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I met up with Howie at the chain link fence which now separated our housing developments. It seemed to have popped up overnight; neither of us knew for sure which night.
“Thanks for coming,” Howie said, pulling the bottom of the fence toward him and creating a hole big enough for me to crawl under. First I tossed my backpack over the fence and hoped there was nothing fragile in it. Gotta be more careful going forward.
“No problem.” I blew out all my air and crouched down, wriggling my body through the small opening. Once on the other side, I wiped dead leaves and grass off my jeans. Not that it mattered, since they hadn’t seen the inside of a WashBot in weeks.
We started down the well-worn path toward Howie’s house. The brown field cracked and crumbled under our feet. Dust swirled behind each footprint. “The contractions have been coming for a couple days now, but Mom said it’s time. They’re close. My watch...” He tapped the MeFit screen. The light wouldn’t even flicker.
“It’s fine. There’s a patch for that.” I pointed at the chip behind my ear.
“You’re still patching?” Howie stopped walking and turned around to face me. His long legs had taken him quite a way ahead.
“No, I got it a long time ago. Remember when you thought you could beat me to the tree?”
“I don’t remember you timing us.”
I shrugged.
A smile spread across Howie’s thin cheeks. “I guess that means I won, huh.”
Punching his arm, I teased, “Do you want my help or not?”
Howie’s smile faded and the green sparkle flickered out of his eyes. He lowered his head and trudged on past me. “Stone, it’s bad.”
I caught up to him and rubbed the spot on his arm where the blow had landed, trying to take it back. Poor Howie had been all alone since the Glitch. I knew how hard Mom and I had struggled lately, and she’d recovered a lot more than Mrs. Anderson. With Pettine still MIA, and his father... “I’ve been reading up on labor for a while. We got this.” I brightened my tone.
“Good cuz I’ve been so busy trying to find food and supplies, warm clothes for Marcus.” Howie shook his head.
“Where is he? He’s too little to be in there with her. It will scar him for life.” The images I had seen in my research told me I’d be scarred for life, too. All the things that could go wrong, and even if nothing did. It was all so... gross.
“I told him not to leave the attic. He basically lives up there since the Glitch anyways. He thinks he’s hiding something but I know he’s stashing candy.” Howie snorted.
“Any little bit helps.” The image of skinny little Marcus guarding a pile of candy made me smile.
“He ain’t sharin’!” We both burst into nervous laughter and walked in silence the rest of the way.
I used the quiet to rehearse the events that were about to unfold. Mom had been worried about me doing this, but we both knew she was in no shape to help. She’d attempted leaving the house a few times in the past months, but each trip weakened her worse than the one before.
Helping Mrs. Anderson deliver the new baby would have been exciting if I hadn’t done so much research. In an effort to be thoroughly prepared, I’d seen things that no one my age should see. Worst of all, I could already smell the feces the books had warned me about. Pooping on your baby’s head before it’s even born. I shook my head to jostle my senses back to the present. There’d be plenty of time for that soon enough.
Distracting myself from my worries, I mentally checked off each item that I’d thought to bring. Clean towels, hot water, scissors, blanket, sewing kit. Check.
I hadn’t been to Howie’s much in the few months since the Glitch. We’d been so preoccupied with survival. I had also assumed that he didn’t want me to see the state his house was in. With his mom still not recovering, and worrying about the baby in her belly, she wasn’t able to be a mom anymore. She was more a ward of Howie’s care than a caretaker herself. The thought of it made me glad I still had my mom in relatively one piece.
Howie opened the door and the acute odor of blood assaulted me. It wasn’t fresh blood either. Weeks old gauze pads stared at me from the overflowing trash can. I cast a startled look at Howie’s ear, relieved to find no sign of puss or ooze. Then my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I saw the origin of the stench.
Mrs. Anderson sprawled across the couch, hair and face matted with sweat. The emaciated body that had once been my best friend’s mother startled me into inaction. A vivid image of a skeleton giving birth to a tiny baby skeleton flashed through my mind. There’s no way she’s gonna survive this.
Howie nudged me into the room and flipped on the light. The scene before me burned into my retinas forever. Howie’s mom was green. Her skin, her fingernails, her eyes. But not in the cute way like Howie’s eyes were green. She had a disgusting how-are-you-still-alive green tint that should only exist in B movies.
The woman reached out a scrawny witch finger and beckoned us to her. “Where’s Eide?” Panic flitted across her face as she realized my mom wasn’t with me.
“I’m sorry. She’s... Don’t worry. I studied up. I can do it.”
Waving my words away with the same emaciated hand, she shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. It’s time.”
Holding back, I waited for Howie to step foot into the horror first. When he took his place at his mom’s side, wiping her brow with his shirt, I inched into the room.
“A-alright, let’s time the contractions.” I twitched my right eye to bring up the stopwatch app on my chip. “Let me know when the next one starts.”
“Too late for that, hun.” Mrs. Anderson unfurled the dark sheet from across her spread legs, revealing a bloody mess. In the center of that mess was a patch of black curls. It’s breathing. I gasped and stumbled back.
She let out a timid grunt and the undulating mass between her legs emerged slightly, then her body closed back around it. This in and out struggle continued between the two of them until she fell backward, out of breath.
After her panting slowed, she opened her mouth toward Howie. He dropped a handful of ice chips in, and set the cup back on the end table. “You’re gonna have to cut me.” The woman growled at me.
Eyes wide, I shook my head and inched even farther out of the room.
“Come on, Syn. We need you.” Howie begged.
I breathed deep, sucking in the rancid air of the house, and whatever courage was laying around. Digging in my bag, I pulled out an old pair of orange scissors and wiped them on my jeans. I examined the discolored, black in some spots, blades. Then I picked a ball of lint off the tip.
“Here,” Howie swished a bottle of pink liquid in my direction.
I tugged at the cork. It popped out and rolled under the couch. I poured the wine over the scissors and counted to seven, as the prepper guide had advised.
Mrs. Anderson groaned and I looked up in time to see the top of a large forehead peek out of her. I rinsed my hands in the stream of sticky alcohol and rubbed my fingers around the circumference of the baby’s head. Howie’s mom grunted and strained, but again the head slipped back inside. “Do it now.”
My grip tightened on the scissors’ handle. I place a finger in the space between the baby and Howie’s mom. Gently pushing the scissors into the crevice I snipped once, taking a quarter inch bite. She sucked in a quick intake of air at the pain and water burned my eyes, blurring the already unrecognizable mess.
“Alright, sweetie. You did great.” Howie’s mom whispered. Howie, who’d shut his eyes during the worst part, now cooed encouragement at his mother. He wiped her brow again with his shirt and pulled it the rest of the way off. I lowered my gaze to the floor. The image of a tiny patch of brown chest hair stored itself away to be dealt with later.
Another moan signaled it was time to get back to work. The mass of matted black hair emerged farther, revealing the baby’s eyes and the tip of a wide nose. Mrs. Anderson bore down, lifting her legs in the air. I took hold of the left leg and pushed it high. The baby’s face popped out. Mrs. Anderson grunted through clenched teeth, “Pull!”
Wrapping both hands around the baby’s head, I obeyed. I tugged gently at first, then harder. The shoulders wouldn’t budge. Then Mrs. Anderson let out a puff of hot putrid air and fell back again. The baby’s head sucked back in, wearing its mother like a scarf.
“Airway,” Mrs. Anderson’s chest heaved.
“I don’t have a sucker thingy. I couldn’t find one.” Panic tingled my fingers. Howie’s mom sat upright. Her green skin reddened and her eyes bulged as she forced the squirming baby out of her. She pulled the baby by its shoulders and blood and white fluid gushed out behind it.
Through my blurred eyes I watched as Howie’s mom squeezed the limp baby’s chest. I held my breath, waiting for the cry, but none came.
Howie put his hand over his mouth. A low squeak escaped. It reminded me of a puppy crying for its mommy.
Come on baby.
Mrs. Anderson put her mouth over the baby’s and sucked. She came up for air a moment later, spitting white goo on the floor. The baby’s nose and mouth scrunched up. She repeated the sucking and spitting again. This time much more goo came out and puddled with the first spit.
My chest pounded and the veins in my temples pulsed, but I held on. I wasn’t going to breathe until the baby did.
Once more, Howie’s mom bent toward the baby’s face and blew instead of sucking. She turned the baby over on its stomach and smacked its back one hard time like a ketchup bottle. Milky liquid poured from the baby’s mouth, along with a wet gurgle as its lungs expanded for the first time.
Three sighs filled the room; Howie’s, mine, and a phantom one from the hallway. Marcus.
Howie waved the nine-year-old into the room, both chests puffed with brotherly pride. “Come see your new...” He looked down at the baby.
“Sister,” his mother said.
A girl! Since Pettine had moved away, I’d been stuck with nothing but boys to play with. Not that Pettine, who was three years older than Howie, ever played with me. Or that I disliked gravball and Soldiers vs Rebels. I was good at both. But a girl! Finally!
“Evelyn.” Mrs. Anderson hugged the baby close to her chest.
Howie and I exchanged wide eyed looks. “Uh, Mom. Don’t you think that’s pushing it? You already named Marcus... Marcus.”
The spent woman reached a frail hand toward her son. “We must never forget. I’m sorry I wasn’t brave enough with you and Pettine.” Everyone hushed at the mention of Howie’s missing sister. With my job done, I felt like an intruder, watching this intimate familial scene. I wanted nothing more than to run, but didn’t dare move.
Instead, I raised my hand to pat Howie on the back and reassure him that things will be fine, saw the flaking blood and mucus around my fingernails, and dropped it to my side. Mrs. Anderson motioned for the scissors and used them to cut the umbilical cord. She wrapped a rubber band around the tip still attached to the baby.
The baby — Evelyn — rooted in her mother’s arms. Mrs. Anderson lifted her ragged nightgown and attached her to suckle. “We’re not done.” She leaned back with the baby and spread her legs again. “The placenta. Check it.”
My attention turned to the area between the woman’s legs where a fleshy blob hung. Steeling myself, I ran the afterbirth through my fingers, searching for rips or holes. It felt like a slimy fishing net in my inexperienced hands. Howie, taller by at least three inches, took the mass from me and held it up to the bare light bulb. He examined it closely for a minute then wrapped it in a plastic bag from his pocket. “It looks good, Mom. I’m gonna go outside and bury it.”
//Bury it?// I chipped as I followed him to the door.
Once outside, I inhaled the first lungful of air since arriving at Howie’s. It was nothing but smoke and dirt dust, but decidedly better than the horror inside.
Howie answered out loud, “Mom thinks it will help the garden, so I’m gonna do it.” He shrugged. The glob of tissue hung between his fingers, dripping too close to my feet.
“She was right about boiling the water.” I agreed.
“Yeah, can’t hurt anyway.”
As we knelt by the piddling garden in Howie’s back yard, digging in the soil with our hands, I was reminded of the times we’d spent just like this as kids. Playing in the dirt, side by side. Only, I became acutely aware that we weren’t kids anymore. With everything that had happened to us with the Glitch, and Howie before the Glitch with his father. I knew those innocent days were long gone.
Especially now, as I was doing my best not to notice that Howie was still sans shirt, and the patch of brown chest hairs were staring me right in the face.
I stood, muttered something about checking on Brooks, and took off.
Howie chipped, //Thanks!// at the back of my head as I picked up speed.
The stopwatch app still ticked away in my mind as as I darted across the dry field, wondering what mess awaited me at my house. Probably nothing weirder than this.
###
BOY WAS I WRONG.
My mom, who hours earlier couldn’t get out of bed to help deliver Howie’s baby sister, sat on the couch with Brooks curled up in her lap. Dad’s ornate glass chess set was on the coffee table, almost fully set up. As I passed behind them toward the kitchen, amazed that I could be hungry after what I had just witnessed, Mom explained to Brooks how the bishop moved. He swatted it away and said, “No I wanna be the horsey. You be the pointy guy.”
Mom laughed and said they both got to be every one of the guys. This elicited a gasp from Brooks and a groan from me.
Forgoing food, I tried to sneak past them and run upstairs. But Mom’s ‘mom hearing’ hadn’t been damaged as much as the rest of her in the Glitch.
“How’d it go with the baby?” Mom asked over her shoulder.
I silently made an ‘aww shucks’ motion with my arm and answered. “It’s a girl... Mrs. Anderson named her... Evelyn.”
Mom’s head snapped around, as quickly as possible in her physical state. I knew any movement at all pained her dearly, and maneuvered myself around the couch so we’d be eye to eye. She stared at me for a moment, waiting for me to take it back, I guess. Then her hand went to her mouth and the black queen fell to the floor. Brooks dove out of her lap after it, and I scooped him and the abandoned queen up.
She stammered a bit, no actual words forming, then whispered, “Dear Stone.”
As if by command of the spoken name, my hand instinctually dropped into my pants pocket and clutched the two stones, mine and Dad’s. Mom did the same, although hers was hanging around her neck on a black nylon cord.
After gathering her strength Mom asked, “Why would she do such a thing?” as if I’d have the answer.
“I don’t know.” I stood Brooks at the coffee table and motioned for him to finish setting up the chess board. He proceeded to tip the pieces over, one by one, instead. I continued, “Howie wasn’t happy about it. That’s for sure.”
“No I should think not. It’s unwise, especially after...” Mom didn’t finish.
Rumors has been circulating since day one of the Glitch that it was an inside job. Nobody had ever believed the lunatic Truthers who stood on street corners ranting about corruption and the end of the world. Until it happened. Now they were everywhere, and harder to ignore.
Mom shook her head and snapped back to the present. “Well, join us for a game of chess, will you?” She motioned to the board where Brooks had started trying to stack the castles on top of each other.
“No way.” I headed for the kitchen, deciding my stomach wouldn’t wait any longer. “Besides, he’s only four.”
“Your dad started with you when you were four.” We both flinched at the mention of him, but it was getting easier to slip him casually into conversations now.
“Yeah,” I called back to her as I raided the fridge, “and I hate it!”
After loading my arms with scavenged junk food, and the one apple because Mom said so, I ran upstairs to the glorious silence of my room. It took about thirty seconds for that silence to be too much, and I turned on Dad’s radio.
Fox sounded different. Hollow. And he wasn’t talking about the Glitch. At least not directly. I turned up the volume to investigate.
“This is not the time for finger pointing and name calling. It’s a time of mourning. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, until you people get the message. We don’t have all the facts. You can’t go around screaming about conspiracies and murder just because it makes you feel important. Or funny. Whatever kick you get from it. Real people lost their lives in the Glitch. People! Mothers and fathers. Sons and daughters. That’s what we should be talking about.”
//Howie, are you listening to Fox? Something’s wrong.// I didn’t expect an answer and I didn’t get one.
Fox’s voice cracked and he took a moment to compose himself. “We owe it to everyone who lost their lives that day... everyone who’s lost their lives since... or has a life barely worth fighting for now. We owe it to them, their memory, to bring this nation back to what it once was.”
The sun had dropped below the horizon and my eyes wanted to follow it. I noticed that I wasn’t quite sitting up on my bed anymore. I was slipping lower and lower, getting comfortable. But I was mesmerized by Fox. I had to figure out what was wrong with him. I bit into the apple and leaned back against the wall. I started to shove the pillow behind my back, but decided against it. I needed to stay sharp.
//Howie?// I tried again just in case. Still no answer.
“When will it end? Will you muckrakers not stop until you’ve caused a second uprising? And then what? Haven’t we lost enough loved ones already?” Fox nearly choked on the last words.
Even in his obvious distress... grief? Whatever it was, his voice still had that soothing quality about it. Soon I found myself slid back to a prone position, the apple long since fallen on the floor and rolled to Stone knows where. Fighting sleep, I raised my eyebrows high and forced my lids open.
It was pitch black outside, which didn’t give as much of a clue about the time as it used to. High noon was barely brighter than dusk with all the haze in the air. My exhaustion was a better timekeeper, and I gave myself permission to slip into oblivion.
The last thing I heard, somewhere between falling asleep and landing, was Fox’s voice cracking one more time as he recited lines from a poem.
“For death and life,
With ceaseless strife
Beat wild on this world’s shore;
And all our calm is in that balm,
‘Not lost, but gone before’”