How To Lose Weight And Survive The Apocalypse

Chapter 12

Rain. Before I was even awake, I was aware of the rain. My eyes cracked open, seeing the dark splotches on the tent roof, the steady sound soothing.

I wasn't ready to stick my head out and greet the soggy world just yet. I eased into a sitting position, tried to push away the bad thoughts: the slain cops, Bev's barrel pointing square at my heart, Rueben's pitying gaze, the taste of chocolate furtively eaten as a barrier against the feelings. Ugh. It wasn't that I'd thought going on a road trip of this magnitude would be as relaxing as a Fijian vacay, but this was turning into a Hunger Games spinoff, and I wasn't enjoying it.

Squatting in the small space, I began to pack up and dress for the day. Tights... Where are my tights? I searched under my sleeping bag and the slender sleeping pad and dug through my backpack. No sign of them.

I washed them! I grinned at having worked out the mystery, then my smile faded. Crap. I'd hung my tights and tee on the clothes line beside the toilet block – which was not undercover. In the steady rain, they were sure to be soaked.

Thoughtfully, I considered my wardrobe options. I'd worn my stretchy work pants around the fire and while I slept, but they would be thick and unforgiving during a bike ride, particularly if they got wet. What if...? The cargos peeped from my backpack, and I tugged them out. Surely they'd fit. I'd spent two full days bike riding; I could feel the strength in my thighs and the soreness of my stomach muscles. I had to have lost weight.

But not only did Gandalf forbid the pants to pass the curve of my thighs, he raised his staff even sooner than the first time I'd tried the cargos on. "How the hell is that possible?" I grumbled out loud, knowing the answer and not wanting to face it head-on.

Still, my brain smugly catalogued everything I'd eaten since Tuesday, throwing each menu item in my face. Toblerone. Bread. Vodka. More bread. Pastries. Processed protein bars. Even more bread.

My stomach gurgled, advising loudly that bread sounded pretty good right now. "No," I said to myself, disgusted with everything. I was doomed to a day of cross-country cycling in business-pant synthetic fabric, seams stretching and cracking from moisture and movement, rubbing everywhere. It was my punishment, but perhaps I could earn back some grace. "Green stuff. That's what I need."

And where would that come from? I pictured a supermarket vegetable section in all its organised perfection, each cucumber flawless, the lettuces crispy, the broccoli lush. I swore a silent curse against my past self, a rage against each time she'd had access to something healthy and alive, and had chosen processed garbage instead.

And there was an excellent chance I'd be eating only processed food for a long time, at least until I reached the farm. Maybe that's when my new, clean-living self would begin.

But then, the image of Dean marvelling at my slender form as I coasted up to my brother's house started to slip away, replaced by the picture of Dean's face creasing in pity and disgust, watching my giant butt waddle up the driveway.

No. I shook my head. I wasn't going to let it go down that way. If I couldn't eat green, I wouldn't eat at all. No more scavenged, packaged nonsense. I could diet right now.

You know you turn into a total bitch when you don't eat, murmured my stomach. "Well, it's not like I've been delightful so far anyway," I retorted, resigned to pulling on my work pants and not eating for as long as it took.

The next two days passed in a rainy blur. I'd never realised how much the precipitation would slow us down, but the driving spring showers made packing up our gear a battle. Already waterlogged, we bid farewell to Bev and co.