Pod by Stephen Wallenfels Read Free Book Online Page B

the corner of his jowls. A slick string drips to the floor. He’sstudying each move as though I’m eating some amazing food. It’s only a stupid cracker. He licks his nose, something he does when he’s begging for treats. It’s one of his two disgusting habits. The other is, at night he spends hours licking his balls like they’re hairy popsicles. The guilt is killing me. I toss him the last graham cracker. His jaws snap and it’s gone.
    “I can’t believe you just did that.”
    I almost jump out of my skin. “Jesus, Dad! When there’s aliens outside, you don’t freakin’ sneak up on people!”
    “And you don’t give our food to the dog.”
    “I’m sorry. I only did it once.”
    He’s leaning against the wall, surveying the room. His eyes zero in on the empty box of graham crackers on the coffee table. “You ate the whole box?”
    “I
finished
the box. There was like half a cube left.”
    “Our food has to last, Josh.”
    “I know that.”
    “Do you think I enjoy filling baggies with water?”
    “I said I’m sorry!”
    He looks at me like I’m this hopeless case. He thinks I don’t take the food thing seriously, but I do. It’s just we come at it from different angles. His opinion: We should start rationing. Eat less, make it last longer. My opinion: We’re going to die any second, so why not live it up? Why starve? The way I see it, the more we eat, the less we leave behind for the storm troopers.
    He says, “I think the dog should go back to sleeping outside.”
    Now Dutch is “the dog.” Unbelievable. “Why? It’s not like I’m sneaking him steaks while you’re asleep.”
    “You fed him some of your bacon.”
    I blink but say nothing. This is way beyond creepy.
    “He needs to get used to fending for himself.”
    “Fend for himself? Like he’s going to catch a squirrel or something?”
    Dad shakes his head. “Just do it. I’m tired of talking about this.”
    He leaves. I pick up the remote and point it to where he had been standing two seconds ago.
    Click.

DAY 7: LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

    Bloater
     
    I rip the last piece of bologna into three pieces. Two for me, one for Cassie.
    “You better like your breakfast,” I say, “because after this it’s mice for you.”
    While she eats, I plan out my day. The first part of the morning was wasted searching for the key to that metal box under the driver’s seat. I’ve been searching all the nooks and crannies for two days and it’s no use. The mother must have the key. Whatever is in there doesn’t matter anymore. Now it’s time to get back to the important stuff.
    First, find a new home for Cassie. Second, find more food and water for me. My stomach is growling all the time. Both things mean it’s time to do some exploring.
    But that could be a problem. If I leave the car and Momcomes back, she may think I’m dead. She’ll leave without ever seeing me. I could put a note on the windshield, but if Hoodie finds it first, he’ll know I’m here. That could get me punched in the stomach, too.
    I ask Cassie, “What do you think I should do? Leave a note or take my chances?”
    She looks up at me, then goes back to her piece of bologna.
    “What’s that? You think I should leave a note?”
    Then I think of another thing. If I leave a note and Mom sees it, she’ll wait for me. But then if Hoodie finds her before I do—I don’t want to think about that.
    It’s final. No note.
    “I’m going to find you a new home,” I say. “But you need to be careful. Don’t trust anyone. Even if they’re nice on the outside. You think they’re your friend, then they gobble you up.”
    Cassie is done. She licks her face with her small pink tongue and looks around as if there should be more. I make a cup out of my hand and pour in a little water. She laps it up, then licks my hand.
    “I know what you need,” I say, scratching behind her ears. “You need milk.” Cassie rolls over. She starts batting at my hand with her tiny claws. Now