I sit on my windowsill, my nightgown wrapped around my knees, gaze unfocussed. Outside it looks as if the black bowl of the night is tipping aside, slowly making space for the milky morning. Might as well be a bowl and not the universe.
Most of the night I’ve been arguing with myself about what could be real and what couldn’t. My ceiling, which I stared at throughout, didn’t respond to my questions. Neither did the walls, window, or the black bowl with its silver pinpricks. For lack of answers, I chewed my cheeks until the blood made me gag. Around midnight, I noticed that I’d forgotten both knife and suicide. For about an hour or two, I sat with the blade tapping against my wrists, because there it was again — this painful, useless fizz of hope that forbade me to put an end to everything. Now, I feel so stupid and naïve, I’m too ashamed to get up. But waiting doesn’t get me anywhere. My mouth hurts and tastes of metal.
Bleary-eyed, I make it to the bathroom just in time. How do women get used to this bloody menstruation business? So far, it feels like some form of massacre-related incontinence. Clamping my legs together doesn’t seem to help in the least.
In the kitchen, I drink a cup of water, slip my small knife into my back pocket, and the remaining two quarters of my shirt into the pockets of my rain jacket. I wonder if I should take a woollen pullover with me, but decide against it. It’s summer. The little rain that falls is warm enough. Besides, I might be thrown into a hastily dug hole before I can grow too cold. Ha! The play of words. I chew them and swallow the wash of contradicting aromas.
Rustling behind me and a ‘Mickaela,’ spoken softly. My mother, who looks like she didn’t sleep either, reaches out to me— a rare gesture. I take a step back.
‘We are proud of you,’ she whispers and engulfs me in her arms. I don’t know what to say. My throat clenches. Everyone enjoys hugging, but I don’t. All I feel is being trapped in a cage of rigid arms, with Mother’s need for a moment of harmony suffocating me like a wet blanket. I’ve been held previously, three or four times maybe, and I always wanted to bolt. A simple handshake would be enough if it wouldn’t feel so ridiculous. Why can’t people just look into each other’s eyes? Doesn’t that speak loud enough?
‘I need…wool,’ I stutter.
‘I keep it in the bedroom. I’ll get it for you.’ She lets go of me, and I get the feeling she’s relieved to have a task other than saying goodbye to me. But I don’t have a particularly good sense for Mother’s feelings if they’re not related to anger or disappointment. She has a way of breathing hard that tells me I’ve screwed up before she lashes out. She has a way of walking that tells me to stay out of her way — it looks and sounds as if her knees are locked and her heels are made of expensive china.
She returns with the wads and holds them out to me and then gets busy cleaning the kitchen, although she just polished it last night.
‘See you later,’ I lie and slip out the door.
Father stands in his workshop — his expression close enough to friendly — and waves through the open window. My chest does a funny contraction thing when so many of my childhood memories seem like a bad fantasy. My mind envisions two scenarios. One: The apprenticeship is real, and some of the respect paid to the Sequencer miraculously rubs off on me. Everyone will say “We always liked her.” I might even hear my parents say it after they forget how my brother died. Two: Everyone is in on the man’s plan. Everyone is eager to get rid of me.
But neither of these two theories makes much sense.
I shake my head and lift my arm, waving back at my father, before I pass through the garden gate and make my way uphill.
My brain feels oddly empty and full at the same time. Stuff races through my head, banging against my skull bones. Nothing is in order, nothing is clear. My feet are heavy, knowing full well that once I’m up there, reality will show one of its ugly faces.
The man is waiting atop the turbine housing. His stance is casual. Dark clouds are gathering behind his back. ‘We cannot stay long,’ I call. ‘A storm is brewing.’ He probably didn’t hear me, because he doesn’t even turn his head to see who’s stomping up the hill.
‘Hi,’ I say once I reach him. The bandage around his head is gone. A massive welt shows above his right eyebrow. Beneath, his irises are of such a dark brown, they are very close to black. I consider apologising for the assault, but decide against it. I’m not sorry.
‘I came because of the storm,’ he says. ‘How’s the wrench, Micka?’
I open my mouth and shut it, my eyes searching for something to say, something to change the topic. They find a silvery box in his hand. I read the label on the top right corner. MIT FireScope GenomeID. It’s the same the old Sequencer had.
He sees my gaze resting on the thing, and says, ‘We need to reach the other side of the reservoir in fifteen minutes.’
I get the feeling that he thinks faster than he talks. And off he strides, covering more ground with his long legs than I with my shorter ones. I have to run a little to keep up.
We reach the other side quickly, and he sets his machine on the ground. A capillary is extracted from a hatch on the back, extended to the reservoir’s edge, buttons are pushed, and water is sucked through the opaque tube into the machine.
‘It identifies microorganisms,’ he begins. ‘It’s impossible to analyse the hundreds of substances potentially contaminating soil and water. Not without a whole park of HPLCs, FPLCs, GCs, MALDI-TOF-MSs, spectrometers, fluorometers, and a wet-lab.’
I don’t have the faintest what he’s talking about.
‘Hence, we are using a single, but not much less complicated device,’ he continues. ‘It allows us to identify all microbes in a sample. Microbes can adapt to their environment within minutes, and they show us what their environment is made of. Some of them are indicators of harmful substances, some are harmful themselves. Do you know where your drinking water comes from?’
I nod. Of course I know. Everyone does. It comes from a well that takes groundwater from a few metres below. ‘But why do you test the reservoir?’ I ask.
‘Because rainwater flows through the topsoil into deeper soil layers. Once it reaches geological formations that make it flow horizontally, it’s called groundwater and the geological formations are called aquifers. Your reservoir constantly exchanges water with surrounding aquifers. Rainwater and meltwater also flow along the surface into the reservoir. Rivers, streams, and the like. The hills surrounding the reservoir, feeding water into it, are called the catchment area. If the soil or any waterbody in the catchment area has a problem, the reservoir water will acquire the same problem, and soon this problem will show in the aquifer below and, hence, in the water you pump from the your wells to drink, wash, and cook.’
My head spins. ‘Did you test the well water already?’ But all I really want to ask is, ‘You are a real Sequencer, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, last night.’
‘Is it okay?’
‘Patience, Micka. My analysis is not complete.’
The machine is dead quiet and I begin to wonder if it’s broken.
‘We can leave,’ he says and rolls the tube back into the hatch. The machine produces small grating sounds. ‘What you hear is the self-cleansing mechanism. It wouldn’t help if I identified microbes growing in the capillary or the machine. Therefore, capillary and machine need to be DNA-free.’
My mind is overloaded. It feels good, exhilarating. I notice that he didn’t lecture me once and didn’t call me slow or stupid.
Yet.
‘What you don’t want in your drinking water is anything that can harm you. There are several pathogens — microbes that make humans, animals, or plants ill. Vibrio cholerae, for example, is a human pathogen.’
Every child knows what Vibrio cholerae is. The first words we learn are mama, papa, cholera. In that order. “Pandemic” is a bit too complicated for toddlers, so that word comes later.
‘How could this thing kill most of us?’ I interrupt.
‘We need to find shelter.’ He points up at the sky. It hangs heavy and low and dark above our heads. Wind pushes against my back as though to urge us forward. ‘I believe you know the area better than I.’
‘Is that a test?’ I ask.
‘Of course. Everything is.’ His hair stands on end. The air is charged.
So this is it, then. I’ll have to turn my back to him and lead him into the woods. He can slam that machine on my head and my lights will go out and I’ll know nothing of what comes after. Or nothing of all this will happen and…my life will change.
I could be a Sequencer.
I nod. ‘This way.’ Rushing ahead and into the forest, I seek a low stand of trees. My neck doesn’t even tingle. I’m quite ready for change, whatever it might be.
When we climb through a dry wash, the first drops hit my shoulders. We reach a small elevation covered with spruce trees. Farther from us are pines, spruces, and the occasional oak. I point at a pine that is short enough as not to attract lightning, yet broad enough to protect us from rain and flying branches.
We crouch underneath it, our backs against the trunk, our butts poked by spruce needles. Or at least mine is. I have problems focussing on anything. Hope is growing stronger, inhabiting my stomach like a sharp-toothed beast, making it ache, pucker, and lurch.
‘What do you know about the Great Pandemic?’ he asks and BLAM! I feel like I’m back at school.
‘The Great Pandemic was caused by Vibrio cholerae and ended sixty-eight years ago, leaving only 1/2986th of humanity alive.’ That sentence comes easily because I’ve written it only yesterday, in my history finals.
‘How can it be that one small microbe killed most of us?’
‘The water…’
He tilts an eyebrow. My answer doesn’t seem to please him. I look at my shoes. ‘I…don’t know.’
‘Question everything, Micka. The Earth is one very large piece of rock that once harboured ten billion humans. Disease is as common as birth and death, and life adapted to it hundreds of millions of years ago. Cholera has been around for thousands of years. That’s a long time for humans to adjust to it, don’t you think? So how can it be possible that nearly ten billion people died of this one disease?’
His stare is intense. I feel myself growing smaller with every silent second that ticks by, while hope is screaming, “This is it, Micka, the real thing! Don’t screw up!” I see myself failing this very first test, not even an hour into my so-called probation period. It pisses me off, big time.
‘I don’t have enough information,’ I say. ‘All I’ve ever heard and read about the Great Pandemic was that so-and-so many people died because cholera suddenly and inexplicably swept over us, and that it will never happen again. All we’ve ever learned at school are a few names of cities that were hit first, when they were hit, which way the pandemic spread, and how many died in which year and place — never an answer as to why. Whenever I asked ‘why,’ people told me ‘because I said so.’’
He smiles. ‘And what does that tell you?’
‘How would I know? Maybe they don’t know, either.’
He dips his chin. ‘Historic reports of the Great Pandemic are impossible to count, and it’s impossible to read them all. Interpretations vary. Accounts vary. Whatever knowledge we can extract and whatever conclusions we draw from the breadth of information is openly shared among all Sequencers. However, what the council of each settlement chooses to believe and hence, communicate to its citizens, is often an oversimplification of what we really know.’
The first CRACK! splits the dark, hitting some poor tree deep in the woods. ‘You picked a good spot,’ he says calmly, probably noticing the tremble that ran through my back.
But it’s not fear that shakes me. It’s excitement. ‘Why are you called a “Sequencer?”’
‘We let people believe that it’s because we sequence genomes of microbes and map their occurrences and capabilities wherever we go. Our…profession…originates from a group of scientists, engineers, and historians who investigated the sequence of events that led to the demise of most of humanity. But if we were only investigating what caused what, we’d still be only a bunch of scientists, engineer, and historians. We call ourselves Sequencers because we create sequences of events.’
I swallow. ‘What events?’
‘We move settlements from one place to another, for example.’
‘And…that leads to what?’
‘A mixing of beneficial genetic traits. Thinning of unfavourable genetic traits.’
‘Are you saying that you guys are lying when you move a whole village? It’s never really cholera but some… some breeding program?’
‘A dangerously simplistic view.’ He squints up at the black clouds. ‘Cholera is a serious threat, as are the small and isolated human subpopulations.’
‘I want proof of your identity. I don’t even know your name.’
‘I haven’t introduced myself yet,’ he shouts over encroaching squall.
I wait, but he remains silent. The world around us blares with thunder, storm, and rain as if the weather wants to uproot all trees and move the whole forest to some other place.
The dry wash begins to fill — little at first, not more than a trickling of needles, soil, and water. Then, all of a sudden, a wave gushes down the hill, lapping at the small elevation we sit on, splashing us with muck. I can’t help but think of disease and poison being washed down, spreading into my village, into the lowlands and into the oceans. I’ll never again view water in the simplistic “Oh look, it comes out of the ground!” way. It’s more like… like a networking organism, maybe?
‘I’m Runner,’ he says between two thunderclaps. He bends closer and speaks with an urgency that drives goosebumps up my arms. ‘Whatever I ask of you during your probation time — two things are more important than anything else and justify breaking every assignment or order I may give you. One: Your survival. Two: Your own values. That’s it. Never risk your life, never betray yourself. Is that understood?’
‘Y-yes,’ I answer, although I’m not sure what he means by the value thing. ‘But your name isn’t proof of your identity.’
‘Do you know how Sequencers are identified?’
‘No.’
‘So how would you know if my identification isn’t faked, should I show it to you?’ He leans back against the tree. ‘Your first assignment is to survive, Micka. One week in the woods. You do not ask anyone for help. You do not contact your parents. If a search party combs the hills, you hide.’
‘My parents don’t know I’ll be here for a week?’
He shakes his head.
‘They’ll think I’m dead. They’ll be horrified.’ Why does this suddenly bother me?
‘Yes. You can abort your probation at any time.’
How helpful. Thanks very much. When he wipes rain off his face, a thought hits me. ‘You asked Ralph to kiss me.’
‘I asked him to distract you. He chose to ask you for a kiss.’
‘It was disgusting.’
‘That’s your responsibility. You said, “Okay, one kiss, no tongue. Then you go home.” Your choice, Micka. You are of age.’
I want to kick his balls. Instead, I lower my head and bite down hard on my cheeks.
He taps on the hood of my rain jacket. ‘Do you have any other questions?’
Yes, a million, but I want him gone. ‘Where and when do we meet the next time?’
‘Here. In precisely one week.’ He’s disappeared before I look up. Next to me on the soaked forest floor lies a book wrapped in clear plastic. A note is stuck on top of it. Find answers while I’m gone.
I push the note aside and read the title. The Great Pandemic.
Ugh, I am back in school.
With my hood pulled low over my face and the rain jacket wrapped tightly around my shivering frame, I press the volume to my stomach and wait for the storm to pass. The binding of Runner’s book appears weatherproof, but I don’t want to risk soaking it.
While my body is growing colder by the minute, my mind is racing. Chances are, this isn’t a bad joke after all and my life is about to take a drastic turn. Drastic is an understatement. Once news spreads, people will wonder what I’ve done to deserve such an honour. I’ll be the talk of the village, not because of something I’ve screwed up, but because of something great. Has that ever happened before? I wrack my brain and can come up with only one occasion — I managed to fix the high-pressure turbine at minus twenty-five degrees Celsius outside temperature and ten-centimetre ice buildup on the blades. It took a lot of well-measured whacks and a few new parts on the defroster unit, plus ten bloody fingertips, while my father was busy de-icing the low-pressure turbine up on the hill.
I was twelve, then, and Mother told me I might make a good turbinehouse keeper if I could improve my grades. I doubt she believed her own words. After all, I’m a girl. Sometimes I think Father only wanted to torture me with all this. Allowing me to fix his precious machines, knowing I enjoyed it, knowing I hoped for more when there was no reason for hope at all.
Ah, hope. Can one have hope without doubting? I guess not, because if there are no doubts, one would have to say “I know” instead of “I hope.” The stupidity of ungrounded expectations — that’s what optimism is. I’d rather stick to facts. Being noticed by a Sequencer, let alone being considered for an apprenticeship, is absurd. It simply doesn’t happen, and certainly not to the village idiot. Sequencer apprenticeships are so rare that hoping to receive one is like jumping out of a window expecting to fly. Sequencer apprentice… A prickling runs across my palate. I love this term.
I’m struck by Runner’s weirdness. He rarely answered any of my questions directly, only talked about something totally unrelated and gave an answer much later. He picks a potential apprentice at his very first visit. He’d said the old one suggested me, but why the blind trust? Why not look first and decide later? It would spare him a lot of trouble. Why would he do this?
I’m still not one hundred percent convinced of his identity. But he must have shown proof of it to the dean, to our physician, and maybe to someone from the council, too. Not to Ralph, though. That boy is such a dork, if anyone waves the authority flag at him (and in Ralph’s case, adulthood is authority enough), he lolls his tongue and wags his tail. He’d been so nervous because he was afraid to disappoint. He didn’t want to kiss me at all, and only used this as an emergency strategy for Runner’s request to distract me. I feel a strange mix of relief and offence. I’m glad Ralph isn’t in love, or whatever one can call it, but I also feel betrayed.
Weird.
My biggest problem with Runner is that he neither looks nor behaves like a Sequencer. But there’s only one comparison: Cacho, the old Sequencer, a quiet man who hummed and smiled a lot. With a pang, I notice that I miss the old guy. I even liked his name. It makes no sense that he’d suggest me for an apprenticeship. I haven’t done anything brilliant, especially not the few times I accompanied him up to the reservoir. I held his box and he called me “sweetie.” It made me suspicious. No one ever calls me sweetie without demanding niceties in return. Only when he left that day did I realise that he’d said it because he wanted to be friendly. He never said it again.
Runner is different, more…grating. I don’t mind, really.
My chest produces an involuntary sigh. I want this apprenticeship thing to be real. But I’ll probably pull an epic fail in the next few hours.
Should I wait for the rain to stop or should I… There, I don’t even have a clue what to do. He didn’t ask for anything heroic or cool or difficult. Stay alive, Micka. Can’t be that hard, can it?
I check the contents of my pockets, although I know what I packed. A knife for whatever purpose, pieces of an old shirt, wool. How ridiculous! Menstruation hygiene items, of all things. I could use a pullover and food instead. Maybe a sleeping bag, too. Not that I know anyone who possesses such a thing. Okay, what are the first things I need to find? Water, food, a dry place to spend my nights.
The nearest food supply would be the orchard in the valley with its peach, apple, and pear trees. It might be a bit early for harvest. I could eat rabbits, too. I’ve often hunted them during school holidays using father’s air rifle. I wonder if I should break into our house tonight and get the gun, my woollen pullover, some food, and a blanket. But if anyone sees me, I’m screwed.
My aching butt reminds me of the clumps of hemp in my pockets. I take them out and I’m about to throw them into the stream when an idea hits me: Snares!
I comb the fibres with my fingers, twist them into two long threads, then ply them tightly and secure them with knots on either end. My hemp yarn is barely the length of my arm, but it’ll have to do.
Once the rain lessens and the rumbling is far on the other side of the valley, I set off to find a rabbit trail. I install my snare between two sticks and hope that my human-stink will be washed off soon enough and that the rain doesn’t make the hemp so soft the rabbit can rip it apart. Or chew it apart.
That could be a problem. I decide to observe the snare. A nearby oak provides shelter and an elevated position. I scramble up the trunk along thick branches and pick a spot not too uncomfortable to sit. My legs are drenched and I’m shivering when I remember it’s not even midday. The rabbits won’t come until nightfall. I’m damn nervous. I have to get my brains together.
I plop off the branch and go for a walk, slowly drifting towards the valley — always careful to remain invisible — before making my way back into the forest. People will be working in the community orchard now. I’ll have to wait until nightfall, but then I can’t keep an eye on the snare and go down to pick fruits.
Hands in my trouser pockets, I stare at my boots and try to think. This absurd situation makes my brain frizzly.
What is the most important thing I need?
Yes! A shelter for the night. Something that keeps the rain outside and my body heat inside, but it must be built so that I can disassemble it fast enough — Runner doesn’t want a search party to find me, so they shouldn’t find my shelter either. The food issue will be tackled later. All is cool.
With my priorities set, I collect material for my temporary home. The spruce trees provide branches for a roof and twigs for bedding. The construction is finished around noon, or around what I suspect to be noon, because my stomach roars. When was the last time I ate something? I had an apple yesterday morning before my finals, and that’s it — an apple in twenty-four hours because I was too nervous to eat anything. And now I’m trembling with hunger and cold.
Okay, no problem. I think.
I trod to the reservoir — no one seems to be looking for me just yet — and get my fill of water. My belly makes sloshing noises when I walk back to my makeshift spruce home. The thing suddenly looks very unprofessional. I was proud of it just after I finished it. Now it seems the pathetic pile will collapse the moment I move in. Carefully, I inch my limbs in, trying not to bump against a weight-bearing branch. It’s too small for me to stretch my legs. From outside, it looks much bigger.
With hours to kill, I’m sorting through my potential food sources, and the prospects aren’t good. There’re no edible mushrooms — the season is just about to approach. The blueberries are all gone. Everyone between age five and fifteen, me included, took a bucket, a blueberry comb, and a backpack with provisions into the woods. After two weeks of this, we had stripped naked all blueberry bushes in a radius of ten kilometres around the village. Now the root cellars are filled with jam, sauce, and dried berries — unreachable for me.
The blackberries are just getting ripe, and I might be able to find a few handfuls of sweet fruits. No need to even think about nuts, they’re due in two months. If push comes to shove, I’ll eat dandelions. But…yuck.
My best bets are the rabbit trap and the community orchard. I decide that food really isn’t a problem and open Runner’s book, certain it will bring boredom galore.
The first chapter shows a picture with piles of corpses.
The Great Pandemic was caused by two bacteria, Mycobacterium tuberculosis and Vibrio cholerae, and spread across our planet in several waves, starting in the 1960s.
Factors leading to the Great Pandemic are considered to have been:
(A) Elevated atmospheric temperatures and sea surface water temperatures, resulting in better growth conditions for pathogenic bacteria.
(B) Raised seawater levels and heavy rainfalls, causing an elevation of groundwater levels, which resulted in
(C) flooding of at least 63% of all sewer lines worldwide and substantial fluxes of faecal matter into aquifers, rivers, and lakes, contaminating all major drinking water resources.
(D) Frequent long-distance travelling of Western and Central Europeans, North Americans, Australians, and Asians by air, sea, and land, facilitating the spreading of virulence factors and antibiotic resistance genes, and later, significantly accelerating the spreading of disease.
(E) Use of large amounts of antibiotics (in the range of hundreds of thousands of tonnes per year), both for the treatment of disease and for industrial meat production, leading to antibiotics contamination of soils, aquifers, rivers, and lakes, and thus triggering bacterial multidrug-resistance in a great variety of ecosystems.
(F) Spontaneous acquisition of an extremely potent virulence factor in a multidrug-resistant strain of V. cholerae, and
(G) prevalence of various multidrug-resistant strains of M. tuberculosis since the 21st century.
While we cannot ascertain whether the infection with both, tuberculosis and cholera, was the norm, we found evidence for dual bacterial infection in 879 out of the investigated 2176 bone samples. Based on these data and further analyses of bone injuries of various severity (for detailed information, refer to standard works by E.R. McCullough and A.G. Karkarov), a morbidity rate of greater than 40%, with a mortality rate of greater than 80% in the infected population, can be assumed.
And on it goes. I’ve never heard any of these explanations and — despite reading the chapter twice — I merely understand half of them. What the heck is a morbidity rate? Mortality rate is easy — that’s the number of people who died of disease. But if only 80% of the infected people died, why are more than 99.9% of humans gone? I flip to the index, but can’t find anything by Karkarov or McCullough.
The part about the antibiotics is absurd. I’ve heard about them and once I even saw one — a few spoonfuls of red powder in a sealed glass flask. It’s one of the most valuable substances to be found in our village. Zula has it locked up in his bedroom, as far as rumour goes. I can’t even imagine hundreds of thousands of tonnes of it. How could people manufacture all this? And what’s industrial meat production? Meat coming out of machines?
I snap the book shut and rub my eyes. The part with the bone injury data nags at me, but I can’t figure out why.
The sun sinks into the forest, painting trees with fire. I sit in my oak without paying much attention to the spectacle. My eyes are stuck to the snare. My stomach yowls with emptiness and anticipation. The bunch of dandelion leaves didn’t really help against the hunger. Their taste is still stuck to my tongue and all my words constrict around the white and bitter dandelion milk. I can’t think properly.
A marten sneaks across the clearing, its slender body bow-like and quick. Go away, I urge silently.
Darkness falls. The branch beneath me digs into my butt. I pull my legs up and balance on the balls of my feet. The moon is a thin sliver, providing only a little light.
The crickets begin their song and firebugs dance to the tune. I love the woods. If not for the winter, I wouldn’t understand why people moved away from the forest to live in small rectangular boxes.
A scream cuts through the night. Judging from its direction and pitch, it sounds very much like a rabbit trapped in my snare. I fall from the tree as I scramble down. My legs have fallen asleep.
Half limping, half running, I approach the trap. The rabbit’s white tail is flashing. It’s fighting, kicking and squealing in panic. I jump, my knife unclasped, and then…
The rabbit shoots across the clearing, gone in an instant.
My vibrating fingers search the spot where the sticks and my snare should be, but can’t find them. The poor animal must still have the string around its neck, probably choking to death slowly. There’s no chance I can find it in the dark. I kneel in the soft grass and groan into my hands.
When I make my way back to my spruce hut, my knees wet and muddy and my hands empty, I decide to never again hunt without proper equipment.
Then I realise I have nothing to start a fire with, not even dry wood. I couldn’t have cooked the meat and I can’t eat it raw. The risk of catching rabbit fever is too high. The animal would have died in vain.
Tired and defeated, I slip into my hut and hug Runner’s book to my chest. With hunger rumbling through my stomach and only a shirt, a pair of pants, and a rain jacket covering my skin, I drift into a fitful sleep.