Fever 01

She had straight dark hair that framed her face, although after a few days without a shower it stuck to her head like plaster. Her skin was fair and her figure fairer, although she always did think her boobs were a funny shape, and she wasn't fond of the way her bum squared off at the cheeks. She was starting to look peckish, though, and not in a good way. Not that anyone around here would care what she looked like; they all were content just gawking at her like some sort of abysmal freak accident.

It had to be the stench. With that thought, she hopped in the shower.

The water wasfreezingcold. Jumping from foot to foot and craning away from the stream, she fiddled with the taps. No hot water. Ice cold jets struck down on her skin. When the temperature didn't seem to increase even a modicum within a minute, Hannah grumbled, "To hell with it," and quickly dipped under the stream to scrub.

It certainly was the fastest shower she ever had—about a good three minutes flat. A bottle of body wash was in the corner; she took a quarter sized amount and scrubbed her body down like she was on fire. She washed her hair in it, too, desperate to get the sour smell off her head. The very second she was done she lunged out to turn the water off. Not once did the tap produce warm water.

And then she realized she had forgotten to grab herself a towel.

This was not some friend of a friend's house; this was a building full of strangers—passive-aggressive, distrustful and rude ones at that—and a situation like this was like being in the presidents house and shitting your drawers.

What could she do? Stand there until her skin air-dried, maybe. She'd freeze in the process, but it would avoid any awkward confrontation that was otherwise inevitable. That's what she would do. Someone would probably come knocking after a few minutes, and maybe then she could ask for help. Or tell them she just needed some privacy.Oh God no, that wouldn't be awkward, Hannah. Fuck.

After tending to her hair and trying to brush off the water from her skin, a knock sounded at the door, sure enough. Hannah hesitated briefly before clearing her throat. "Yes?"

"I have some clothes fer ya."

Her heart jumped into her throat like Bill had actually walked into the room to see her naked. "Oh?"

"I'll just pass them to ya through the door."

She bit her lip. "Okay."

There was a pause. After a few seconds, the door opened a crack, and Bill handed in a pile of neatly folded clothes: a fresh pair of jeans, a pair of panties, and a white blouse with light pink roses printed on them. "Should fit."

Hannah stepped up behind the door and reached out for the clothes. As soon as she had them in her hands, Bill closed the door forcefully, cutting her off mid thanks.

"Now, was that so hard?" she heard Norma say from down the stairs.

"Yes," was Bill's muffled reply.

* * *

One would think the smell of cooking coyote was not a pleasant one, but somehow Norma made the house smell heavenly. She cooked the meat like a turkey in the gas stove with onions, carrots and leeks. Over the fire she boiled potatoes and water for tea. For desert there were jars of strawberry and rhubarb lined up on the counter, positively glowing in candlelight.

These people were eatingwell.

The moment Hannah stepped out of the bathroom, she was commissioned for work. Her and Ian went down into the cellar with the little boy, whose name was mentioned in conversation (in which Hannah was not involved) as Dylan. They stocked away the moose meat Bill had collected in a man-made freezer, collected teabags, and checked the mousetraps for rodents. The cellar was unfinished; it looked like a mineshaft. "Bill's been working on this house for ten years," Ian said in passing, barely looking at her. "He's a bit of a procrastinator."

"I'm not even ten yet," Dylan informed her as if it were dire news.

"This is his house, then?"

"Yeah. Used to be Norma's land, but she sold it to him years ago. Bill's known her since he was little. Heck, we've all known Norma since we were little." He then eyed her suspiciously. "You from around here?"

"Barrhead. Never been out here before."

"Really? Well, I guess town folk don't have much to do in Campsie. But you've never been to Thunder Lake, even?"

Hannah shook her head. "We always went to the water park in West Edmonton Mall."

Ian apparently did not think highly of this, for he scoffed and turned his cheek.

When they resurfaced into the basement and up on the main floor, the three other ladies and two men were setting a table beside the kitchen in the bay area. There were an assortment of dining chairs, lawn chairs and stools, and even an overturned milk carton for seating. It was obvious to see that there were ten natural spots and an eleventh one shoved in awkwardly for her.

That was when she knew she wanted to get the hell out as soon as possible.

"Set yourselves down for grace if you've washed up already. Dinner's a comin'," Norma said.

Hannah sat herself down on the milk carton and waited, watching everyone at work and not daring to keep her eyes on any one individual for long. She noticed quite quickly that the little girl was sensitive, shy, and quite possibly mute. Every time she got in someone's way or set a dish down improperly, she seemed to tear up. Dylan was slow and lazy, and the mother was tight-lipped and introverted like she had an abusive husband watching her every move. On closer inspection, everyone seemed to have that air about them, save for Norma. She was the standing chef, the commanding officer, the head of household. She conducted everyone's task like a circus ringer with eight arms, and she did it well.

"Ian, run up and get Bill," she commanded.

Ian did not seem interested in doing this in the slightest.

"Git!"

"I dunno if he'll—"

"You tell him to get his ass down here and eat the meal I made for him," she said, punctuating her words with finger jabs. Ian did as he was bid.

"Hannah, dear, milk, tea, or water?"

"I'm fine."

"Don't make me say it again."

"Milk. Please."

After all the drinks, dishes and foods were brought to the table, hands were washed and seats were taken. The little girl and her brother sat on either side of Hannah. She immediately thought of a personal angel and devil on either shoulder; she imagined little horns on Dylan's head.

"I can make my tongue into a clover leaf. See?" Dylan demonstrated his genetic ability.

Hannah had never been good with kids. She nodded. "Oh. I see."

"And I can cross my eyes," he said, doing just that, "or one eye"—he did his left—"or the other eye"—he did his right—

"Enough, Dylan," his mother said. All antics ceased.

There was a sharp yell from upstairs followed by a slamming door. Everyone froze; Norma sighed.

"All right, Ian, you did your part. Let's eat."

Ian came down the stairs like a wounded puppy. The atmosphere thickened; everyone seemed on edge when he sat, like he'd taken some sort of disease from Bill and brought it downstairs. Each place was claimed, save for the one beside Norma.

"Peter," she said, turning to the oldest man, "would you do us the honours?"

Peter, a man with a head so shiny the sun would squint from the glare, bowed his head and began to mutter a prayer in a watery voice. Hannah followed suit, though only hung her head halfway and did not close her eyes. She could only hear half the prayer, and the half she did hear made her uncomfortable. It was about bestowing good will on them in times of strife and gifting them with such a lavish meal. Hannah inwardly scoffed. If there was a God, he initiated Judgement Day. Bill had caught their meal. Norma had cooked it.

"Amen," Peter said. Everyone but Hannah muttered the same.

"Before we begin, we should get everyone properly introduced," said Norma. "This new addition to our dinner table is Hannah. I'll let you say a few words about yourself, if you like."

"Oh. Uh. No thanks."

"Suit yourself. On my left here is Peter, who just led prayer. Beside him is his wife June and their son Dave with his wife Kelly. Caroline is the mother of the two fine children on either side of you, Dylan and Diana, and Ian you've already met and mingled with. I don't think I need to tell you about the man of the house."

Hannah shook her head nervously.

"All right. Dig in."

Everyone reached for a plate or dish with a delicate reserve, but Hannah could tell they were just as famished as she was and just barely restraining themselves. They dished themselves small portions and passed the food down. Hannah desperately wanted to take more, but didn't out of politeness and necessity.

There was no dinner conversation. Everyone ate their meal like it was the last. The food tasted off, but it was the best thing she had eaten in a good week. It was probably as good as it would ever get anymore. It didn't take long for the plates to be cleared and the desert to be dished and devoured.

Everyone rose to put away their plates by the sink. Hannah followed their lead but hovered in the kitchen, unsure of what was socially acceptable for her to do next. As if on cue, Norma snapped her fingers and pointed. "Ian and Hannah, you can be on dish duty," she said. Without further word, Ian rolled up the sleeves of his sweater and headed for the sink.

"I wash, you dry?" he asked as he passed Hannah.

"'Kay."

He grabbed a few dish towels and started to fill the sink with water. "We have to be careful with what we use because we run on wells. It's been hard to heat up lately on account of the weather, so it'll be a bit cold to the touch."

"I know."

He looked at her guiltily. "Sorry 'bout your shower."

"I'm glad I got one at all."

He passed her dishes in silence and she dried them as thoroughly as possible, picking her fingers away from the cold. When the dishes were done, Hannah turned to see everyone was gone from the main floor, save for Dave and Kelly.

"Where did everyone go?" Hannah asked.

"We all keep to ourselves after dinner, really," Ian explained. "Bill stays in his room most of the time, and Norma and Caroline take the others. Peter and June stay in the basement and Dave and Kelly keep to the living room."

"So where do you stay?"

He shrugged, nodding his head over his shoulder. "I usually stay in the laundry room."

Hannah stared at the door Ian had indicated. "Is there someplace for me to stay?"

"Oh, you, uh... can... no."

"Well... can I bunk with you? Maybe?"

She saw him hold his breath. His Adam's apple slid up and down his throat. "Yeah. Okay."

* * *

As it turned out, Ian made himself a bed by sleeping on a pile of old sheets, so he made Hannah a bed similar. He went about the house and collected things for her to do—books, magazines, knick knack toys—but she ended up just chatting with him.

"So. Greet many people by shotgun?" she asked.

"Oh. Um—" he said, breaking into laughter when she did, "sorry 'bout that. This whole thing's got me... jumpy."

"Yeah," she agreed. They fell silent. "You know, you kind of look like an actor, especially when you've got a girl at gun point. What's his name... um...." She snapped her fingers to try and jog her memory.

"Gerard Butler?"

"Yeah! But much younger."

"I get that a lot."

"And skinnier."

"I'm not that skinny."

"Not a bad skinny!"

"I've got an over-active metabolism."

"Oh-ho, and you'recomplaining?"

"Well... no—"

"So many people would murder you for that thyroid."

"I'd like to fill out at least a little."

"You look fine. Maybe the apocalypse will be good on your muscles."

That effectively killed the conversation. The smile faded off his face like a dying light. Hannah averted her eyes. They sat quietly for a few minutes.

"Did you, um... did you lose anyone?" he asked carefully.

She nodded. "Both my parents got sick. I shut myself in a hotel room for a week. When I came out...."

"I lost my parents, too. My dad died of cancer last year. Mom... killed herself last week."

Hannah's jaw dropped and she covered her mouth. She was about to blurt "I'm sorry" when she stopped herself. "How are you doing?" she asked carefully, curious of the answer.

"Honestly? I don't feel.... And there's guilt because I feel like I should feel awful. But I can't. Maybe it's shock... I mean, I say it out loud, and it's like I'm telling you about the weather. Why, how are you doing?"

She shrugged. "About the same."

"Everyone here's lost someone. We all came to Bill's 'cause he's got the biggest, safest house."

Hannah did not want to sound ungrateful or haughty, but it came out that way. "Why is he so... angry?"

Ian gave her that curious stare again. She tried to meet him evenly but felt like she was being drilled with lasers from his eyes. "It's how he's dealing with it. He's lost... a lot."

They sat quietly for a while, remembering things that ought not have been remembered. Then a question struck her. "Why was he so far out of Campsie?"

Ian eyed her gravely. "We're running out of stuff out here is why."

In a zombie apocalypse in Canada, you die from winter, not zombies.

She laughed and immediately felt pathetic about it.

* * *

They talked for a few more hours, during which Hannah learned Ian was on the cusp of his twentieth birthday, his middle name was Ryan, and he was left handed. They both liked board games over TV shows and had a fond distaste for country music. Fast friends, they were. Before they bid each other good night, they were trying to smother their giggles.

Then she remembered she planned on leaving.

Well... now that she had developed a rapport with Ian, she didn't think she wanted to leave, not just yet. She knew she was just latching onto the first friendly face she'd seen since this disaster hit, but it made her feel immensely better. As she closed her eyes, she decided she'd give it a few days at least.

When she fell asleep, she was unaware, but she knew she had to be dreaming. Someone was fingering her slowly, his breaths coming in pants in her ear. She tried to see who it was, but in the dream world, things were fuzzy, and her eyes didn't work so well. When the man slipped in between her legs and withdrew his hand, she saw Bill's face, plain as day.

Her eyes snapped open. Her heart was hammering; her lower muscles were clenched; her entire body was tense. And she felt an undeniable ache in between her legs.

She wasn't supposed to be dreaming about... about him. If anyone, it was supposed to be Ian. And she wasn't even sure she was attracted to the guy. Bill had been a bastard. Sure, he potentially saved her life, but beyond that, he tended to abuse her emotionally, at least from the little interaction they had.

She slowly peered over her shoulder to see if Ian was awake. It was pitch black in the room, save for a sliver of moonlight that poured in through the frosted window. His chest rose and fell slowly—he was fast asleep.

It was obviously a bad idea, but she wasn't going to be able to sleep the rest of the night. Moving slowly, she unbuckled her belt and undid her jeans. She shimmied them down inch by inch, not daring to to go any faster, but dying to relieve the ache then and there.

Her pants were just under her buttocks when she slipped her hand under the waistband of her panties. Her breath threatened to tumble but she held it in, revelling in the electric tingle on her skin where she touched. It had been a long time since she'd been here, and it felt twice as intense as she remembered. She simply traced her lips with two fingers at first, gently rubbing up and down, throwing cautious glances over at Ian, who showed no signs of stirring.

Teasing would not do for long, however. Soon she was earnestly massaging circles around her clit, her heartbeat and her breath quickening. She had to open her mouth in order to breathe more deeply and keep quiet. It was surprising how turned on she was and how easily she was pleasuring herself. It usually took much longer than this.

She made sure one more time that Ian was indeed asleep. Then she stretched back, closed her eyes, and started to give in to her bizarre, guilty pleasure.

She imagined Bill stretched out beside her again, his middle finger slowly drawing in and out of her, massaging a sweet spot just inside. To aid the fantasy, she slipped her own finger in her opening. An uncontrollable moan left her throat and she silenced herself immediately, pausing to check her security. When she found Ian still asleep, she resumed, taking the fantasy further.

The whiskers on his cheek brushed against the soft spot on her neck as he sucked on her earlobe. His other wand weaved into her hair; he gently pulled, tilting her head back. A jolt ran down her belly. She arched her back and ran her hand over her chest.

Next Bill traced light kisses over her breasts, pausing briefly to tease a nipple. He worked his way down her body, his hand following his kisses, tracing lightly yet scratching her from the callouses. She loved the feeling. Then he took his hand away as he slipped between her legs. The first thing she felt was his warm breath on her skin, his mouth hovering inches over her. But he wouldn't give her satisfaction.

She breathed his name, remembering that she needed to bestone quiet. What would it feel like for him to go down on her? She couldn't even imagine.

It went on and on for minutes. Bill stroking parts of her body, kissing her, growling low against her skin, his finger inside her, stroking sensually slow. Most of all, it was the image of his face hovering inches above hers that she imagined, staring down at her with those water-green eyes like she was the only girl on Earth.

She shifted her shoulders and head, tilting it to the side. Then she realized something was off. She opened her eyes a crack, then wider, then wider.

Ian was staring at her; she could see the whites of his eyes in the moonlight. She froze and stared back, trying to figure out quickly what to do or how to feel.

"Hannah?" His voice was tight and strained.

Obviously she had been caught. "Yeah."

"Um... n—never mind."

After a few seconds, he turned his head and shifted, trying to get back to sleep. Hannah remained still, her hand still poised over her mound. Time to give in and go to sleep....

She could still see Bill's face hovering over hers.

"Ian?"

He tried to answer but his voice squeaked. Clearing his throat, he said, "Yeah?"

She withdrew her hand from her underwear and pushed herself to her feet. Ian turned around quickly, but with some sort of apprehension in his movements, like he was scared to see what was coming. He watched her approach, growing more tense the closer she came. She stood at his feet and looked down, still aware that her jeans were hitched around her hips and her fingers were glistening.

It was like she was a wolf and he was a frightened rabbit; he propped himself up on his elbows and quickly shuffled backward when she lowered to her knees beside him. She held her hands out as if it would calm him down. When he stopped scrambling, she unbuttoned her borrowed blouse. "Is this okay?" she whispered.

Ian didn't move or speak or otherwise indicate that he'd heard her. When she repeated his name, she saw him give the most miniscule of nods. In response, she let the shirt glide off her shoulders, leaving a shiver in its wake. First the bra straps went, then she unclasped the back and discarded the article on the ground. The air nipped at her skin; her nipples stiffened; her excitement built up.

Tentatively she reached out for Ian—who was cowering under her like she was threatening him—and took his hand in hers. His hands were cold and a bit clammy, but once she encouraged him to grasp her breast, all she could feel was a cool tingle.