Skylight (Arcadium, #2)

By Sarah Gray

Thought Florence and the gang got their happily ever after? Think again.
Florence West and her new family have found safety in the hills, but the infection rages on. And when the virus takes one of her group, Florence will find out just how far she'll go to survive. Can they hold on to their sanctuary or will they have to let it go?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sarah Gray
• Release date: Jul 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310454615

Sarah Gray

Sarah Gray is assistant professor of English at Langston University. Along with Shiloh Carroll and Michael R. Howard II, she organized the conference "Catwoman to Katniss: Villainesses and Heroines in Science Fiction."

Book preview

Skylight

(Arcadium, #2)

by

Sarah Gray

Smashwords Edition 1

Copyright 2014 Sarah Gray. All rights reserved.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, and may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book please purchase a copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and events are either the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

For more information please visit

http://sarahjacinda.wordpress.com

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

Thanks

About The Author

Wildfire

Connect With Sarah

Open your curtains, let the light in.

Open your window, breath in the fresh air.

Today, my darling, is a beautiful day.

— Mrs Kinley

Chapter 1

I SIT NEAR the edge of our wide wooden balcony, listening to the early morning birds. They twitter and gossip brightly, darting from branch to branch, switching from tree to tree. Some chitchat with others, some just sing on their own. Watching them makes me feel like we’re not so alone out here. Like maybe we’re not the last people left in Melbourne, or Australia, or even the world.

Flo? Liss says, wiggling her bare toes in the sunlight. It’s her whiney question voice.

Mmm? My eyes stay adrift on the sea of trees.

Do they make nail polish out of jellybeans?

I frown at her. She’s cross-legged on the wooden slats, reading the fine print on a small glass bottle. A sharp chemical scent wafts away from us.

I hide in the shade, leaning back against the house wall, legs stretched out. Why do you say that?

It says jellybean on the label. Liss leans forward and holds the bottle of nail polish a few centimetres from my face.

I go cross-eyed, struggling to focus. That’s just the colour, like the name they made up for the colour.

Liss rolls her eyes skyward in thought. Jellybean’s not a colour. It’s a thing.

Tell that to the nail polish makers.

I can’t. They’re all dead. Liss rolls onto her stomach and looks up at me. Can I paint your nails?

Normally I’d say no. She’s a terrible painter, never stays within the lines. A manicure from her always looks like I’ve been in a paintball war. But she knows that the people who made her nail polish are probably dead. My nine-year-old sister knows this and it doesn’t seem to affect her.

Well, I was just thinking my nails were kind of looking boring. I spread my hands out on the decking so Liss can reach them. Most of my fingers are skewed now. I crushed them with my own head when our car hit an infected and then slammed into a pole outside Arcadium. I have no feeling in the tip of my left index and forefinger, or my right thumb. I don’t quite have a full range of motion, my grip is pretty weak and scar tissue has made a few of my joints stiff, but it’s getting better, thanks to a certain Chinese hand massage technique. It doesn’t make me sad to look at them, even though I guess they look sad themselves. I’m just happy that my fingers are still attached to my hands, and that my hands are still attached to my arms and so on.

Before she starts, she takes a few big gulps of water from her favourite cup and wipes her mouth. She smiles, holding the blue glass up. When the sunlight glistens off the diamond pattern it looks like some kind of magical genie bottle. I bet Liss really believes it is too.

Liss lines up four nail-polish bottles and paints each of my nails a different colour. She works with her tongue poking out, like a little puppy dog. Her hair’s long now and her blonde waves are getting a little crazy, so I make a mental note to cut it later. A memory blooms out of nowhere, taking me by surprise: I remember my mother cutting our hair. Liss would never sit still. I’d usually read a magazine to stop myself from getting bored and mum would always tell me to sit up straight and my hair would always end up shorter than planned because me reading would (she said) make her cut wonky. The memory pokes me like a pin. Now that we’ve stopped running and settled in a reasonably safe spot in the hills, all the painful thoughts creep up on me. Reminders of a life not long ago, but so far gone. Moments I’ll never get back. I should have paid more attention. I should have asked my mother how to cut hair. Maybe then Liss wouldn’t look like a yeti.

Henry wheels out, clattering over the metal sliding door base, and spins his wheelchair in a circle. It kind of reminds me of someone walking out and stretching their arms and legs.

She got you too, huh? Henry says when he comes to a stop, grinning and holding his hand up to show off his colourful nails.

I stifle a laugh and Liss tells me off for moving.

Henry stares up at the sky for a while, not saying much of anything. After a while he says, Cool change is coming.

Which is weird because he’s not much older than Liss, yet he sounds like a weathered farmer watching over his crops.

You think? I say.

I know. Because of my legs. It’s like how blind people can hear really well, except instead of walking I’ve got a sixth sense for weather prediction.

I glance at Liss and she giggles.

It’s coming, I tell you. Sweat beads on Henry’s forehead. That cooool change.

I just roll my eyes. I hope it gets here soon because I am certifiably boiling. I mean, I don’t know how the birds aren’t dropping out of the trees from heatstroke.

Try sweating in an old person’s wheel chair all day.

True, I say.

Liss blows on my nails and a few seconds later Trouble strolls out onto the balcony. He smiles and nods, stands with his hands on his hips and breathes in a deep breath of warm forest air. His nails are painted in pastel jellybean colours too and he wears them with pride.

I look away to hide my sad smile. Trouble would have made such a good dad. It’s just sad to think his wife and baby daughter are both dead. But then again, who isn’t dead these days?

Where’s Kean? I ask Henry.

Henry doesn’t even get the chance to reply.

Right here. Kean lingers in the doorway for a moment, a whisper of a secret smile on his lips that’s just for me. He looks out into the trees and sighs. It’s so stuffy inside. There’s nothing to do but hang out on the balcony I guess.

Again, Henry says.

Kean rolls his eyes. Unless you’d like to go out there and play with all the creepies that want to eat you.

Nope. I’m good. Henry slumps back in his wheelchair.

Liss’ face is so close to my nails I wonder how she hasn’t passed out from the fumes yet.

What’s that you’re doing? Kean asks.

Liss doesn’t look up; she’s so absorbed, and just manages to mumble, Painting.

Henry holds up his hands, and a moment later so does Trouble. Kean looks at them, and back at Liss. Well, I’d better make an appointment then. Any space this afternoon?

Liss looks up, happiness lighting her face. I’ll see what I can do.

We spend the rest of the day on the balcony, beneath our cove of shivering trees and sparkling sunlight, just lazing about as the afternoon blends into the evening. Our new home is set on the side of a hill. The backyard is a slope of forest and our balcony is elevated and secure. It’s a two-story property, way out of our league. The bottom level is made of coarse redbrick, and features a double garage, a small oblong of an older white kitchen, a tiny spare bedroom and the open plan dining/living room that leads onto the balcony. The top floor is forest-green weatherboard with three bedrooms all in a row, a bathroom at the end of the open landing and a wooden spiral staircase connecting the two. The doors and trimmings are garishly brown and boring, and the road is about twenty metres from our front door. It’s an unsuspecting house that blends into its surroundings, tucked away behind a few tall conifers. It’s not modern, but it’s as secure as anything. The front ground level windows are boarded up with some workbenches we sacrificed from the garage, and the front door already had a mesh security door on the outside, which makes it pretty darn secure.

Remnants of the owners remain; the plates and cups are country blue, the cutlery is Kmart, half-used bottles of Herbal Essence shampoo sit in the bathroom next to a pile of beige towels and floral patterned curtains hang on the windows. There’s a swing attached to an overhanging tree limb on the balcony. And toys; we have a garage full of Tonka Trucks and Polly Pockets and teddy bears.

Kean and Henry sleep in the bunks in the boy’s room. We guess by the size of the clothes in the sets of drawers that the kids might have been a year or two younger than Henry. Kean has the Batman duvet cover and Henry has the Spiderman one.

Trouble has the smaller girl’s room. Without all the toys it’s pretty plain, with creamy-coloured walls, peach carpet and glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling. The standout feature is the single bed with big painted rainbows at the head and foot. But Trouble doesn’t seem to mind.

Liss and I have the front room, otherwise known as the parent’s room. The walls are covered in peach floral wallpaper; the bed is king-sized with a plain blue duvet cover. A white dressing table cleared of its jewellery and makeup sits against the far wall and wispy lace curtains cover the window.

It took three days to move out the personal belongings that were to strange too keep; all the school reports, family photos, the drawings stuck on the fridge, the underwear and clothes that don’t fit us, the used toothbrushes. They sit in boxes in the dark garage.

After a few scavenging hunts we filled the kitchen with food and water, found new sets of clothing for everyone, and grew a nice collection of board games. But we don’t take much more than that. It feels wrong taking stranger’s belongings just to decorate our house, because then it becomes a graveyard of relics of dead people.

The cool change comes late in the evening, just as it’s starting to get dark, and soon the night sky erupts in beautiful chaos. Liss and Trouble run around opening the first floor windows (not the ground floor ones though, we don’t have a death wish) and a fresh storm breeze billows through the hallway, pushing out the day’s heat. Liss squeals and pulls a terrified face at every bang of thunder, but giggles when the sound dies down.

I swear I could listen to her laugh all day.

Tonight Kean has prepared some chocolate dip in a fondue pot (thanks to the previous owners), one of those things with the bowl on top and a candle underneath to keep the goo warm. We don’t have anything to mix with the chocolate though, to make it stay liquidy, so it keeps forming a crust on top and we have to spoon it out in clumps because it’s too hard to dip things in, but who cares. We make do.

Over time Kean has become the head chef of our house. I guess it’s his way of protecting his family. And really, he’s the best cook. If it were up to me we’d be having chocolate bars and tinned food straight from the cans every night. But not Kean. He’s a food artist.

We sit the fondue pot up against the tall window inside, because we’ve got the door open and the candle keeps threatening to go out if it’s not tucked away. Liss sits cross-legged next to me on the brown carpet, spearing a marshmallow on a fork; Henry’s lying on his stomach watching the storm with awe, his dark hair tussling in the wind; Kean’s fussing over the fondue, stirring it and glancing up when the lightning explodes; and Trouble’s splitting his marshmallows in half and passing us the rest. No one argues with him, even though we’d like to. I guess that’s his way of protecting us too—that and the weapon wielding.

The walls are all exposed redbrick, with just a small window boarded up on either side. The room is dark; we don’t bother using candles unless we need them. I can navigate myself through the house in perfect dark, I know it that well, but half the time we just go to bed when night falls and get up early to make use of the natural light. A storm though, that’s worth staying up for. It’s almost like watching a movie.

We all ooh and ahh and point at the most brilliant flashes even though everyone can see them, and we never seem to get bored. We all slather our marshmallows in half melted chocolate, sporting our roughly painted nails. And moments like this give me some kind of peace because all the clashing and booming in the sky reminds me that there’s still something out there more powerful than this stupid infection.

Chapter 2

THE NEXT DAY is hot, another in a long line of stonking, sweating, heaving, stuffy days. Sometimes I wish summer would just end already but then I wonder how well we’ll do in the winter months, forever stuck indoors trying to escape the wind and cold rain. Will the day come when we annoy each other so much that we can’t stand the sight of one another? It’s not like we can get away and just be alone, not with an apocalypse dragging on around us. We can’t even walk the quiet roads alone. We have four lifetimes worth of tinned food, ample water supplies, and gas bottles abound. It’s not supplies I worry about now, it’s our minds. How long does sanity last under great pressure? What happens if one of us explodes?

Liss, Kean and Henry are in the kitchen making something fruity for dinner while Trouble and I set the table with cutlery and candles. I can tell Liss is busy opening cans because she’s quiet. She’ll be sitting there, her tongue poking out with complete abandon for the world, just twisting the can opener handle. For some strange reason that’s what she loves doing. Opening cans. It doesn’t matter what’s in them or who eats the stuff inside as long as she’s the one to open them.

The thought makes me smile; Liss always makes me smile.

Even after all she’s seen, after all we’ve been through, Liss is still my slightly annoying and oblivious little sister. The apocalypse hasn’t changed her so obviously. But me? I don’t know. I must be a fruitcake now. I’ve seen more human insides than a sixteen-year-old should have to see, more blood and death and destruction. It must take its toll.

I fill each glass from our water jug, and I’m about to pour some in a plain glass for Liss when I remember she’s totally obsessed with the genie bottle glass. Liss, where’s your cup? I call.

I have it, she calls back. I guess it’s almost like a safety blanket now.

Dinner is served, Henry says, putting on a posh voice as he wheels out into the dining room.

The candles sway and spread their orange glow as far as the table edge. Everything beyond that falls to harsh shadow. Faces appear blank until the light grabs at their details.

Trouble claps his hands and rubs them together, eyebrows raised, as the others parade in from the kitchen in single file.

It’s fruit salad! Liss says, walking very slowly and holding a big silver tray with tinned fruit bits set out in circular patterns according to colour.

And flat bread that I still have to get off the barbecue. Kean deposits a jug of water on the table.

I’ll get it, I say, jumping up and heading to the door.

Ooh. I’ll help then. Kean jogs to catch up with me and I hear Liss and Henry giggling quite obviously about us. But who cares.

I step out on the balcony and Kean follows.

Did you have a good day? he says, turning the barbecue off.

You should know, since you were there for every single moment of it.

Kean grins and uses tongs to lift the foil wrapped packages off the grill.

When he closes the lid something comes out of my mouth that I don’t expect. You don’t think we’ll get bored here, do you?

Of living here as in the place? Or just living?

I shrug one shoulder and watch as Kean puts down the tongs and captures my face in his hands. He holds me there for a few long seconds, just staring at me with those steady green eyes, and we stand surrounded by nothing more than darkness and peeping stars and the sound of rustling trees.

I can see words forming in his mind but they linger. Kean draws in a long breath. I could never grow tired of your eyes and your lips; your entire face. If I had only that for the rest of eternity, I’d be happy.

I can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a serious moment or if he’s just joking around. That was deep.

He smiles. A man’s got a lot of time to think in an apocalypse. He tips his head to one side and lowers his hands. Where’s this come from? You feeling nostalgic?

I quirk an eyebrow. Have you been reading the dictionary?

Kean grins, one of those quick as lightening ones that strike right into my heart, and I sigh, just a little.

I don’t know, I say. When we were on the move we had a destination, you know… something to focus on. But now what’s our point? It’s like we’ve stopped and…

…Everything else has stopped too?

Something like that.

Kean scratches his head. Maybe tomorrow we should head for supplies. Have an adventure. Maybe a little ad-lib picnic.

A picnic with the infected sounds great. Sunny with a chance of death.

Kean gives me a long look. We haven’t seen any creepies for ages. Besides, what’s life without a little risk?

I roll my eyes. A day out then.

Kean grabs his plate of flatbread. We should probably head in before all the good fruit’s gone.

I leave the balcony door wide open, and a symphony of cicada music filters in behind us. The others all have food on their plates but they’re quite obviously waiting for us before starting. I swear Liss never had so many manners before, and I have to wonder where she’s suddenly getting them. Maybe she always had manners but chose to ignore them. Or maybe it’s some kind of survival mechanism for group situations.

I eat slowly, weighed down by restless thoughts. I am alive but I am so bored. My life is eat, sleep, sit on a balcony, sit on the couch, repeat. There are no long walks, no radio, TV, newspapers, no movies, no school, no jobs, no friends to visit. No future.

How come— Liss shoves a peach in her gob and tries to keep talking at the same time but soon realizes it’s impossible. She chews manically and resumes speaking as soon as possible. How come Trouble’s so quiet? Her eyes flick up at me.

I shrug. Trouble glances at me. Probably because he doesn’t speak a lot of English.

Yes he does. He says lots of things.

Trouble is about to eat a pineapple chunk, but he lowers his fork to half-mast and stares intently at it, his ear cocked toward Liss.

I spear a mango slice. Well… he does know the basics.

But why not everything?

"Do you know everything?"

Liss purses her lips and hums for a few seconds. Most things.

I narrow my eyes. How come you don’t speak Chinese then?

Well… it’s because… the only one thing I don’t know is Chinese. But I know the numbers. Up to five.

Henry is trying to stifle his laugh but it’s contagious and soon we’re all giggling over nothing. Trouble laughs too and slaps his hand gently on the table. Liss is the last to fall. Her brows turn down with confusion, and she contemplates being angry with us. But she looks at everyone, laughing into the sky or their laps or falling off the table. And even though Liss doesn’t exactly know why we’re laughing, she gets we’re not directing it at her. And once she realises that, giggles bubble from her lips. This makes me think about Trouble and how much he understands. It makes me wonder how I would cope if it were me sitting at a table of Trouble’s family and friends, and they were all chatting and laughing about something I couldn’t understand. Would I laugh too?

Game time! Liss bounces in her chair. Cluedo!

Kean has one elbow on the table, his chin firmly planted in his palm. We played that last night. And the night before… and the night before that. We need to step it up tonight.

Maybe we should play Chinese Checkers, Henry says. For Trouble?

Kean’s eyes flick to his brother. Just because he’s Chinese doesn’t mean he knows how to play. Besides, I said we need to step it up. What else have we got?

Henry narrows his eyes. Cards?

Please, no more Old Maid! Kean pushes his empty plate away and puts his forehead on the table. He turns towards me, his squished cheek muffling his words slightly. Is it time we taught them poker? We can bet chores and always win. We’d be gods.

My face holds a simmering smile. I’ve got it.

Kean arches an eyebrow and straightens.

The Game of Life, I say.

Kean claps his hands. Yes! Perfect.

I flick my hair. I know I am.

Liss rolls her eyes and disappears to the game cupboard, bringing back the box. Henry watches her, itching to leap up and follow, but his eyes are heavy with the knowledge that in the time it would take him to back away from the table Liss would have completed the whole manoeuvre with the ease of a butterfly fluttering its wings. He glances down at the table and tries to cover his longing by gathering nearby dishes and stacking them in a neat pile.

We push all the dishes down to Henry’s end and shuffle in closer.

Kean sets up the board, spinny thing and cards, while I surround the board with candles.

We should make our own version, Henry says. The Game of Life Apocalyptic Edition.

Yeah, cool, Kean says. Oh, but wait… we’re already living that.

Henry tips an imaginary top hat. Fair point.

But what jobs could we have for our version? Liss says.

Scientist, I say.

Creepy hunter, Henry adds.

Rubbish worker for a useless government facility? Kean says.

Oh, an interpreter for Trouble! Liss says, pointing straight at him.

Trouble grins and nods, seemingly oblivious to our chatter, but still happy as ever to be here with us. It’s times like this that I really wish we still had a Chinese-English dictionary. We could write the Chinese translations on the cards. We could be sure that he understands us and that we understand him, just for a short while.

Liss has several lucky dice rolls and takes the early lead. Then to top it off she picks one of the best occupation cards, doctor.

How am I supposed to overcome this? Henry stares at the Janitor card. It’s the lowest wage possible. I’ve pretty much lost already.

At least you have an occupation. I’ve barely left the start line. Kean pours himself a glass of water. Anyone want a drink?

Me, me, me! Liss ever so carefully