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The Fishoeder mansion is big and empty in the worst way possible. Louise stares up at the ceiling, trying to muster the will to get out of bed. Does it count as a bed if it’s a couch? There are other rooms she could sleep in, but the couch in Mr. Fishoeder’s room is the only place Louise feels safe anymore. Everywhere else feels too open. Too exposed. Too far from him.
He’s not in his bed. She can’t hear the nasal whistle of his breathing. Mr. Fischoeder doesn’t snore. She used to complain about how Tina and Mom snored and talked in their sleep. Now, the thought of them makes her head hurt.
“They’re at home,” Louise tells herself, bracing for the sight of… something. She doesn’t know what. She half expects something to jump out at her every time she moves. She wasn’t scared, exactly. Not really. Louise Belcher wasn’t a kid easily scared by the things around her. Instead, a strange sense of anticipation was building on a flat, unmoving field of numbness. There are sounds from the kitchen. It’s not too far from Mr. Fischeoder’s room. A small door in the bathroom leads to the servant’s bedroom, which, in turn, leads right to the kitchen. She cuts through the servant’s quarters, gripping the peewee baseball bat Mr. Fischoeder gave her. Those three rooms have been their lives for the last few days: kitchen, servant’s quarters, bedroom. Sometimes, Louise refuses to go in the bathroom unless she knows Mr. Fischeoder is keeping it for monsters. She’s not scared. She’s just being practical. She thinks she’ll see that strange version of herself whenever she looks in the mirror—the one with all of the wrong proportions and the droopy nose that looks like an uncircumcised penis.
Louise peeks around the corner into the kitchen. It’s a strange, cramped little place. She remembers it vaguely from when Mr. Fischoeder hired them to be his family that one Thanksgiving.
“Oh, for the love of-” Mr. Fischoeder curses. Louise clears her throat. He starts, turning around. He’s holding a knife. Behind him are vegetables. Sort of. She can’t quite tell what they might have been. Mr. Fischoeder has massacred them. He’s worse at dicing than she is, and something is going in a pan on the stove. It lets out a foul smell, black smoke wafting up to where Louise can see Mr. Fischoeder has disabled the fire alarm. It hangs by its guts from the ceiling, with wires and batteries on full display. It seems wrong, somehow, to see a fire alarm like that. Dad always made them check on the fire alarms, to the point he seemed almost paranoid about them. He’d always have Louise climb up on his shoulders so that she could-
They’re waiting at home. They’re all watching a movie. Maybe one of Dad’s crappy old-timey movies or one of those terrible musicals Mom likes.
“Mr. Fischoeder, are you… cooking?”
“What?” Mr Fischoeder asks, as though Louise just suggested he’s eating human meat or committing tax fraud. He steps in front of the butchered veggies, turning off the stove. “Of course not! I just…” He trails off. He does not have an excuse. They both know it.
Mr. Fischoeder has only tried to cook once before. At least, that Louise saw. She tried to make scrambled eggs. In the end, they were less scrambled and more slightly charred. Louise had found some garlic and pepper. That had done a lot to make it edible, at least. Dad always said that if garlic couldn’t save a dish, nothing could.
Louise grabs her stool from the pantry, dragging it in front of the kitchen. “Let me see,” Louise says, and she doesn’t miss how Mr. Fischeoder looks at her with his one good eye. There is something soft about him like this. It reminds Louise of how Dad would look at her when he was proud of her, like she had done something good.
Louise wasn’t used to being the good one. Not even when she was the only one left.
They’re waiting for her at home.
Mr. Fischeoder hands Louise a wooden spoon. She lifts the lid and is greeted by a strange, oily smoke. In the pan is bacon. It’s been frying for too long, and it looks strange and shriveled, all black and curly at the edges. “I need a plate,” Louise says.
Mr. Fischeoder gets a plate and brings it to her. She should have told him to put a paper towel on it, but it's too late. Gingerly, she lifts the bacon, hissing when the oil lands on her knuckles.
“Do we have eggs?”
Mr Fischeoder already has some of the eggs out. His house still has power, although Louise isn’t sure how, exactly. He tried to explain it to her one night while they watched one of his old man movies on DVD. He had a fancy DVD player. Better than anything Louise had ever seen outside of a store and commercials.
Louise cracked one of the eggs into a little bowl just to be sure. When they all came out, whisked them, tossing in a dollop of sour cream, some garlic salt, and pepper. Then she put some oil in the pan, turned the oven on, and waited briefly before she poured the eggs in. “You have to cook them at a lower heat.” Louise says to Mr. Fischoeder. She starts tearing up the bacon into bite-sized pieces. “Watch the omlet.” She tells him before she slowly enters the pantry.
The pantry is a tall, dark place. In the dark, it seems like the ceiling stretches up forever, shelves and shelves of fancy food and canned nonsense that Louise can’t even begin to name stacked into oblivion. She finds the fridge in the back, bathed by the glow of the fridge light. She doesn’t know why Mr. Fischeoder has two fridges- one in the pantry and one in the regular kitchen. She’d asked him why once, and he’d just shrugged. Mr. Fischoeder didn’t seem like the person who bothered with the small day-to-day things. She wondered who had made the kitchen. Had they been the ones to put in the second fridge? She thinks Dad would have liked to have an extra fridge. He probably would have liked Mr. Fischeoder’s stovetop, too. It’s brand new, all shiny black induction burners with a sleek sci-fi design, like something out of that old British show about the time travelling guy that Dad made her watch, even though it was dumb and boring.
Louise finds the cheese. She debates, taking a couple of onions from the crisper, which seems like a bit much. Too many vegetables for breakfast. She checks the freezer, trying to figure out if there are any frozen veggies in there, but she can’t see high enough.
She leaves with the cheese. She doesn’t bother asking Mr. Fischoeder to check.
By the end of it, they have two omelets. Mr. Fischoeder and Louise sit in the corner at the funny little card table. The stools are too short, so Mr. Foschoder has to sit awkwardly hunched. A piece of egg catches on his lip, falling onto the linoleum tile. He looks so sad for a moment that it makes Louise start laughing. It’s a good laugh, even though she ends up crying by the end. The feeling of laughing- that high, happy swelling in her chest- makes her think of Gene for a minute. The way he was before that dumb cruise—gene, with his dumb keyboard, fart jokes, and that stupid burger costume.
Louise misses him so badly that it leaves a horrible panging ache behind when she thinks about it. Before she knows what’s happening, Mr. Fischeoder is holding her the same way Mom used to, and that makes Louise cry harder, ‘cause she’s never gonna see her mom again, is she? She’ll never watch Tina’s pony show again, listen to Dad while he talks to his food with that funny high-pitched voice of his, or play pranks with Gene.
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.
.
Louise keeps saying they’re waiting for her at home, but they’re not, are they?
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The thing people have yet to tell you about an apocalypse is that things can get really, really boring. There is little to break up the monotony of day-to-day life now. Louise half misses the restaurant. At least in the restaurant, she had something to do. Now, it’s just her and Mr. Fischoeder. Well, technically, there are also the carnies and the One-Eyed Snakes. On days when they’re particularly bored, Mr. Fischeoder will coax Louise to the deck, where they will watch WonderWharf from the tower. The Carnies have made it clear that they don’t like Mr. Fischeoder. Neither do the One-Eyed snakes. There’s a shocking amount of overlap between the Oney-Eyed Snakes and the Carnies. All of them are holed up at the Wharf now. Louise likes to watch them as they go about their lives, patrolling the gates of the Wharf and occasionally using a dinghy to row across the narrow strip of bay that separates the wharf from the Fischoeder’s mansion.
The first time they showed up was only a few days after Mr. Fischoeder saved Louise. She doesn’t remember exactly why they came over other than to give Mr. Fischoeder food. The first one to see her was a dude Louise half-recognized as one of Mickey’s buddies.
“Hey there, little girl.” He’d crouched down the way adults did when they wanted to be less threatening. “The hell are you doin here?”
“I’m staying with Mr. Fischoeder.” Louise told him. “What are you doing here?”
The man hesitated. “And you… wanted to stay with him?”
“Answer the question, buddy.” Louise crossed her arms.
“Well, we uh… Mr. Fischoeder has something we need.”
“And you have something he needs?” Louise guessed.
“...Sort of.” The Carnie said. “Hey, he didn’t like… kidnap you, right?”
Louise scowled. “No. Of course not.”
“Right.” The carnie nodded, seemingly unconvinced. “You know, you might be safer if you come with us. Mr. Fischoeder is nice, but he’s a pretty weird guy. Isn’t he?”
“And I’m a weird kid.” Louise replied. “I’m staying. Plus- stranger danger? Ever heard of it?”
“...Right.” The carnie stood awkwardly. He falters, just like Dad used to, and stretches. His back gives a pop, and he groans. “We come here every week. Just let one of us know if you ever need anything, alright?”
Louise didn’t have the time to reply before he was gone, and she was alone again, half spying on Mr. Fischeoder.
Now, she doesn’t need to bother with spying. Mr. Fischoeder lets her hang around whenever the Carnies show up. Louise isn’t stupid. She knows that he only lets her hang around ‘cause the fact that he’s got a little girl with him makes him seem more sympathetic. Without the white suit and unimaginable wealth, he’s just an old man- an old man that the Carnies could easily get rid of if they had a good enough reason. But having Louise makes him seem less insane and more like someone’s grandpa. Not Louise’s grandpa, certainly, but he must be someone’s grandpa.
Then again, if Mr. Fishoeder had any kids, Louise thinks she’d have seen pictures of them by now. There are only pictures of Mr. Fischeoder and Felix. There are one or two of their parents that she’s found. Big, commissioned portraits of the two of them sitting in clothes so expensive Louise has to wonder how many of their bills might have gone into paying for them. Mr. Fischoeder’s dad does look like hers, though. She tries not to look too hard at pictures of him when they pop up. He’s just like her dad if he’d been a little richer. Or maybe just a little sadder. Despite all of the fancy clothes, there are wrinkles around his eyes that Louise recognizes from her parents, and a deep, abiding sense of exhaustion permeates his very existence.
Louise thinks about her family a lot, too. She likes to write about them and make notes in some of the old, blank journals that Mr. Fischoeder has. She tries to remember everything about them that she can. She writes about Gene and his keyboard and Tina and her horses. She even includes some of Tina’s zombie stories, just ‘cause they make her laugh when she thinks about them. Then, she thinks about Tina, and she stops laughing 'n starts crying again.
Which is dumb, isn’t it? She shouldn’t be missing them this bad. This is everything she’d ever wanted. No restaurant. No school. No stinky brother and sister, blowing their fumes at her.
Louise misses them so bad it hurts.
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The Carnies stop by one day, and Louise waits for them on Mr. Fischoeder’s private beach. There are seven of them. Some nod and wave at her, but they aren’t who she’s looking for. “Mickey!” She calls out.
“Hey, baby Belcher.” He says, ambling closer. He’s got something in his arms- a massive crate of something dumb and boring, probably. “How’s the boss man doing today?”
“He’s good,” Louise stands on tiptoes, trying to peek into the box. “What you got there?”
“Not much,” Mickey drawls, purposely moving the box higher so she can’t see it. Louise knows what that means.
“Come on, let me see!” She grabs at the box, but Mickey evades her.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Louise.” He says. “I haven’t got anything good!”
He’s teasing her, and Louise hates it. “Come on, Mickey!”
“Fine, fine- Jeremy, hold this?”
Jeremy doesn’t get much of a say as Mickey sets his own box on top of the one Jeremy is holding. From the box emerges a chocolate bar. A real, honest-to-good chocolate bar.
“Oh my god!” Louise screeches. “Mickey, I have never loved you more.”
“Well, it’s the least I can do.” Mickey hands the bar over, and Louise wastes no time in ripping it open. She snaps a few chunks off, shoving them in her mouth. It is sweet and slightly gritty. The kind of chocolate that she only ever got on holidays, ‘cause full bars of it were too expensive.
They all start walking towards the mansion. Louise hangs back, trying to peek into their boxes. A few of the more tolerant carnies let her see inside, chuckling when she’s disappointed by the lack of candy or junk food. It’s just canned crap. Sometimes they bring eggs, or veggies, or fruits. But that’s been happening less and less as the weeks wear on. They even put the stuff away in the kitchen. Not that Mr. Foschoeder really cares one way or another. Louise has found that he’s not a very neat person. If she doesn’t at least half try to pick stuff up, he’ll just leave it lying there. She doesn’t think anyone ever told him to pick up after himself. Or maybe he’s just messy like Gene was. Is.
“Hello there, Michael.” Mr. Fischoeder makes his grand entrance once everything has been put away.
“Just Mickey, sir.”
“Ah, yes. Mickey.” Mr. Fischeoder is still in his pajamas. To be fair, so is Louise. But that’s only ‘cause she doesn’t have another outfit. He starts rummaging around. “Thank you for the supplies. The beans especially. I’ve always been a rather large fan.”
“Yeah, Mr. Fish. Now, about our payment…” Mickey trails off.
“Ah, yes, let me-”
“We wanted to renegotiate.”
Mr. Fischoeder frowned in the way that he did when he was nervous about where a conversation was going. Louise knew that look, too. He used to give it to all three Belcher kids whenever he ran into them on the street and they started talking. “Renegotiate? I believe I’ve been more than generous, Mickey, allowing your little… commune… to remain in my Wharf and use my power.”
“You have! You have.” Mickey said quickly. “And we love that! We do! It’s more that we have an… investment opportunity, so to speak.”
That got Louise’s attention. She had largely been sitting on her stool by the card table, eating her chocolate as she observed. Louise Belcher had always been a businesswoman, though, and she liked the sound of an investment. “Do you, now?” She asked, cutting off whatever Mr. Fischoeder was about to say.
“We do!” Mickey nodded, maybe a little too enthusiastically. “Look, Mr. Fish- things are getting worse on the mainland.”
“...Worse?” Mr Fischoeder’s brows knitted together. “How much worse?”
Mickey glanced at Louise. “...Should she…?”
“I’m fine!” Louise cut in quickly.
“By worse I mean more dangerous.” Mickey said. “People keep getting… I don’t fuckin know. Bodysnatched? More and more every day. We know there are a handful of private islands. We were all hoping we could try and check one of them out. Maybe establish something a little better for ourselves.” Mickey looked pointedly at Louise. She stared back at him, frowning.
Mr. Fischoeder was looking at Louise too, and she didn’t like it. “What?”
“...I see.” Mr. Fischeoder nodded. “Right then. What do you need me for?”
“Our dinghies won’t cut it.” Mickey told him. “We know that you have your own boats. We’d need to borrow them if we were to scout out some of the islands. Then we’d come back for everyone else at the wharf.”
“And for us?”
“And for you.” Mickey nodded. “What’dya Mr. Fish?” He stretched out a hand.
“Let’s call it a deal.” Mr. Fischoeder clasped his hand, shaking it firmly. “Now, Young Belcher, I need some help. It seems that I have waylaid my reading glasses…”
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“I can’t believe you’d just agree to that.” Louise fumed, as Mr. Fischoeder flipped through his DVDs. “How do we know we can trust them?”
“Do you feel like watching a Western, or FRIENDS?” Mr. Fischeoder asked.
Louise scowled at him. “Are you even listening to me?”
“What do you want me to do, Louise?” Mr. Fischeoder sighed. “Tell them no? Give up on survival? An island might be the only way out of this.”
“But- but-” Louise frowned. “What if I have to leave you? What if… What if there’s something worse on the islands? Or-”
“Whatever is on those islands cannot possibly be any worse.” Mr. Fischoeder said. He sounded so certain- maybe that was what drove Louise up a proverbial fuckin wall.
“How can you know that? And besides- we’re fine here!”
“But they aren’t.” Mr. Foschoeder pointed out. “I’ll give you a little business lesson, Louise: when the people supplying you goods and services start to die, it makes obtaining those goods and services even harder.”
Louise was silent. “I’m going to bed.”
“You don’t want to watch a show?”
“No.” Louise told him, even though it was a lie. She curled up on her couch, facing away from him. “Now go away.”
He didn’t move.
“I said, go away!”
Still nothing. Louise looked up. Mr. Fischoeder was watching her. “If I had a daughter, I always imagined she’d look like you.”
“I don’t want to leave.” Louise whispered, hating herself for admitting it.
Mr. FIshoeder scooted towards her, collecting Louise in his arms. “I know.”
“I like it here.”
“So do I. But it’s not safe anymore.”
“But why?” Louise asked. “It’s not fair! I just got here with you, and we just started settling down, and now we have to leave. I’m so tired of leaving!”
“But I’ll go with you, won’t I?” Mr. Fishoeder pointed out. “I’ll be there. Even if…” He trailed off.
“God, you suck. Finish a damn sentence once and a while.” Louise sniffled.
Mr. Fischeoder laughed at that. Really, properly laughed. It sounded almost a little unhinged. It was probably the best sound Louise had heard in a long time, though.
“I’m going with you.” Mr Fischeoder said again. “Don’t you worry about it, Burger Baby.”
Louise sniffled. “Promise?”
He smiled. “Promise.”
Louise curled into him. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend that he was Dad. She didn’t feel too guilty about pretending. She knew that when Mr. Fischoeder held her, he pretended that Louise was Felix. They fell asleep like that, Mr. FIschoeder holding Louise like she was something precious.
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Out in Seymour’s Bay, New Jersey, right above Bob’s Burgers, there is a family. It is not the family she left behind. They are waiting for her to come home.