CHAPTER THIRTEEN
They were surviving. The weeks continued, and they were surviving. Isabel stopped keeping track of the months. What was the point? The only thing she was pretty sure of was that she was twenty-five years old now.
The nights were dreamless. Days were dull and irritating. The only thing she had to look forward to were her evenings in the library, and that wasn't much. Those were often quiet. Peaceful, yes. But when there wasn't any sort of conversation, it felt like wasted time.
There were moments with Mallory that Isabel enjoyed. There was some sense of familiarity with Mallory, and she was more grounded than the people she came with. Well, as long as she wasn't around Coco. Isabel noticed how Mallory adopted a more air-head persona. It was annoying, but she was grateful that Mallory didn't act that way all of the time.
"God, I miss alcohol," Isabel mumbled as she finished off her third glass of mineral water.
"Felt that," Mallory agreed as she refilled the glass. It was one of those times when Coco decided to take a nap because really there was nothing else for her to do. And while that didn't mean Mallory could take a break from being a Gray, she could at least relax around Isabel.
"What do you miss most?"
Mallory smiled as she thought about all of the luxuries of her old life. Back then, it hadn't seemed like much, but now she saw just how privileged she was. "Instagram. It's stupid, but I always got excited when I got notifications that people liked my photos." It was something younger generations took for granted and older generations scoffed at. It was something she didn't think she would miss, yet here she was. "What about you?"
Oh there were so many things Isabel missed. She missed her father, though he was gone long before the end of the world. She missed the smell of the study: ink, coffee, and a hint of her father's old cologne as if it had been embedded in the wood. She missed Nancy. Her stomach lurched as she remembered that the last time she spoke with Nancy was during their lunch at the cafe, when Nancy explained the mysterious ticket to Outpost 3.
And there was one thing she missed above all else.
"My house," Isabel answered, a fond smile playing on her lips. "It was this grand thing, built in the 1920s by a doctor." More of a mad scientist, actually, but Mallory didn't need to know that. "It was beautiful, and so… loving." Yes, that was the word. Isabel loved the house and it loved her. "It was like a friend." Realizing she was probably sounding weird, Isabel quickly added, "I also miss writing."
Mallory listened intently to Isabel, confused but thrilled at the description of the house, when Isabel changed course. She raised her eyebrows. "You're a writer?"
"Yeah… author, actually. I guess I can call myself that." It wasn't something Isabel openly admitted. It was a title that always belonged to her father, and was now hers.
"So you've been published?" Mallory sat down on the sofa beside Isabel. "What kind of books? Do you write those harlequin romance novels?" she asked excitedly.
Isabel laughed. It was a genuine sound that made her chest hurt. She didn't even know what was so funny, really. Perhaps it was because she was experiencing what Derek experienced when he met a fan. Or perhaps it was how earnest Mallory was about the harlequin romance novels. "Uh, no. More supernatural-mystery-drama."
Mallory's cheeks colored, embarrassed that she just openly admitted her love for the supermarket smut genre. "Oh, nice. Like um, Hotel Sin."
"Exactly."
That word didn't hit Mallory in the way Isabel meant. When Isabel said exactly, she meant just that: exactly. Hotel Sin was her first book and her first success. Her heart swelled in appreciation with the mere fact that Mallory at least knew the title, even if Mallory didn't connect the dots that she was the author Z. Langdon.
When evening rolled around― that twilight zone time after dinner and before reading in the library where everyone was awake, too bored to stay awake and not tired enough to just go to bed― Isabel returned to her bedroom took out her notebook. There were more letters addressed to Moira, though really they were just diary entries.
Dear Moira,
Weird encounter today. Mallory (remember her from my last twenty letters? Haha) found out I wrote books. Almost found out that I was Z. Langdon. Conversation didn't quite make it that far, and I'm glad it didn't. I don't know, I like having at least one secret in this place.
I do have that other secret… but I have a feeling that Ms. Venable has a strong inkling as to what my secret is. Not that I've been very subtle about it. Did I tell you that I sort of exposed myself? A bit of accidental Concilium. Oops.
Life is so fragmented now, ironic considering that all the days blend together. Just long stretches of nothing. Then something will happen, and that's the defining moment; the marker of time.
Is this what it's like being trapped in the house?
I don't know when rescue is coming. If rescue is coming. Apparently the Cooperative, whatever the hell that really is, was meant to come get us once things have settled down. Well, it's been what, over a year? And no sign of anyone coming to get us. I truly think we may starve to death in here. That is if Ms. Venable doesn't kill us all first.
Isabel put down her pen. There was so much more she wanted to say, but she was running low on ink. She still had some extra pens, but this was her third pen that she nearly used all the way up and she needed to be much more conservative.
She closed her notebook, setting it down on the bedside table before laying down on her bed and staring at the ceiling. The quiet moments really were incredibly dull. No ghosts to bother her… which really was the strangest thing. Most of the world's population was incinerated; really there ought to be more dead people haunting her. But nothing. Not even Stu, and he died within the walls. It was as if…
It was as if magic protected this place.
And why shouldn't it? Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men was bound to have protective charms that still remained, just as Miss Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies.
When Isabel realized that this place used to be a school for warlocks, she did briefly wonder if Miss Robichaux's had also been turned into an outpost. Isabel was quick to shove that thought from her mind, though; too painful to think about. Her fellow witches probably needed her during this massive crisis, and she abandoned them years ago.
Guilt weighing heavily in her chest, Isabel turned over onto her side, deciding to skip dinner and just try to go to bed, knowing full well that sleep wouldn't come easily.
Isabel didn't remember falling asleep. She was convinced she didn't actually fall asleep. She may have dozed off, but a deep sleep was a stranger to her because survivor's guilt once again tapped her on the shoulder then whacked her in the face. It seemed every time she dared to think about something of her life before the nukes hit, a bout of misery followed. She was guilty of being alive.
"Miss Noble," Ms. Mead said sharply. "If you'd like to join the rest of us down here on earth?"
Isabel blinked slowly, returning to reality. She was in the dining room. Breakfast. Right. More and more she was indulging in her thoughts, creating scenes in her head to make the days less boring. More and more she was ignoring reality, creating gaps in time.
She barely remembered waking up in the morning; she hardly slept. Isabel longed for coffee. The caffeine headaches had subsided after a few weeks of being at Outpost 3, but she still craved the warm, bitter drink. It would certainly make being awake much more enjoyable.
She poked at her cube. Even now she still wasn't used to the unflavored gelatin. Surely it wouldn't be too difficult to make it strawberry or lemon. Hell, she'd even accept orange (arguably the worst flavor). The tastelessness of the squishy cubes made mealtimes so monotonous.
"Savor it now while you can," Ms. Venable said as she watched the Purples toy with their cubes. "It will be all you're getting. We will be cutting down to one cube a day."
Coco dropped her fork and it clattered against her plate. "What the hell do you mean dropping to one cube a day?"
Keeping her composure (but not hiding her annoyance), Ms. Venable explained, "Our resources are running low. The Cooperative is taking longer than we anticipated. If we are to sustain life, we must make sacrifices. Anyone who has a problem with this is more than welcome to starve to death."
Unease settled amongst the group. Nervous gazes were exchanged. Even Isabel, who mostly tuned out during the morning announcements, looked around the table.
"Adversity can forge the strongest bonds," Dinah said, masking her worry with words of wisdom.
No one was falling for it.
Coco rolled her eyes. "Oh shut up. No one is going to be bonding because we're all going to die down here."
Isabel tried tuning the exchange out, too tired to deal with the bullshit, and also because she was focusing. Isabel's gaze was trained on Ms. Meade because, while looking around at everyone, Isabel noticed something. It was small; easily dismissed, but perplexing to anyone who caught it: a twitch of Ms. Meade's head. Almost… mechanical.
"We're going to starve to death; a slow and painful death," Coco dragged on.
"Starving to death would be better than continuing to live like this," André lamented.
"Jesus Christ, put on some eyeliner and go cry to My Chemical Romance if you're going to be emo."
"My boyfriend is dead, I'm allowed to be sad!"
"Oh boo-fucking-hoo, cry me a river!"
Ms. Venable raised her cane and slammed it down on the ground, the resounding crack forcing everyone into silence. "We will cut down to one cube a day, and see how long that will last us."
Isabel piped up, "And after that?"
She didn't like how Ms. Venable slightly raised her chin. Isabel had come to know it as a sign of uncertainty in the person who was supposed to be absolutely certain about everything in this place. "We will cross that bridge when we get there."
It wasn't an answer. No one was sure if they even wanted an answer.