

“Does Dad know about this?”

Dan sits up and shakes his head solemnly at me, studying my face. Am I going to split or not?

“He ate a rabbit, Ru. It was someone's pet.”

I stroke the bunny in my arms.

“Wow, Dad killed a thing?”

“Uh-huh,” Dan says, watching me closely. “He looked like he was going to faint or be sick or something,” the brother-brat informs me. “He broke its neck. Like…”

The Danster does a twisty thing, complete with sound effect.

“Euwww,” I gasp, not just because the thought of that happening to a bunny—let alone
my dad
doing that to a bunny—is a truly horrible image, but also because I sense this is what Dan wants. It would have upset him. It must have upset him, to see that—and I feel that he needs to know he was right to be upset.

“It was pretty gross,” Dan says.

“I'll bet.”

“But Dad said we shouldn't get sentimental about it.”

“Suppose not…”

“He said it might be the last fresh meat we ate—you know, until he starts the hydro-whatsit farm and stuff.”

“Ah-huh.”

My brother-brat…he's looking at me so hard. He's looking at me to check…what I think about the hydro-whatsit farm…and about my dad.

I cannot have another earthquake brain split happen here and end up falling down the middle. I have to stay on a side. I'm gonna stay on my dad's side—although obviously I'm gonna have to talk to him about what that side should be like.

“Guess he's right,” I tell Dan, shrugging.

He looks at me, stares at me. I realize we are having the conversation I wanted to have, but not in the way I imagined we'd have it.

“I think we'd be better off if we stuck with those other people,” he says. “You know, Bridget and the others?”

“They're OK, are they?”

“Yeah…” says Dan. “I mean…they sort of seem…kind of
organized
.”

I don't know what to say. And then I do know what to say.

“I'll talk to Dad,” I tell him, nodding.

I have been here for five minutes. I haven't even seen the half of how bad things are, but I already get what my brother is saying.

Dan grins. He's relieved. He's so relieved.

He's such a beloved brat.

“The rabbit tasted pretty good though,” he says, strictly for the purpose of shocking me. He dives back down to rummage for Moses.

“Anyway, you don't need to tell Dad about all this,” he says from under the sofa, “because he's scared of snakes and stuff.”

Snakes?!
Excuse me?

There's a flurry of activity—the Princess grabs Dan; he looks up, and she points under the sideboard.

“Moses is so smart,” Dan tells her. “We'll never get him now.”

But—oh boy—they are going to try; they reposition, totally caught up in the game of gerbil hunting.

“Snakes… Dan…
snakes?
!
”

“Um, yeah…they're in the conservatory,” he says, grabbing a random guinea pig for the Princess. “She can be yours if you like,” he says
magnanimously
(good word: means looking like you're really being kind and generous when it's really no sweat). He hands the guinea pig over. “What do you want to call her?”

“She's not big on names,” I chip in, heading for the conservatory.

It's a fairly terrifying sight: there are tanks with creatures I wouldn't want to touch in a million years…and not even the SAS would go near.

“Dan, there's a
scorpion in here!” I call in disbelief.