Follow The Heart

Her words bore the effort they took to speak.

“Follow the heart,” as though the wind itself had spoken.

And then she was gone.

I forced myself awake, unsure if it was a dream or a visit from the other side. For all I knew, she was really still walking—lurking, really—among what was left of us, and had paid a well-timed visit between my own sleep and waking.

My name is Lacey, and I am the last of my family.

Most of them were taken by the Sickness. A few took their own lives after seeing those who had fallen ill. A handful had simply disappeared.

My mother was one of the disappeared.

These days, it’s not always easy to tell what’s real and what’s not. Real vs unreal was marked by the things we knew; the things we did by rote. But the ways we used to mark normalcy have become unnecessary. No school for children. Not everyone needs to go to work anymore. Things really broke down after the Sickness swept through. Everything except for the government and the media, anyway. Even though it’s not discussed openly, we know not to trust either.

The sun rises as I lie in bed. The beginning shadows of the day through my third-story window make the red wallpaper I once thought of as edgy seem faintly menacing.

I stretch, a groan at my lips cut short as I remember to be quiet and first take stock of my surroundings.

The sound of trees moving in the breeze comes to my ears. A good sign. It’s hard to believe a harbinger of death or worse would dare be skulking about as a breeze sings through leaves and branches.

Nothing from the house. No boards creaking. No radio or television. Nothing but … soft foot tread.

Waltz, my Norwegian Forest Cat, pads into the room, the fur between his toes muffling his steps a bit. Even he knows not to make any noise.

He jumps to the end of my bed, sitting on my blanket-covered feet, and drops something with a soft thud.

Giving one last listen to be sure it’s safe, I sit up, stroking his ears and squeezing my eyes at him. He squeezes his in return, then bats at what it is he has gifted me. Expecting his toy mouse, I start when I realize its shape is more serpent-like than anything else. Recoiling even as I reach for the eyeglasses on my bedside table, I command my heart to still.

Focusing, a breath I didn’t realize I was holding escapes my lips. It’s a jewelry chain. A rather grungy, dirty one at that. Pausing again stroke Waltz’s ears, I reach for the chain and pull it to me for a closer look.

My jaw drops open as a pendant comes into view from between the folds of covers.

It’s a heart-shaped locket.

Follow the heart.

- - - - - - - -

I once again murmur my thanks to my family for being borderline preppers. Powdered milk and cereal at the table in the kitchen seem almost normal, as though my little brother might come pounding down the stairs two at a time any second, already hollering about how he was going to smash that Peterton kid at today’s football game. Almost normal, because that Peterton kid had been gone for at least four months now, as had my brother.

I put the spoon in the sink, and the bowl on the floor for Waltz to enjoy the tiny bit of milk left in the bottom.

One hand on the locket in the pocket of my hoodie, I peel the corner of the newspaper at the window on the backdoor away a tiny bit, peeking out to survey the yard and alley before slipping out.

My gray hoodie, worn jeans and grubby-looking sneakers make me feel as though I can blend in; go unnoticed.

For a few blocks, I do.

Approaching the main drag, I pull my hood closer around my face, trying to focus on being unseen. But a voice calls my name.

“Lacey!” his cheer obviously forced, “what a fine day it is, yes?”

Heaving an inward sigh, I pull my hood back a slight bit and lift my chin, offering a smile to the elderly man.

He’s lost more than I have, ‘knows more than I do.

“Hiya, Henry.”

He holds out his hand as I approach, extending a shiny, red apple to me. Just as I reach for it, he snatches it back.

“Not yet, kiddo,” he intones quietly, throwing a subtle glance at neighboring storefronts.

Eyes are watching. I feel my own eyes widen slightly, and fill my lungs with the knowledge that for a moment, I’d almost let my guard down. For an old man and an apple, for pete’s sake.

He starts to make small talk.

“This weather just might hold, eh? How are you and your mom doing? ‘Still going to sign up for the new academy come spring? How’s Waltz?”

The entire time, his eyes are on me, his smile wide, but his hands worry at the apple. I try to follow his verbal patter—nodding, smiling and giving short but polite answers.

I’ve known Henry my whole life. Before the Sickness, we were neighbors. He and his wife, Stella, would have dinner with us at least once a week. After the Sickness took Stella, he couldn’t stand to be in the house next door anymore, so he moved into the recently-vacated apartment he’d been renting out to his nephew over the shop he and Stella ran. His nephew didn’t move out, though; he was taken by the Sickness, just like my dad and brother would be, too.

“Okay, kiddo,” handing the apple to me finally, “you go and have yourself a good day, and let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

“Yes, Henry. You too. And,” gesturing with the apple, wishing I could force my smile to my eyes, “thank you for the fresh fruit.”

He glanced to the north, pulling his cardigan closer around his torso, and gave me a rueful smile and little nod before going back into his shop.

As the door closed, the unmistakable, tinny sound of a PA system approached from the direction Henry had just glanced. Man, that old man had good hearing.

A white van turned the corner, like a humorless ice cream van, plain with blacked-out windows, intoning orders to all: “The Civic Center is the only place our time will be counted toward our duty. It is our duty to assist our neighbors. Every citizen must perform their duty. It’s the only way forward. Duty will lead us to recovery.”

Unnerved, I duck down an alley. I’ve never reported for duty, and I don’t think anyone will miss me anytime soon. I’m buying myself time. Time to do what, I’m not sure … but I don’t think duty has the good-of-all in mind in the way they want us to believe. You can see it on the faces of the news anchors. Read it in the rigid prose and punctuation of the newspaper writers. The world wide web is no longer— information sharing shut down, and the proffering of opinions tightly controlled. New books and movies are unerringly happy and upbeat; stories where every character does just as they should, and duty is the winning theme.

As long as I keep up the ruse that my mother is at home waiting for me—ill, but waiting—I should be able to dodge all things duty and just keep doing what I’m doing. Considering things like stoplights and the electric grid haven’t been consistently kept up or repaired, I’m skeptical that some 17-year-old girl is going to be on anybody’s radar … as long as I don’t put myself there.

As I wait for the creepy-mobile to move on by, my hand finds Henry’s apple. What feels like damage to the skin captures my curiosity, and I pull it out to have a look.

When I see the heart he’s carved into it, no doubt with his fingernails as we “visited” in the street, my surprise is so great I fumble, nearly dropping it.

Follow the heart.

- - - - - - - - - -

My mind races as I make my way to the warehouse. Timing my street-crossing so as not to walk in front of any vehicles or next to any other (albeit few) pedestrians, I stick to alleys as much as possible.

The alleys are almost nicer than the streets as of late. The stores that haven’t closed are almost trying too hard. Too clean. Too shiny. They feel fake in their over-earnest attempts to bring in business. Even more storefronts are boarded up, or have paper in the windows. It’s from these stores I got the idea to cover the windows at home. Let people think the unreliable electricity necessitates extra insulation as the days turn cooler. If it keeps prying eyes out, the better for my own ruse.

I slip through the fence at the warehouse, being careful to not let the chain-link pinch at my clothing. Sewing is not something I’ve learned yet.

Casting glances in every direction, I see only one other person: a man, moving much like I am, in the same direction I am. I recognize his frame and slight limp as belonging to Louie, another helper here at the warehouse.

Inside, only the high windows of each wall provide light. Every effort is made to keep the space looking abandoned from the outside. The way we approach it, and how we move inside of it go a long way to keep up the façade.

“Hey, Lace,” Louie’s deep growl greets me.

“Hey, Lou,” I whisper back. “Do we have a crowd today?”

He shrugs, and we both head deeper into the building.

About three dozen people mill about in the employee breakroom. No one speaks, not even the little kids. Silence is golden, and that feeling fills the air with caution.

We slip into our coats from the lockers, left from workers long-gone, and head into the kitchen, ready to work. Our little soup kitchen is word-of-mouth, and somehow we keep the people fed once a day. The food comes in small batches on garbage trucks and in exterminator vans. Apparently, those who run the city these days don’t give too much thought to the trades they’d rather keep invisible. The people who run these companies seem to be well-connected, and well-intentioned. We’ve never seen the faces of those who provide the sustenance – just the drivers, and they don’t say much.

I move to the window from the dock where the food is left for us each day at the same time.

Pulling the box toward me, I see what looks to be a note tucked into an enormous bag of macaroni pasta. Curious, I open it.

This time, my surprise gets the better of me, and I drop it.

Shaking, I look around. No one seems to have noticed, busy with their own prep tasks for the day.

Picking up the paper, I turn it over. I can see a very light image but can’t make out what it is. Tucking it into my hoodie pocket alongside Waltz’ locket, I let Lou know I’m stepping out.

I hurry back out to the larger room of the warehouse, making sure I’m alone before pulling the note out of my pocket.

Holding it up to the light from the windows, it hits me – it’s a map. A small mark shows the warehouse. Another my own home. And an arrow points to the south … to a heart.

I glance at the door I used to come in, and back toward the breakroom and kitchen.

Decision made, I take off the work coat, dropping it to the floor and stride toward the outside door.

Follow the heart.