The Last Virus

by Caleb Adams

  “No, that is all right. I’ve changed my mind.”

  “As you wish.”

  “It’s strange,” I then said after taking another look at the entrance to the vault behind him.

  “What is strange?”

  “The opening seems smaller since I was last here. Perhaps it is just a trick of the lighting.”

  “It is no trick. I have begun sealing it in.”

  “So they don’t burn everything in it when they come?”

  “Yes, exactly. They have a tendency of doing such things. Just ask Alexandria.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “The library of Alexandria. One rumor gives credit to Amr ibn al-As, that he was acting under orders of the second caliph Umar. Umar said, ‘If these writing of the Greeks agree with the book of God, they are useless and need not be preserved; if they disagree, they are pernicious and ought to be destroyed. For they are at odds with the Quran.’ ”

  “And so,” I began, “will you seal in even those books of the Quran that have been collected?”

  “Of course, I am a historian. All works deserve their place in the hands of humankind. Disagreement with what is inside is not up to me or anyone else.”

  Sunday, April 14,

  He was at Mass. And although I was supposed to be by his side to assist, I feigned sickness and asked to be excused before it even began. He chided me for weakness, but finally granted me permission to leave. I left and hurried a path to his quarters. Once inside, I rummaged quickly through all of his belongings but found nothing unusual at all. I then was about to leave when it struck me that the Bible near Father’s blanket seemed quite thin, almost ten times so if I had to place a guess. It brought me to wonder which books had been left and which books had been removed.

  I knelt and picked up the Bible. I paged through Genesis, Exodus, and Leviticus. I paged through Numbers and Deuteronomy. However, where I expected to find Joshua, I instead found a new god with new words:

  In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful

  Praise be to Allah, the Cherisher and Sustainer of the worlds

  Most Gracious, Most Merciful

  Master of the Day of Judgment

  Thee do we worship, and Thine aid we seek

  Show us the straight way

  The way of those on whom Thou hast bestowed Thy Grace, those whose portion is not wrath, and who go not astray

  Seven verses like the seven days of my God. Seven verses and all seemed to be floating on the page like seven warships on the ocean, each with their cannons pointing directly toward me. I flipped through the rest of his bible. I flipped through another one hundred and thirteen surahs. I understood then.

  Wednesday, April 17,

  At night the tunnels are unlit. I imagine it is the darkness that God saw before He decided to start hanging His little stars on the canvas of the universe. At night it would be a perfect time to get up and escape if one was planning to get up and escape. That is why, for the last two nights, I have positioned myself some thirty feet from his quarters to keep a watchful eye. I am not alone, though, in thinking he is one of them. Across the way, soldiers have taken up residence in a room across from him. They have tried to be inconspicuous, but they are not so inconspicuous. Anyone sitting there in the darkness can tell they are also keeping their eyes on him.

  Thursday, April 18,

  Last night he came out from his quarters into that darkness. I expected I would not have to move. I expected the soldiers to come out any minute and arrest him. When they did not, I found myself with no other choice but to follow him. He walked for what must have been a mile. I walked for what must have been a mile. It’s quite difficult to walk for that length in the tunnels without making a sound. I did not make a sound.

  He switched on his lantern and set it down. I could see the metal ladder in its light. I could see him taking hold of one rung and then stepping on another. There was no other choice. I fired directly at his head but missed. He turned in my direction and seemed surprised. I found that odd. Why would a murderer be surprised? I fired again, and this time I am sure the bullet found his side. His hands lost their hold, and he fell. I began to walk closer when I saw his gun pointed in my direction. I did not care. Why should I have cared? I knew I was under the camouflage of God’s infinite darkness.

  We both kept shooting until there was nothing more left for both of us to shoot. The bullets of my God against the bullets of your God I was thinking. I am almost certain I hit him another two times. His God, though, was able to lift him up, and there I watched from the ground as he ascended the metal ladder into the sewer system.

  The soldiers came running up to me soon after. The sound down here in these tunnels travels like the speed of light and must have awoken them from their slumber. One stayed behind to tend to the hole he had put in my side while the other two ran off.

  Friday, April 19,

  I have not slept though they here in the infirmary tell me I should sleep. My mind is a whirlpool. My thoughts are circling around so fast that even if I had the quickest of hand, I would not be able to catch any of them. I am trying to remember my little sister, and I am trying to remember when I was staring up at the Jesus. I am trying to remember the one priest that I loved and the one whom though I shot was able to escape. O’ God, I need a miracle to still believe in all that You have to say.

  Saturday, April 20,

  They are here. There are sounds of gunfire in our tunnels, and there are also sounds of explosions. There are the cries of children, and there are the wails of men and women. Everyone has fled the infirmary except for the few of us who are unable. Unlike the others, I do not mind. I do not fear death. Gladly I wait to see my little sister, mother, and father once again. For the Jesus, though, when he greets me, I will say not a word. I will just pretend like He is not even there. There was no reason for any of this suffering, and therefore there is no reason for me to speak or acknowledge Him. In heaven, like on earth, I will be a stone. And how glorious to be a stone.

  Sylvia Plath

  “I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again.” - Sylvia Plath

  This dream, it is worse than anything I have heard or seen when I am awake. This dream, it is always the same. We are asleep, and suddenly, we are awoken. They drag both of us away. You, they kill before my eyes. It is not an easy death. Your feet and your hands they hack off. The blood it pours out from your body as if from broken water pipes. For me, I am tied to a bed. First, I am raped by soldiers and then the sons of those soldiers. It is an unspeakable horror that lasts for days. Finally, they leave, but I know I have been seeded and now cells are dividing inside of me. I turn my head to the side and fall asleep in tears of disgust and shame.

  One would think that would be enough for a single dream, wouldn’t one? It is not, though. I keep dreaming, and I am older, and I am still tied to the bed. In the corner of the room, there is a child of about five. He is prostrate on the floor in prayer. His words come in a whisper to my ears. Speak up, I say. He speaks up. “In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful. Allah! There is no God but He, the Living, the Self-subsisting, the Eternal.” I yell for him to stop. He quiets as I command. Then, he rises from the floor and sits on the bed. A small hand he places on my own hand and says, “Mother, believe and I will untie you.”

  “I talk to God but the sky is empty” – Sylvia Plath

  I am losing my mind. They are above me, and they have now infiltrated my being. Each breath I take is labored and with fear. The people here think I have gone mad, and I do not blame them. I myself do not even know who I am. You have not returned from your raid in seven days. And in those seven days, I have barely taken food or water. I am drenched in sweat when I wake, and I shiver before going to bed. I am writing only to keep my hands off of my own throat. It would be easier with a knife, but I wish the strength to self-strangulate.

  I have paged through Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. I hav
e gone the distance to the Book of Revelation and then back again in reverse order. Where is my God? I have called to Him so many times that by now He must know me by name. If He does not give me a sign that you are alive, I will find a way out of here and convert. Perhaps their God will be more compassionate. Perhaps their God can speak, whereas I find mine to be mute.

  “It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash the next. It made me tired just to think of it.” – Sylvia Plath

  Unlike a rocket ship departure or a New Year's arrival, I count up instead of counting down. Twenty-one days is a long time to be in this state. The clothes I kissed you in at the hour of your goodbye I still wear. I stink more than those around me stink. Back and forth I rock like an old woman, but age has yet to draw a single line upon my face. In nervousness, I twist my hair and it comes out in my fingers. I am saving it in a pile for when you return. I will then put it back on my head and then once again I will be your beautiful wife.

  I hear them talk around me. They speak as if I have not ears. They say it is help I need. Of their diagnosis I cannot confute, but madness is a best friend for despair. Perhaps I should prepare for my own departure. Perhaps I should conjure the souls of suicide poets and suicide writers. Of what better consultants could one have than those who have come before? Oh, my love, death would be a featherbed to this horror I lay down in.

  “All I want is blackness. Blackness and silence.” – Sylvia Plath

  I have a new friend. She speaks to me as if I was not there. She is correct. I am not here. She says most likely you have found safety somewhere else. This new friend she lies beautifully. So beautifully that one would hardly know she is even lying. But I am not so easily deceived. I know you’ve been picked up by boat and ferried off to Osiris.

  Quiet, my love. Do not speak to this. All that I ever was, was when I was with you. That said, I am now nearing an end. Sooner would be better, now would be best. But oh my love, death I am choosing like a wedding dress. After all, one must be particular with something worn just once and never again.

  “I have taken a pill to kill the thin papery feeling” – Sylvia Plath

  Let it be recorded, I do not expect our reunion. I expect an infinite sea filled with the dead. I will swim. You will swim. But together once more, that I see as an improbability. For my God is a jealous God. He does not allow us to love anyone more than Him. And that is how I loved you.

  Death is here, my love. It is all around. It is in these tunnels, and now it is in my veins. By one way or the other, this body of mine will soon be lying in state. Goodbye, my husband, our time was as short as cake, but oh how I am still forever content.

  Gilly

  Journal #14, Gilly and Me – Day 1065

  “Gilly, wake up,” I said, standing over him as he slept sitting up in a corner of the room, a tin can of vapors and a heart-shaped mirror within his reach. The candle before him was down to its last few inches. But those last few inches were still enough to cast a shadow on the wall that looked just like him in his earlier days. If it wasn’t Gilly, I would have thought it quite insane. A cough I then feigned, and the lashes of his eyes fluttered like butterfly wings. When he finally drew his lids open and spoke, I swear his words reached my ears well before his mouth began to move. If it wasn’t Gilly, I would have surely thought my mind had been blown.

  “Is my dress still stained?” Gilly asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I was washing it off in my dream. I thought it would come clean,” he answered. By now, both his shadow and voice had caught up with time so that they were once again old and in synch. Just a rip in space-time, I could only assume.

  “It looks fine, Gilly. No one will ever notice,” I said as I gave another look at an inkblot on one sleeve of the floral-patterned velvet dress he was wearing.

  “Do you remember a guy that’s been in such an early song?” he then asked.

  “Yes, and I can still see him inside of you.”

  “I would like to sing one last time. Do you think they will still come?”

  “Of course. They’ve never forgotten you.”

  Before I could reach down to help him to his feet, he was already lifting his body by moving up the wall like a mime. His veins were coming through his jaundiced skin like rivers in Braille and colored dead blue. His hair was short, slicked back and gray, devoid of the fiery red that used to make both boys and girls swoon. His eyes still pierced, though. One ice blue and the other the color of a carob pod.

  “I’ll need my boots,” he said, standing an inch or two shorter than me. “What’s a queen in bare feet?”

  I looked around, and by his guitar, I saw them, block-heeled and suede. After retrieving them, I carried them over to him and got down on my knees. His toes were prominent, age and starvation had made them ugly and long. I remember the first time I was there like that it was fifty years or so back. His feet were beautiful then, and they were small, as if he had purposely bundled them as a China girl would. I gave him my mouth and I gave him my love then, but I don’t think he but blinked. I don’t even think he knew it was me.

  “You want me there?” I asked as I looked up at him.

  “How’s my makeup?” he asked to avoid answering me.

  “You could use a little,” I said. And with that, he put his arms akimbo and threw back his head. From my pocket, I took out a crimson lippie and smudged it on the apples of his cheeks. When finished, I stood back to take a look at this aged rock queen.

  “My looking glass,” he requested. When I gave it to him, he put a finger to his cheek and traced it around his face. “I’m quite engraved. Like ancient river beds of Mars, don’t you think?”

  I said nothing. I just kept staring at him. He then spoke, and the words put another one of his fissures in my heart.

  “Your eyes are the worst of mirrors. In them, I can see all that you love and disapprove of. No one wants admiration and rebuke in the same look. Take my scarf and tie it over my eyes. I don’t want to see them looking at me like you are looking at me now.”

  I did as he said. He then requested a sniff from his can of vapors. After that, I led him by the hand, and we walked out of our quarters and into the tunnel. I counted sixty-nine steps before I turned him around, and we returned from whence we came. Onto my tortoise-shell suitcase that was now his stage, I helped him step. He wasn’t even a foot above the ground, but he always had such a presence that it still looked like he was sixty-two miles high. His fingers slipped through mine, and I prayed he wouldn’t fall.

  “The curtains are parting,” I said to cue him to begin.

  Three songs he sang. All were new. All were a cappella. And none were what they would have wanted. Gilly didn’t care. He was never one to rest his head upon yesterday. I had tears rushing down my face. I had my eyes looking ahead at our funeral scene. After easing him to the ground, I returned him to his corner. He took a few more sniffs, and I watched him for the length of consciousness to sleep.

  Journal #14, Gilly and Me – Day 1070

  “Gilly, wake up. I’ve brought you something to eat,” I said, shining the flashlight upon him as he slept curled up like a dog. He was wearing a silk waist-length white kimono inked dark green with bonsai trees. When he failed to stir in my voice, I took a match and lit the candlestick that was a few feet before him. The light cast a butterscotch haze over the two open books that were just out of reach from his outstretched hand. The writing of one I could see was in Arabic, the other in what looked like Old English script. It was then I noticed that in one corner of the room he had drawn a black signpost. High above in white chalk, he had one street Heddon and the other Regent.

  “Are the books still here?” he asked, and it startled me that he was awake all along.

  “Yes.”

  “I was dreaming they were the last copies on earth. Suddenly I felt this great hunger pang, and so the pages I began to eat. It wasn’t long before I grew wings and turned into a beast.”


  “What do you think it means?”

  “From gods come monsters is of course what I think.”

  In his words, I remember I immediately took to a knee and closed the covers to both books. There a King James Bible and there a Quran. There in opposition, like a black queen and white king were they. The only thing I was not sure of was which one was which.

  “Where did you get these?” I asked, my body recovering from the freeze that had occupied it after his last words had rolled off his tongue.

  “I was given them, or they appeared. I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Shall I burn them?”

  “What good of that would come?” he said and slowly sat up. “Man would only recreate them in a manner worse than the first time he tried to coin immortality.”

  I picked both books up and hurried them to another corner of the room. Then, I sat cross-legged before him. In the candlelight, he looked alabaster. He looked like an x-ray.

  “You should have some of the bread I’ve brought you. I can almost see your bones.”

  “No, thank you. When you lived too long, you should not eat,” he said and fed himself with another sniff of his vapors.

  Arguing with him would have been pointless. Taking away his vapors inadvisable. I slid the plate off to the side. It was then I noticed the trail of dried blood that stopped at both his wrists. I leaned over and unfurled his fingers, which were curled to his palms. The nails were so long that they were cutting into the skin.

  “Can I clip these?” I asked.

  He turned his hands over and nodded. I was quite surprised, a new coat of permanent marker he had put on them. Except for the length, they looked perfect. They looked as if he was ready to go dancing.