I shake my head slow. This isn’t going to go over well. I might not have wanted all these people here, but I took responsibility for them when they showed up. At first, it was as easy as thinking that my basement was finished, warm, and large. We had a lot of furniture, carpeting, and a little kitchenette area. The door to the upstairs was large and easy to barricade, and there weren’t any windows since the whole basement was underground. From strictly a security standpoint, it all seemed pretty ideal at first back when we all thought this would just blow over in a few days. Well it’s been a lot more than a few days, and suddenly we got a pantry room turned into a shitter that we can’t keep expecting people to go in, candles that ain’t going to last forever, and the beginning of the end of a food supply. Damn it, I really thought I had it all under control. I thought I was helping everyone here. I suddenly miss the beginning of the day when my biggest problem was morning wood.

“Hey, uh, can I have all your attention, please?” I sound like an idiot and I know it the moment the words leave me. Like I’m the fucking President about to announce a tax break and calling Congress to attention or something. “We have kind of a situation or something.”

Jamisen’s head snaps to attention like a gopher or something. Almost makes me laugh, like this is the first sign of trouble he’s seen so far and he’s springing into action. “What is it? What can we do?”

I kind of look around the room, not wanting to catch anyone’s eyes for long. “Well, that’s what we gotta figure out. We’re running out of food.” I kind of the expect the room to break out in a murmur or something, at which point I would take command and tell them all to settle down and come up with a plan. But they just keep staring at me, and I don’t have a plan yet. “We’ve only got, I don’t know, not much food left. I don’t think it could possibly last many more days, you know?”

“Didn’t we bring enough stuff?” Ashley asks. “Didn’t everyone bring enough food for us to survive off of?”

Well I know that Marcus and Laura didn’t, but it’s not really the time to be throwing anyone under the bus, even Laura. “Well, yeah. Everyone brought good stuff, but I don’t think we thought we’d be stuck here forever, you know? We’ve made it this far, which is great, but goin’ forward? We need something better.”

“Like what?” In the dark, I can’t tell if Drew, Marcus, or Jamisen asks the question, but it doesn’t really matter because I don’t have the answer. At least my confusion gives me a few seconds to look around for the person who asked while I think. It doesn’t end up mattering since Aiden answers for me, anyway.

“Well, it seems pretty obvious to me. We’ve got to leave here, right?”

His answer freezes everyone. I hadn’t really even considered that. This basement’s all we’ve known for so long, the thought of leaving is so damn strange.

“No. No, we can’t do that.”

“Why not, Laura?” Even Carrah might be getting tired of her negativity.

“Hello, really? How long have we been down here? Five weeks? Six? And how many of us have died? None. It’s a good fucking deal we’ve got down here. It’d be suicide to just abandon it.”

“It’s going to be suicide if we all starve to death and don’t do anything about it,” Carrah answers. I feel like Marcus all the sudden because both of what they’re saying makes so much sense. If it was safe out, we’d have seen some kind of proof of it, right? Lights coming on, sirens… something. It’s just death outside. A world where we ain’t nothing but prey waiting to get eaten. What are the odds anybody leaving even finds food before they become it? Shit. But what are we going to do when we run out of food here?

“Fine, then you and Aiden go if you think it’s so smart.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” I break in. Aiden and Care both glare at me, and I raise my hands to calm them down. “No, not that you guys go, but that, like, we don’t all have to leave. What if just one or two of us go out and try to find some stuff? Or just see what it’s like out there and if it’s safe.” I remember something from earlier and look at Emma. “You said it, we haven’t heard anything from upstairs in a while, so maybe it’s not as bad as we think.” I don’t believe a word of that, but maybe I can make them all think I do.

“You’re the one that said it still is.” Damn. Maybe not.

“I just meant that it’s not, you know, back to normal. But it could be—“

“So who goes?”

 I have some names that spring to mind, but again, it’s not really the time to take out grudges. This is peoples’ lives, not some petty grudges. “That’s not really for me to say. Should we… does anyone want to volunteer?”

It’s a stupid question with an obvious answer, but I guess I’m just stalling for time to think of something else. Everyone looks around to see if anyone else steps forward or agrees to or even fucking raises their hand. But, no shit, nobody does. So after the disappointment of that sets in, everyone’s back to looking at me.

“I thought you wanted to go,” I say to Aiden, who responds by shaking his head and taking a step back.

“No, I don’t want to be the one to go. I just know someone has to. Don’t string me up for having the idea, man.” He chuckles nervously, and I can tell he regrets even realizing the food situation to begin with.

“Why don’t we vote on it?”

We all look over to Emma at her words, and she is taking a step forward under the pressure our expectant stares. “I mean, that’s fair, right?”

I feel my nose wrinkle at her suggestion. I mean, what would the criteria of the vote be? Do we nominate people to be voted on? Based on what? Being the most fit? The fastest? The best driver? The most annoying? How am I supposed to decide who to vote for being the one to send out to look for food and not get eaten by the undead?

“What if we had a secret vote?” Jamison adds, trying to stick up for his wife’s idea, I guess. “That way no one knows who voted for them. So no one thinks their friend wants them to leave? That’s fair, right?”

There’s a short silence, but then I hear a loud laugh to my right. Like someone just saw a fucking Jackass skit or something. I turn to see Marcus there shaking his head and still laughing.

“That’s stupid. I mean, come on. I don’t know how the rest of you feel, but I can promise you this: if you all voted for me to be the one to go out there and risk my life while you all sit here and wait for me to bring you back a sandwich? Fuck you. Even if I found a fully-stocked grocery truck right outside, I wouldn’t bring it back to you assholes. No one wants to get voted out of here and then come back to save all of you; get out of here with that shit.”

Yet again, everyone gets kind of quiet. We’re due to start starving any day now, we have a plan to maybe do something about it, but we can’t find a way to enact the plan. It’s fucking retarded right now. I almost feel a little pride in Marcus. He suddenly found himself some backbone and quit whining and splitting everything down the middle. He said what he was feeling with a lot of conviction, even if it was to tell us we would all be idiots to vote him out. Still, if he was going to pick just now to man up, I’d have rather he’d done so by volunteering.

Everyone is heads-down, but I see them kind of peeking around out the corner of their eyes, hoping that someone will just throw themselves to the wolves—er, zombies or whatever—but no one seems inclined to do that shit. The spinelessness of everybody here makes me almost want to say I’ll do it, but to hell with that! This is my house with my wife to begin with! I’ve done enough for these people.

I look at the counter on the kitchenette and think about all of us gathered around it and trying to divide up rations of crackers until we all starve. I just know fucking Laura’s going to be taking food for herself while everyone else is asleep. She probably already has been; that’s probably why we’re—

On the edge of the counter, I see the cup of stirrers that Carrah put down here for our drinks. I don’t think anyone’s ever used them because, hell, we never made any drinks that people needed to stir back when we used to party down here for fun. But an idea hits me now. Like an idiot kid, I start finger-counting everyone in the room to make sure my count is right. Some heads bob up to look at me since I seem to have an idea. There’s nine of us, okay. I pick through the stirrers until I manage to pull out nine of them.

I look back and everyone’s watching me like I’m fucking Jesus or something and I’m about to turn these things into fish. Carrah’s eyes are wide like she’s scared I’m going to do something when I pull a knife out of the drawer, but I just use it to cut an inch off of one of the little straws. Nobody says anything, but they all seem to be clued in; they all start walking over to me as I fidget with the straws in my hand to make them all look even with the bottoms hidden in my palm.

Aiden asks the obvious question. “So who’s first?”

“Well, it’s my house and my idea, so I guess I can go first…”

“Fuck that, you’re the one holding them, asshole. You can feel which one is the short one.”

I hate her tone, but Laura is right. That was, actually, my whole idea. I can feel the short one scratching higher on my palm than the others. But still, it works out. If I can’t go first, then I have to go last and take whichever one nobody else picks. Means that everyone else has to go eight-for-eight for it to be me. Either way, it’s good to be the man with the plan.

“All right, all right. That makes sense, I guess. Carrah can go first, though. Still her house, too.” I at least want my wife to have a good shot. Only a one-in-nine chance of pulling unlucky.

She steps forward, and her deep brown eyes look into mine. I can feel her begging me, like with her mind, to get her a good one. Her hand is all shakey when she brushes my knuckles and starts wandering over the stirrers. I haven’t felt her hand tremble this much since five years ago at our wedding. The pastor joined our hands, and she was shaking then, too, like she was going to faint or something. Except she was smiling then, so I guess it was a little different.

She pulls out the first stirrer. It’s whole.

“Is it—“

“Nah, it’s not cut on the end, see?” I point to the smooth edges on both sides of the little straw and I hear her sigh.

“How do we—“

“I’m just going to go to the next person in line here. We’re not gonna start fighting over who draws when. Come on, let’s just do this.”

I move a little to my right, and that’s where Aiden is standing. He nods quickly to me, and I do the same back to him. No words are spoken as he snatches a straw with no hesitation. I guess that’s like the bandage method: do it fast and get it over with, cause pouring over the stirrers isn’t going to make it any more obvious.

He lets out a deep breath when he sees the straw is whole. This may be all based on his own plan, but he sure don’t want to carry it out anymore than anyone else.

“Are you ready, hon?”

“Yeah, let’s just… go.”

Emma and Jamison both grab a straw from me at the same time. I don’t know if they think that makes their odds better or what. Jamison settles on his right away, but he waits to pull it out until Emma decides hers. She’s studying my hand like it’s got a poker tell or something.

“Gotta pick one, Em,” her husband nudges her. His words must calm her down because she finally just grips one. They look at each and count to three like they’re about to do a cheer routine or something. One the third count, they both draw whole straws.

Emma collapses into Jamison’s chest when they both realize they’re safe. I’d never admit it, but I’m happy Em didn’t get chosen. That’d been really hard on Jamison, and I wouldn’t have wanted Carrah to go, either. Can’t say I’m as relieved for Jamison.

“Guess I’m up, right?”

I step to the right again to Marcus. “Yeah. This is fair, right? You cool? If you draw out, you’re not going to abandon us over this, are you? With your grocery truck?”

He shakes his head and half-smiles. “Nah, man. This is cool. If I go out like this, at least it was fair and not because anybody else here voted me to risk my life for their sorry ass.”

He pulls yet another complete stirrer, and now the jagged one is really prominent in my hand. All I can think about is how it’s dodging everyone and just staying lodged in my palm. What started as, like, a ten percent chance has turned into a one-in-four shot. It doesn’t get any better after Drew and Ashley take both their turns and are safe (I was really hoping it would have been Drew, but so much for that). I can’t fucking believe everyone’s picked clean so far. I feel like I’m holding these fuckers wrong or something. I thought for sure I’d be safe going last, but it’s all a fifty-fifty proposition now with me and Laura.

I move toward my sister-in-law and let out an audible huff. From across the counter, I hear Carrah stifle a cry or something. It’s either her husband or her sister that’s going to have to go out there into the god-knows-what. I’d feel worse about that, but I don’t really give a flying fuck if it’s Laura. I try not to look over at Carrah, though; I don’t want to draw attention to her reaction.  

Laura looks at me, but I don’t really see any hate from her. She just looks scared, really. She’s got the same odds as I do, and I guess she don’t want to go out there anymore than I do. Right where her head meets her hair, she’s beading up with sweat. She doesn’t even reach for a stirrer right away; she just stands there and studies them, like she can figure out which is which by looking real hard at my hand. I’ve heard people say shit like—how’s it go?—“you can cut the tension with a knife”, but I finally get what it means now. Nobody’s saying anything, but I can just, like, feel how tense they are. I see a few of them leaning in to watch the last straw come out. I can hear people breathing. Even without a TV or an iPod or anything the last few weeks, I don’t think I’ve ever just heard them all breathing like this. It kind of looks like some of them are wobbling, but maybe that’s just my eyes. Fuck, I wish this bitch would pick a straw already.

Laura reaches in, and her shaky hand bumps against mine. She mumbles an apology, but doesn’t make eye contact. She grabs a straw and thinks about it for a second before she pulls it out. It’s whole. She lets out a breath like she’d been holding it in for a year.

Everyone’s eyes go straight from her hand to me. They all know what it means. I open up my palm to see the straw there, and I hope that maybe I mistook the cut one when someone else pulled it, but I didn’t. The shorter one is right there in my hand. It’s me.

This is the worst part.

The End