The Fireman

by Joe Hill

  “Good,” Harper said.

  “I understand Gil has a quote by Graham Greene on his chest,” Renée said. She was studying a bit of wet snow as it slid off the tip of one boot. Her voice was calculatedly indifferent. “Something about the nature of imprisonment. But of course I’ve never seen it.”

  “Ah!” Harper said. “Nice. If Ben comes in on the two of you and you’ve got Gil half out of his clothes, tell him it’s a matter of urgent literary research, and ask him to come back later . . . after you’re done consulting Gil’s Longfellow.”

  Renée quaked with barely contained mirth. Harper half expected smoke to begin coming out of her ears, and in those days of burning and plague, this was not an entirely unrealistic possibility. It felt good to see Renée laughing over a little innocent filth. It felt like normal life again.

  “Uh-oh. The hens are clucking over something.” Ben Patchett brushed through the curtain into the ward and offered them an uncertain smile. “Should I be worried?”

  5

  “Speak of the devil,” Renée said, wiping at her eyes with one thumb.

  The hens are clucking. Harper thought it would be a toss-up, which term for women she hated more: bitch or hen. A hen was something you kept in a cage, and her sole worth was in her eggs. A bitch, at least, had teeth.

  If there was irritation on her face, Ben didn’t see it or didn’t want to. He paced halfway to Father Storey’s cot, considering the tube filled with amber-colored juice, the mostly empty plastic bag hanging from the lamp by the bed.

  “Is that ideal?” Ben asked.

  “Feeding him out of a Ziploc bag? Or the hole in his skull that I sealed with a cork and candle wax? Totally ideal. Just like they’d do it at the Mayo Clinic.”

  “Okay, okay. You don’t need to snip at me. I’m not snipping at you. I’m a fan, Harper! You’ve done amazing things here.” He sat on the edge of Father Storey’s bed, across from her. Springs creaked. He looked at the old man’s grave, resting face. “I wish he had told you more about this woman he planned to send into exile. He didn’t say anything except he thought he was going to have to send her away and maybe he’d go with her?”

  “No. He did say one other thing.”

  “What?”

  “He said if he left he wanted John to be in charge of the camp.”

  “John. The Fireman.” His voice flat.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a fascinating piece of information to be hearing at this late date. Why would—the Fireman’s not even part of the camp. That’s ridiculous. Why not Carol? Why wouldn’t he want his own daughter for the job?”

  “Maybe because he knew she was the type of nervous paranoid who would think it’s a good idea to hand out rifles to children,” Harper said.

  Ben glanced quickly at the curtain into the waiting room, as if worried someone might be standing just on the other side, eavesdropping on them.

  “I’m the one who decided to distribute the firearms, and no one under the age of sixteen got one. And I’ll tell you something else. I require the Lookouts to walk around with the bolt open at all times, to prove their rifle is unloaded. I ever see the bolt closed on any of those guns, they’ll be sucking on a rock until . . .” His voice trailed off and he left the sentence unfinished. A rose hue suffused his cheeks. “And you might not want to run around camp calling Carol ‘paranoid.’ You’re in enough trouble as it is. In fact, that’s why I’m here. You strayed from camp two days ago, went home, and nearly walked right into a Cremation Crew. Then, after slipping away—thank God—instead of returning to your post you went across to see the Fireman and stayed there most of the night.”

  “My post?”

  “Mother Carol made it clear she expects you to remain by her father’s side, night and day, until the crisis passes. One way or another.”

  “The immediate crisis did pass, and I have other patients.”

  “Not as far as Mother Carol is concerned.” Ben lowered his head, thought a moment, then looked up. “Is that when the Fireman plans to make his move? When his busted ribs are healed up?”

  “Make what move? Move where?”

  “Here. To take over.”

  “He doesn’t want to take anything over.” It crossed Harper’s mind that she might’ve made a tactical mistake, telling Carol’s first lieutenant that Father Storey had wanted someone else for Carol’s job. Then she thought, Fuck it. If the notion of a power struggle with the Fireman made Ben squirm, all to the good. Let him feel harassed and threatened for once. “But I suppose he’ll do whatever is best for the camp in the end. John always has.”

  Renée coughed in a way that seemed to mean Shut up.

  Ben took a moment to compose himself. He laced his fingers together in his lap and looked down into the bowl made of his palms. “Let’s go back to when you wandered out of camp. I’ve been trying to figure out what to do about that. I think I know how to fix it.”

  “What do you mean—fix it? There’s nothing to fix. I went, I came back, everything is fine, and it’s over.”

  “It’s not that simple, Harper. We’re trying to protect a hundred and sixty-three people here. A hundred and sixty-four if we count that baby you’ve got on the way. We have to take steps to keep people safe. If people do things that aren’t safe, well, there have to be consequences. If people steal. If they hoard. If they go wandering and potentially get themselves captured by the people who want to kill us. Harp, I know why you went back. I know you had the best intentions. But every kid who ever went to Sunday school knows where good intentions get you. You weren’t just risking your life and the life of that precious cargo you’re carrying—”

  Harper could not say why the phrase precious cargo made her feel ill. It wasn’t the precious part, it was the cargo bit. Possibly it was also an aversion to cliché. When it came to speaking in clichés, Ben Patchett left no stone unturned.

  “—but you were also risking Father Storey’s life and the life of everyone in camp. It was dangerous and thoughtless and violated rules that exist for good reason and it can’t go without consequences. Not even for you. And believe me: there do have to be consequences for unsafe behavior. There has to be a way to keep order. Everyone wants that. They won’t stay without it. They want to know we’re taking steps to keep this shelter safe. People need law. They need to know someone is looking out for them. They may even feel better if they know a few hard-asses are in charge. Strength breeds confidence. Father Storey, God bless him”—casting a halfhearted look over his shoulder at the sleepless sleeper behind him—“never seemed to understand that. His answer to everything was to hug it out. His reaction to someone stealing was to say possessions are overrated. Things were going to hell even before we brought the convicts back to camp. So.”

  “So,” Harper said.

  He lifted his shoulders and then dropped them in a great sigh. “So we at least have to make a show of punishing you. And that’s what we’re going to do. Carol wants to see you tomorrow, to get an update on her father. I’ll take you over and we’ll stick around, have tea with her. When we come back, I’ll pass the word you made amends at the House of the Black Star, that you spent most of the time there with a stone in your mouth. In a lot of ways, that’s the fairest way to handle the situation. In my field, we say ignorance of the law is no excuse—”

  “Ignorantia juris non excusat,” Renée said. “But considering punishments in this camp are handed out on the spot, without an opportunity to appeal to an impartial judge or present a fair—”

  “Renée,” Ben said wearily. “Just because you’ve read a couple of John Grisham novels doesn’t make you a Supreme Court justice. I’m giving Harper a way out, so will you lay off my ass?”

  “Ben, thank you,” Harper said softly.

  He was silent for a moment, then lifted his gaze and offered her a tentative, wan smile.

  “Don’t mention it. If anyone in this camp deserves a little slack—” he began.

  “But there’s no f
ucking way,” Harper said.

  He stared at her, his mouth partly open. It took him a while to come up with a response, and when he did, his voice was thin and hoarse. “What?”

  “No,” Harper said. “I’m not going to put a stone in my mouth in some moronic self-abasing act of contrition when I don’t have anything to feel contrite about. And I’m also not going to let you lie to people and tell them I went along with this hysterical bullshit, either.”

  “Will you stop swearing at me?” he asked.

  “Why, is swearing against the rules, too? Will it get me another hour with a stone in my mouth? Ben: no. I say no. Absolutely no. I am a fucking nurse, and it is my job to say when something is sick, and this is sick.”

  “I’m trying to make things easier here, for cripes’ sake.”

  “Easier for who? Me? Or you? Or maybe Carol? Is she worried it might undermine her authority if I don’t bow and scrape with the rest of you? If I don’t play along, maybe other people will make trouble, is that it?”

  “Ben,” Renée said, “isn’t keeping secrets also against one of the rules? You aren’t going to get in trouble for plotting to get Harper out of a punishment, are you? I’d hate to see our head of security walking around with a rock in his mouth. That might cost him something in terms of respect.”

  “Jeeeshus,” he said. “Jeeesum Crow. Listen to you two. Harper—they’re gonna make you—you can’t just—I can’t protect you if you won’t let me.”

  “Your impulse to protect me conflicts with my need to protect my self-respect. Sorry. Besides. I have this vaguely uneasy feeling you’re offering to protect me from you. That’s not doing me a kindness—that’s coercion.”

  He sat there for a time. At last, in a wooden, stilted tone, he said, “Carol still needs to see you tomorrow.”

  “Good, because I need to see her. Going to my house to get a first aid kit was a decent start to restocking the infirmary, but it isn’t nearly enough, and next time I go hunting for supplies, I will need help. Yours, and maybe a few other men. I’m sure Carol will want to weigh in. I appreciate you making the arrangements for my audience with her eminence.”

  Ben stood, twisting his wool cap in his hands. Muscles bunched and unbunched in his jaw.

  “I tried,” he said.

  He almost tore the curtain down on his way out.

  6

  From the diary of Harold Cross:

  JULY 13th:

  THERE WAS NOTHING LEFT OF SARAH STOREY BUT A BAKED SKULL AND THE THIGH BONES. THE DEAFMUTE WAS IN THE COTTAGE WITH HER WHEN THE PLACE WENT UP BUT HE WASN’T EVEN SINGED. HE MIGHT’VE BEEN UNHURT IF THE ROOF HADN’T CAVED IN FROM THE HEAT. I’M MONITORING HIM FOR SIGNS OF INTERNAL INJURIES BUT THERE’S NOT MUCH I CAN DO FOR HIM IF HE’S GOT A RUPTURED INTESTINE. HE’D HAVE TO GO TO PORTSMOUTH HOSPITAL AND THAT’D BE THE END FOR HIM. ONCE YOU GO INTO PORTSMOUTH HOSPITAL, YOU NEVER COME OUT.

  NO ONE WILL SAY SO IN FATHER STOREY’S HEARING, BUT I KNOW A LOT OF PEOPLE THINK SARAH WOULDN’T HAVE DIED IF SHE SPENT MORE TIME IN CAMP, SINGING IN CHAPEL WITH THE REST OF US. I’M LESS CONVINCED. I WISH I KNEW MORE ABOUT WHAT SHE WAS DOING OVER THERE WITH THE FIREMAN AND HER LITTLE BOY. I’M ALSO, FRANKLY, STUNNED: SHE CONTRACTED DRAGONSCALE LESS THAN TWO WEEKS AGO. FOR THE LONGEST TIME SHE WAS THE ONLY “HEALTHY” IN CAMP. I’VE NEVER HEARD OF ANYONE BURNING SO QUICKLY AFTER INFECTION. WILL HAVE TO SNEAK BACK TO THE CABIN SOON AND GET ONLINE, SO I CAN PASS THE DETAILS OF HER CASE ON TO THE RIGHT PEOPLE.

  THE FIREMAN HASN’T LEFT THE ISLAND, NOT SINCE THE ACCIDENT. THE DEAF BOY IS HERE IN THE INFIRMARY WITH ME, SO I CAN MONITOR HIS CONDITION. AND ALLIE IS STAYING WITH HER AUNT AND GRANDFATHER. SHE DRIFTS AROUND LOOKING LIKE SHE’S DOSED UP ON A HEAVY NARCOTIC. SHE’S THE ZOMBIE VERSION OF HERSELF, PASTY AND DEAD-EYED.

  IS IT WRONG TO BE THINKING ABOUT HOW GRIEF IS A FAMOUS APHRODISIAC? IF SHE’S LOOKING FOR COMFORT, MR. HAROLD CROSS’S SHOULDER IS A FINE PLACE FOR HER TO SHED HER TEARS.

  OH I AM A BAD BAD BAD MAN.

  A THOUGHT, INSPIRED BY FILET AU STOREY: SARAH STOREY HAS TURNED TO ASH, AND HER ASH CONTAINS THE ACTIVE SPORE, WAITING FOR A NEW HOST. WHICH MEANS THE SPORE IS PREPARED FOR REPRODUCTION BY HEAT, BUT NOT DESTROYED BY IT. AN ENZYME MUST PROTECT IT FROM DAMAGE. ENOUGH OF THAT ENZYME COULD—THEORETICALLY—ALSO COAT THE SKIN AND ACT AS A FIRE RETARDANT. SO, MY THEORY: THE FIREMAN CAN TRICK THE ENZYME INTO PROTECTING THE HOST. SARAH STOREY COULDN’T AND IS NOW FLAMBÉ. BUT WHAT IS THE ENZYME TRIGGER? SOMETHING ELSE TO DISCUSS WITH THE GUYS ONLINE.

  NICK STOREY ISN’T A COMPLETE MUTE. RIGHT NOW HE’S GROANING LIKE HE CAN’T TAKE A TURD. FML. I’M NEVER GOING TO GET TO SLEEP.

  7

  Harper woke with a jolt, as if her bed were a boat that had struck a rock, the hull grinding off stone. She blinked into the darkness, not sure if a minute had passed or a day. The boat shivered off the rocks again. Ben stood at the foot of it, nudging the bed frame with his knee.

  She had slept from dawn to dusk and another evening had come.

  “Nurse,” Ben said. Only it was not the same Ben who had pleaded with her the night before. This was Officer Patchett, his soft, pleasant, round face gone blank and formal. He was even in his police uniform: dark blue trousers, pressed blue shirt, dark blue coat with a white fleece lining and the words PORTSMOUTH PD printed on the back in bold yellow letters.

  “Yes?”

  “Mother Carol is hoping for an update on Father Storey,” Ben told her. “As soon as you’re ready, Jamie and I will walk over with you.”

  Jamie Close stood in the doorway to the waiting room, passing a white rock from hand to hand.

  “Before I update her on the patient’s progress, I’d like to update myself. And take a minute to get ready. If you’ll wait in the other room?”

  Ben nodded and cast a casual look toward Nick, who was sitting up in bed, watching with wide, fascinated eyes. Ben threw him a wink, but Nick did not smile.

  The police officer ducked through the curtain, but Jamie Close lingered.

  “You like dishin’ out the medicine,” Jamie said. “We’ll see how you like takin’ it.”

  Harper was trying to think of a brave, clever reply when Jamie followed her superior back into the waiting room.

  Nick signed, “Don’t go.”

  “Have to,” she said with her hands.

  “Don’t,” Nick told her silently. “They’re going to do something bad.”

  She grabbed the pad of paper and wrote, Don’t get yourself worked up. You might give yourself a stomachache.

  Harper was combing out her hair in the bathroom when there was a little knock.

  “Yes? Come in.”

  Michael nudged the door inward three inches. His freckled, boyish face was very pale behind his coppery twist of a beard. “Insulin shot?”

  “Go ahead. I’m dressed.”

  He removed the lid on the back of the toilet and fished out a plastic bag with a few disposable sticks of insulin left in it. It wasn’t the most hygienic place to store medical supplies, but it kept them cold. He lifted his shirt to reveal a bony edge of fishbelly white hipbone, and dabbed at it with an antiseptic wipe.

  “Ma’am,” he said, not looking at her. “You need to be careful tonight. People ain’t right. They aren’t thinking right. Allie isn’t thinking right.”

  “Will you be here keeping an eye on the infirmary while I’m visiting with Carol?” Harper asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Nick will be glad to have a pal around.”

  “Ma’am? Do you hear what I’m saying? About people not thinking right? I tried to talk to Allie at breakfast. I don’t know what’s come over her. She hasn’t eaten in days and she wasn’t in any shape to be missing meals to begin with. Someone’s got to do something. I’m scared—”

  “Michael Lindqvist! She can take that stone out of her mouth and have breakfast anytime she likes. I’m sorry if you want me to give her an easy out, but I am not going to encourage more of this barbaric nonsense by going along wit
h it. If you came in here to see if you could bully me or guilt me—”

  “No, ma’am, no!” he cried with real anguish. “That’s not what I’m trying to do at all! You’re not doing anything wrong. That’s not what’s worrying me. What’s worrying me is the way Carol and Ben and all Allie’s friends are cheering her on while she starves herself. You’re in the infirmary all day and all night, so you don’t see that part. You don’t see the Neighbors sisters whispering to her that she can’t give in, that the whole camp believes in her. Or the way all her friends sit with after she’s missed another meal and chant her name until her eyes start glowing and she’s in the Bright. It’s almost like she needs them to be proud of her more than she needs to eat. And none of ’em care how thin she is or how fragile she’s getting. I’m scared she’s going to go hypoglycemic and crash. Pass out and maybe swallow that stone! Christ, it’s enough—it’s enough to make a person think about just grabbing her and—you know—throwing some stuff in a suitcase.”

  He was the second person in twenty-four hours to admit he had given thought to scarpering off. Harper wondered how many others were about sung out and if Carol knew how dangerously slippery her grip on the camp really was. Maybe she did. Maybe that explained everything.