The second corpse Naomi saw was her husband. Scott died on the 17th day of the plague, 10 days after the start of the city quarantine, and before she had even figured out how to keep breathing, Macy was sick. For Naomi, the world shrank to her daughter’s small body, to the next rattling breath, and the next, to the rhythms of fever and chill, sponge and cover, and the constant coaxing of broth, water and herbal tinctures down a small, unresponsive throat.
They had lost contact with Piper right after the plague broke the boundaries of the city. Scott had been trying to arrange for her to join his sister and brother-in-law in Michigan, but plane tickets couldn’t be bought at any price, and he didn’t want her driving cross-country alone. Failing that, he had tried to convince her to head for their cabin on Carrol Lakes just outside of Woodland Park. If worse came to worst, he told her, they would join her there as soon as they could leave the city. Piper, being Piper, had stalled. She didn’t want to leave her studies, didn’t want to leave her friends, and most of all, didn’t want to admit the situation could be that serious.
The last time they spoke, Piper had mentioned a friend whose family lived in the mountains, but the call had dropped before she had given them a name or an address, and Naomi hadn’t been able to reach her since. Service had been spotty at best – the lines were simply overwhelmed by a frantic world trying to connect with loved ones.
Piper didn’t even know her father was dead. Naomi tried her number hundreds of times a day, whenever her hands weren’t soothing Macy, preparing medicines, or caring for the few animals she had left. Just hours before he had died, she and Scott had argued terribly over the pets.
“Naomi, for God’s sake, think for once instead of just feeling!” He had to pause to cough and cough and cough, then to catch his breath. “I know you love them. I know they depend on you. But so does Macy, and you’ve got to take care of yourself, too! Your heart is too soft – you’re not going to survive this, if you don’t lighten the load!”
She hadn’t been able to answer him, throat locked closed with grief and hurt, stricken into silence by the harsh words from her tender husband. They were the last coherent words he spoke to her. Shortly after, he had drifted into a fevered world of muttered nonsense, interspersed with moments of terrifying clarity. She would give anything to forget some of the things he had said.
“Piper!” His eyes had flown open. “No, oh no, I’m so sorry!” His eyes were lucid but filled with horror when they met hers. She reached out to soothe, but he gripped her hand so hard her knuckles grated together. “So broken, Naomi, she’ll be so broken. She’ll need you so much, but she’ll push you away. Don’t let her! She’ll die of the shame if you don’t help her. Promise me you’ll help her - promise me!”
Naomi had nodded, beyond fear, beyond despair. Still clutching her hand, Scott eased back on his pillows, but his eyes darted frantically, watching something she could not see. His face crumpled, and he sobbed a single terrible sob. His head rolled on the pillow, his lucid gaze met hers again, and he smiled with tears filling his eyes. “Macy will be okay, Naomi. I promise. She’ll be okay.”
A cold like Naomi had never experienced had radiated from her core at his words. She had leaned to kiss his forehead, murmuring nonsensical words of comfort, to hide the shudders that wracked her. When she leaned back, his eyes were closed, his face peaceful. He died less than an hour later.
In a numb twilight, Naomi had smoothed and straightened the covers around him, checked on a sleeping Macy, then had started complying with his last request. Macy’s mice were released in the yard, the fish dumped on the compost. Then she released Poseidon from his cage and carried him outside on her leather-protected forearm.
Her body almost betrayed her then, and she had to stand for several minutes, swallowing, swallowing the sobs back down, face turned away from the big Macaw while he shifted and muttered on her arm, unsettled by her behavior. When she had regained enough control to look at him, he turned his head nearly upside down – what Scott used to call his “charmingly inquisitive act” – and asked, “S’up?”
Naomi had given up her battle against the grief then. She launched Poseidon into the air - he flew to the nearest tree and roosted there, screeching his dismay, while she ran into the house, hands over her ears. She couldn’t handle any more loss, just couldn’t. In the morning, she would assess how much food remained for the other animals, and make the necessary plans. But she hadn’t made it that far, waking in the middle of the night instead to Macy’s moans as she shook and burned with fever.
The days had blurred together since then, as Naomi tried everything she could think of to save her daughter. She read every book she had on herbs – even ended up throwing one across the room because it could tell her how to make a lovely potpourri, but not how to help her daughter breathe. Before they lost the internet, she had scoured websites for information, finally stumbling across a master tonic recipe which seemed to help, along with some poultices. This morning, for the first time, Macy appeared to be sleeping easily.
Naomi couldn’t count the number of times she had smoothed her hand over Macy’s heated face, and she did it again now as the morning sun streamed in the window. Definitely cooler. She sat back in her chair, and just watched the rise and fall of Macy’s chest for long, long minutes – still a whistling wheeze, but the deadly rattle had retreated.
She didn’t think about hope – didn’t even let the word enter her head – but her shoulders dropped a fraction as a tiny bit of tension eased. Her fingers slid through Piper’s number on the cell that rarely left her hand; she didn’t need to lift it to her ear to hear the “all circuits are busy” message. She closed her eyes, and rubbed her hand over her heart. She could feel her daughter there, alive, she just knew it. She placed the cell phone on Macy’s bedside table, and for the first time since Scott had sickened, she took a huge, gulping, shuddering breath.
The room around her looked like a cyclone had hit it. She had been sponging off in the bathroom across the hall and just dropping her dirty clothes wherever they landed; likewise with Macy’s soiled pajamas and bed sheets. Every surface was cluttered with bottles and books, basins of water, used poultices and mugs of broth. In the corner of the room, curled up on one of her discarded sweatshirts, Persephone watched her with liquid eyes. And on one of the upper shelves of the bookcase, Ares was doing his best sphinx imitation, tail swishing, green eyes slitted.
“Hey, guys.” Naomi’s voice crackled – she hadn’t spoken above a murmur in weeks. “Are you okay? Are you hungry?”
She held out her arms to Persephone, and the little dog shot across the room to huddle in her arms. Her small, sturdy body shook with tremors of anxiety and joy, and Naomi closed her eyes, burying her nose in the soft fur – familiar, warm, musty scent of dog. “Come on. While she’s sleeping, let’s go see about some breakfast.”
The kitchen was as bad as Macy’s room, dirty dishes teetering on every counter and littering the top of the table. Whenever she had thought to, Naomi had thrown down food and water for the animals, but she had no earthly idea who had been eating what. One of the cats had thrown up a hair ball by the sliding glass door, which made her frown – usually Zeus gobbled them up before she could get to them, easily his most disgusting habit. His food dish was still full, too. Before she even started looking for him, she knew.
Other than caring for Macy, Naomi had taken the time to do only one thing: Tend to Scott’s body. There was no one to call, no one to ask for help. So she had stolen moments to wash him, to say goodbye to the body she had loved and slept beside, to kiss his beloved strong hands, and finally to wrap him in his favorite afghan. She didn’t have the strength to carry him down the stairs, to dig a grave and bury him, so she had ended up wrapping him in plastic tarps, which she had sealed with duct tape. She had laughed and cried as she’d completed that last step – Scott had enjoyed a life-long love affair with duct tape, and she swore she could feel his amusement at her desperate innovation.
She found Zeus just where she knew she would, curled up against Scott’s body in their bed, his head resting on Scott’s chest. She smoothed her hand over his cold, silky ears, and sobbed. “Oh, Zeus. Thank you for going with him. He’ll be so happy for the company. What a good dog.”
~~~
Grace worked for two days, trying to dig graves for her family. Finally, exhausted, with bleeding hands, she made herself stop. She had barely made it 3 feet down, even though she’d dug in the garden where the soil was soft. She needed a Plan B.
The plague had hit Limon in the first wave: Mrs. Dunwoody, the organist at the Methodist church, had collapsed in the middle of a Sunday morning service. Grace couldn’t believe people had been stupid enough to help her – had they not been listening to the news? If it had been up to Grace, Mrs. Dunwoody would have died where she lay instead of infecting half the church, including Grace’s grandfather.
Her mother had sickened next, her stepfather and Benji the very next day. She knew she wasn’t supposed to call for help, but she had tried anyway. Nobody answered at the local medical clinic or the police station. She finally reached a man at the fire department, who had promised to send someone, but no one ever came. On the morning of the 5th day, Grace woke to find Benji and her stepfather already gone. Her mother had lingered for a few more hours.
“Dead.” Grace said the word aloud to the huge, prairie sky. “They’re dead. Mom is dead. Wayne is dead. Benji…” Her voice broke, her breath hitched. Sweet baby brother. “Benji is dead.”
She could not permit herself to start crying. To start might mean never stopping. She kept making herself repeat the facts, deal with the reality. She hadn’t suffered so much as a sniffle – she assumed that meant she was one of the less-than 1% that was immune. It also meant she had a duty. Grace wasn’t a spiritual person – she didn’t know how she felt about God or any other idea of deity – but she understood her responsibility to humanity. The president’s speech had riveted her, and his words were lodged deep in her heart. She had survived, and it was her job to go on, to help rebuild.
She leaned her shovel against the house, and stretched with her hands fisted in the small of her back. She had run out of food completely this morning after rationing for days, and she could feel her body weakening. They had lost phone service some time during her family’s illness – she wasn’t sure when – so the most logical thing to do was get in the car and go see what she could find.
She hadn’t heard from William in well over a week, and this was one fact she could not force herself to dwell on. The last time they talked, one of his little brothers had been sick. She had promised to call the next day, but kept getting a busy signal. She hadn’t even tried since.
Their ranch was the closest – it was logical to start there. Grace went back in the house, showered and changed her clothes. Even as she fussed with her appearance, she recognized the stall tactics in her behavior. William wouldn’t care if her hair was dirty and her clothes covered with grime – he would just be happy to see her. She took several deep breaths, then made herself leave the bathroom. She found the keys to her mother’s truck hanging by the door and headed out.
The roads were deserted. Grace crept along at a snail’s pace, disoriented, a little dizzy, inexplicably terrified to be outside. She lifted her hand to her head – was she getting a fever? Her forehead was cool and dry, but she was breathing too quickly. Panic, she realized, and forced down a deep breath, muttering calming nonsense to herself. “Take it easy. You’re fine. Everything’s okay. Just keep swimming.”
But no amount of positive self-talk could unknot her stomach muscles as she turned into the Harris family’s driveway. She scrutinized the house as she crawled along – nothing looked out of place, but something felt off. She parked the truck by the back door, shut off the engine, then hopped out before she lost her nerve.
“Hello?” The screen door slammed behind her as she entered the mud room, making her jump. “Hello, is anyone home? Mrs. Harris? William?”
She stepped into the kitchen, and recognized the chaos of illness: Dishes everywhere, though it looked like someone had made a start on cleaning up. The sink was filled with soapy water and soaking dishes, and a single spot had been cleared at the kitchen table. She lifted her head, sniffed, and winced. Faintly, she could smell sickness – improvised bed pans for people too sick to reach the bathroom, soiled sheets.
A creak sounded behind her and she whirled. Her heart jolted painfully; a man loomed in the deep shadows of the mudroom with a baseball bat poised over his shoulder. “No! Please – it’s just me! It’s Grace!”
The man made a strangled sound and lowered the bat. “Grace?”
He stepped out of the shadows, and the looming man transformed into Quinn, just Quinn, just a sophomore punk. He blinked over and over, staring, confused. He swayed, and put a hand on the door jamb to steady himself. “Grace? Are you really here?”
He was about to fall over, she realized. “I’m really here.” She walked over to him, took the bat and led him to the cleared spot at the table. He just stood there until she pushed him into the chair. “Are you alright?”
He gazed up at her with glassy eyes, and she reached out automatically to feel his forehead. Cool. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten? Or slept?”
“I don’t know. Slept a little this morning, I think. Not hungry.” His gaze dropped to his hands, avoiding hers.
“Well, you’ve got to eat something.” She bustled into the pantry, grabbed peanut butter and graham crackers off the shelf. Quinn kept staring at his hands while she found a plate, smeared some peanut butter on the crackers then set them in front of him. “Here. You need protein. Get started.” There was orange juice in the fridge, and she poured him a tall glass. “Drink this first – your blood sugar is probably low, which might be making you feel nauseous.”
He obeyed her without raising his eyes, taking a long swallow of the juice, then starting on the crackers. She watched his slow, robotic movements for a while, listening for any other sounds in the house. Then, without speaking, she went to answer the question she couldn’t ask.
All of them. Mr. and Mrs. Harris, the four little boys, and William. All of them, dead in their beds. She stood in William’s bedroom doorway, staring at his still face, and felt her brain split in two.
Part of her analyzed what she was seeing; she had just cared for her own family, and she could see Quinn’s Herculean efforts in the clean bedclothes, the washed faces, the neat rooms. He must have worked around the clock. No wonder he was on the verge of collapse.
And the other part of her brain howled. Howled like a terrified, mortally wounded animal.
Grace shut William’s door and returned to the kitchen, where she found Quinn still staring. He had finished the crackers and juice, and there were crumbs at the corner of his mouth. Without speaking a word, Grace rinsed out a washcloth and matter-of-factly wiped his hands and face. Then she helped him up and walked him into the living room. Without being told, he curled up on the couch. He was asleep before Grace had finished unlacing and removing his boots. She draped an afghan over him, then sat and watched him sleep.
In so many ways, he was still a little boy. His face was soft with youth, cheeks rounded with good health and brown with sunshine, sandy hair cut haphazardly. Even his powerful arms seemed innocent and childlike, clutching a pillow to his chest.
The non-animal part of her brain catalogued these observations and coldly considered her options. Having a dependent lessened her chances of survival. Quinn had already spoken more words to her today than in all the other times she’d been around him put together. She didn’t really know him, didn’t know what he was capable of, didn’t know what assets he would bring to an alliance.
Then she remembered the baseball bat and the meticulous care he had taken of his dying family. Tears flooded her eyes, surprising her, and she ruthlessly blinked them back. To start was never to stop. Decision made, Grace headed to the kitchen to make herself something to eat and to start assessing their resources.
~~~
Sometimes it was dark in Jack’s world, and sometimes everything spun in a kaleidoscope of colors that split his skull. So hot, so cold. He shifted restlessly, trying to draw in a deep breath of air, and gasped at the agony, daggers sliding between his ribs, freezing the muscles of his diaphragm with pain. A firm hand lifted the back of his head, a rim pressed to his lips, and the tiny sip of cool liquid was like manna in the desert.
“He’s not going to make it if he can’t draw more air.” The feminine voice was harried, a voice he vaguely recognized but didn’t have the energy to identify.
Another woman’s voice answered, one straight out of his own personal Hell. “Tell me what to do for him.”
Jack’s eyes flew open. She was standing above him, beautiful evil Jezebel, her arms raised to hold her disheveled hair off her neck. That dark hair rose while he watched, writhed and slithered around her head, shiny black cobras. He gasped and slammed his eyes shut, then his body was seized in the most violent fit of coughing he had ever experienced.
“Get him up – get him upright!” Arms lifting, sitting him up. He leaned forward, hacking, hacking, hacking until a liquid mass filled his throat and mouth. He tasted copper, gagged, spat, spat again, then collapsed back. The world was hazed red with pain. Someone was sitting behind him, supporting him in a sitting position, and he leaned into the embrace, beyond caring who it belonged to.
“I’ll get some pillows – hold him there.” A few quiet moments, then they were moving him again, more pain, the warm, soft body sliding out from behind him to be replaced by pillows that held him almost upright.
Harried voice spoke again, more compassionately this time. “Keep him sitting up as much as possible, and do anything you can do to keep him breathing deeply. Steam might help, a menthol rub, maybe a poultice – try onions, if you have them. Keep him hydrated – get as much liquid in him as possible. And…watch him.”
His siren’s voice sounded right beside his ear, luring him towards treacherous shores. He wanted to turn towards it and he wanted to lunge away. “Watch him? What do you mean, watch him?”
Harried voice snapped defensively now. “I can’t explain it, okay? If you watch them, it just helps. You asked how you could help him, and I’m telling you.”
“Okay. Alright. I’ll watch him – that makes sense.” Soothing, apologetic, respectful. She played that just right, he thought. Just like I would have. “I can’t thank you enough for coming. You must be overwhelmed.”
“You have no idea. I haven’t seen Dr. Derber in days, and I haven’t been able to reach him on his cell.” The silence between the women was absolute for a few moments. “I need to swing by his house. See what’s…what.”
“Blessings on you, and on the work you’re doing. I’m asking for angel’s wings to wrap around you, to comfort and support you.”
Jack almost worked up the energy to sneer at that, but not quite.
“Yeah. Angel’s wings.” Harried’s voice was wry. “I’d trade an army of angels for one more medical professional. Do your best to keep him among the living, okay? We’re going to need him on the other side of this mess.”
~~~
Twenty-one days. Naomi counted again, then again. She was sitting on the deck, soaking in sunshine, with Macy’s old baby monitor plastered to her ear. Over the hiss and pop of static, she could hear every deep, clear breath Macy took. Clear. Clear.
She had lost track of dates when Scott got sick, and if you’d held a gun to her head, she couldn’t have even approximated a guess. Weeks? How many? But as Macy had slowly, slowly improved, Naomi had finally dared to hope. She wanted to count days.
All the TV channels were broadcasting “No Signal,” and it took over an hour of painstaking searching and holding the radio in strange positions to finally get a channel in clear enough to hear. She jury-rigged an antenna of wire and aluminum foil, then carried the radio out to the deck with her desk calendar.
She listened for a while, disappointed to realize what she had picked up was a repeating public-service announcement rather than a live broadcast. The man’s voice droned through a list of instructions on what to do if you were stricken with the plague, then summarized the disease’s progress world-wide. As of the current broadcast, the United States had lost contact with Great Britain and several other European countries. Germany was reporting 99-100% fatality rates, as was China. India had gone silent. Finally, he concluded.
“You are listening to this announcement on the Emergency Broadcast System. The date is,” he paused, and a female, computerized voice took over, giving the current year, followed by “April 28.”
Naomi was startled. Had it really been that long? She crossed the days off on the calendar as she counted. Twenty-two days since Scott had died. Twenty-one days since Macy got sick. The significance of that number made her heart pound. According to the reports they had heard, Macy had survived eleven days longer than any other plague victim. Macy had survived.
She tipped her head back to stare at the sky. So blue, so clear. And quiet. She had never known such quiet. Naomi felt her awareness expand to encompass the outside world for the first time in weeks. No distant rush of traffic, no sirens, nothing.
Her focus had been complete: Macy’s breath, Macy’s temperature, liquid in, waste out, bathe her, tend her, soothe her. She had hardly spared the animals a glance, aware of only one other thing: the link to Piper she felt in her chest. She felt it there now, a fullness, next to the gaping emptiness that was Scott, next to the fierce death-grip she had on Macy. She laughed a little, sadly, at the thought. Truly, she had a new understanding of that expression now. She had spent the last 21 days standing between her daughter and Death.
She closed her eyes, and felt her oldest daughter, her warrior girl, vibrating with life, there in her heart. She was alive. She would stake her own life on it. “Piper,” she whispered. “Piper, my girl, my fierce girl. I’ll find you. Somehow, I’m going to find you.”