The Vines

by Shelley Nolden

  Even if the scientists at the lab couldn’t quickly rid her of all four animalcules, there might be at least one bachelor in New York whose immune system could best whatever germs remained. Mary had found a companion who appeared to be resistant to typhoid fever, and Richard O’Toole’s three children hadn’t contracted any of the diseases treated at Riverside.

  If Cora didn’t join the escape party, she would never have the chance to find her soulmate.

  Overhead, a seagull cawed, signaling the imminent arrival of the sun. If the boat didn’t leave now, they would be discovered.

  She ground her gloved palms into the brick wall. Behind her stretched a precarious existence filled only with pain, yet before her raged almost certain death.

  Daybreak

  damp wind rushed past Cora, leaving behind a brittle emptiness. Seemingly unaware of the brightening sky, Mary and Alfred remained locked in their embrace.

  Attempting to knead out the knot in her heart, Cora rubbed her chest and looked from the couple to the Gotham skyline.

  Love was worth dying for. If Cora could have, she would have swapped places with Maeve during those final days of the fever. And without love, life wasn’t worth living. Two weeks ago, she’d learned that firsthand as well.

  The memory of nurse Carlton’s giddy tone, as she’d described Linnaeus’s fevered kiss, invaded Cora’s skull. As their romance bloomed, Cora wouldn’t be able to avoid signs of it. The envy, worming through her bones, would rot her entire core. But if she made it to Gotham, she would be spared that torture, too.

  Clutching her cross pendant, Cora scrambled down the seawall. “Excuse me,” she said, keeping her voice low, “we should go.”

  “A leper?” Alfred sloshed backward. “What’s it doing here?”

  “Ha! I knew you’d come!” Mary said too loudly. “Cora’s my friend and not a leper. She was . . . burned in the steamboat fire, while saving dozens of children. And she’s right: we’d better skedaddle.”

  Alfred looked from Mary to Cora and back again.

  Cora tugged the head wrap tightly against her nose and lips. Sitting so close to the others would jeopardize them. No, she thought, the wind will carry away any germs that escape my shroud.

  The barrel-chested, hired sailor, resting over the oar handles, shook his head no at Alfred, who nodded in agreement.

  “I won’t leave without her,” Mary announced.

  The grimace on Alfred’s face settled into resignation.

  “Helmut, get ready to row like a madman.” He lifted Mary into the dinghy.

  Clutching her boots and the hem of her cloak, Cora stepped into the water. Its bite took her back to that day. Submerged in the muck, her feet refused to take her deeper, where she might step on the remains of Slocum passengers melded with the sediment.

  “Cora, what’s wrong with ya?” Mary asked. “Hurry up.”

  Startled by the rebuke, Cora waded deeper; the stinging water ascended her legs and saturated her shroud. While Alfred held the vessel steady, she hoisted herself over the edge. Her hipbone smacked against the wooden hull and several inches of standing water soaked her rear end. She gasped and sucked in her stomach. Making herself as small as possible, she folded herself into the corner.

  Crouched in the other corner of the stern, Mary was wearing a life preserver. So was Helmut, seated on the vessel’s only bench.

  Alfred reached into the boat for his and fastened it around his neck.

  “Have you got an extra?” Cora asked, her teeth chattering.

  Helmut fished a flask from his raincoat and took a swig. “We weren’t expecting a fourth.” The look of derision on his bearded face suggested he hadn’t fully believed Mary’s claim.

  Alfred shoved the rowboat free of the river bottom and threw himself in, disrupting its balance, and Cora yelped.

  “You’re a skittish one, aren’t ya?” Mary asked.

  Cora didn’t answer. She doubted her friend was as complacent as she’d sounded; Mary’s knuckles were white from gripping the gunwale. Cora wiggled her fingers. Beneath the already sodden leather, they felt numb.

  Pushing off the bottom with an oar, Helmut turned the bow toward Manhattan. He began rowing, and the boat plowed through the chop.

  Cora stared at the campus, bathed in an azure glow creeping up the eastern horizon.

  Only once had she seen the island from afar. As the ferry had approached the hospital, she and Maeve had stood at the bow railing, arms wrapped around each other.

  Despite a new facade on the main ward, additional wood-framed pavilions, and the specimen trees she’d helped plant, the facility still looked bleak. At its core, Riverside hadn’t changed a bit, but it had changed her.

  Ensnared by an eddy, the boat spun.

  The sailor grunted as he worked the oars, and the dinghy lurched free of the vortex.

  Alfred and Mary cheered and hungrily eyed each other. If they weren’t seated at opposite ends, Cora was sure they would have kissed.

  A wave struck the top of Cora’s hood, and she squealed in surprise. Runoff streamed down her face, and the terror of drowning gripped her. She held the soaked face wrap away from her mouth and gulped in air.

  When the burn in her lungs subsided, her breathing slowed.

  Shivering, she settled into the standing water in the hull. With each swell they rode, her stomach heaved, and more brackish water splashed over the sides. Even if they managed not to flip, they still might sink. And Cora’s heavy cloak would drag her to the bottom.

  A bucket attached to the bench by a rope rattled against the side. Cora grabbed the container and began bailing. More poured in faster.

  Ignoring the aching in her arms and the sting as her thinly covered knuckles banged the wood, she scooped faster. “Please, Lord,” chanted Mary, an Irish Catholic who never attended church, and Cora matched her tempo.

  Maybe this was God’s way of preventing the two from leaving Hospital Island. Cora had been arrogant to believe she could walk a mile through a bustling city, where she couldn’t wear her leper’s shroud because of the attention it would attract, without infecting a single soul. And there was no guarantee that Carnegie’s microbiologists could cure her. Instead, they might die trying.

  The boat rode up a swell, and she spotted North Brother’s ferry dock, diminished in size. They must be nearing the worst of Hell Gate.

  Ahead, the whitecaps rose higher. Alfred took the oars from Helmut and yelled, “Brace yourselves.”

  The boat tossed, and Mary bobbled.

  Reflexively, Cora reached for her friend to keep her from falling overboard, but Mary lunged out of reach. The boat rocked, and everyone scrambled to balance it.

  Mary’s lips curled into a grimace, and she pointed behind Cora.

  Cora twisted to check for a ferry charging toward them. Distant sailboats and barges dotted the waterway, but none appeared concerned with their small party. “What is it?”

  “Your face,” Mary stuttered. “It looks God-awful.”

  Suddenly Cora’s cheeks felt like they’d been scraped with a razor blade and doused in saltwater. A gust seared the raw skin, and she realized her headwrap now hung around her neck.

  She dropped the bucket and recovered her face, which stung as much as her hands. She wiped sea spray from her eyes, peeled off her gloves, and yelped.

  Her fingers looked like sausages and felt like they were in a frying pan. It has to be from the saltwater, she thought, looking for something to dry them with. The pain intensified, and a wave of wooziness rushed over her. She brought her hands to her mouth to blow on them.

  They weren’t cracked; they were blistered. Flat, red boils covered her skin. She tried to bring one of the sores into focus. Her head throbbed, and she felt like she was aboard the Slocum, the fire closing in on her.

  The blisters resembled smallpox. No!
she screamed inside her head. Not now! They couldn’t be real; the stress of the passage must have driven her mad.

  But Mary—not Cora—had first noticed them.

  Though she could have hallucinated Mary’s outcry. Nausea swelled in her stomach, and she turned just in time to vomit over the side of the boat.

  Helmut swore and grabbed the oars from Alfred. “Move!” he yelled, and Alfred toppled into the bow. “She’s no burn victim! She’s got the pox!”

  Alfred righted himself. “Scheiße, Mary, you lied. How could you let her come?”

  “I didn’t know, I swear,” she cried, her hand covering her mouth.

  “I’m gittin’ the hell off this boat and away from that vile creature.” Alfred began rowing with panicked vigor.

  Compressed into the far corner of the stern, Mary kept her hands in front of her chest, clearly ready to ward off Cora if needed.

  This can’t all be a hallucination, Cora decided. Touching her cheek beneath the wrap, she cringed from the pressure of her fingertips on the bumps.

  A sharp pain seared her abdomen. She reached for the incision, but the cramping had originated farther down.

  Her immune system must have finally succumbed to the vicious beasts. Scratching her arms beneath the cloak, she howled in frustration.

  A wave slammed into her back and she fell toward Helmut, who shouted and dove to port, driving the boat onto its side. Alfred threw himself to starboard, and the vessel righted, but only until the next swell pounded them.

  Despite being drenched, Cora felt fever hot. Yet at the same time, chilled to the core. Her throat and head ached. And her muscles. She peeled back the wool; between the welts, her skin had turned the shade of Maeve’s typhus rash. Or the red could be a symptom of the measles.

  She pulled her hood over her face and drew her hands beneath the tent of fabric. In the darkness she pictured an angry pack of wolves swarming her organs. A communal strengthening over the past five years, as Dr. Gettler had feared? Or a spontaneous uprising? Caused by . . . a vegetative force. No, she thought, that was a fairy tale told to me by a deranged doctor.

  Still, she couldn’t risk causing an outbreak by returning to Manhattan.

  In her current condition, she belonged under quarantine. She knew that.

  Her heart—the one organ that hadn’t yet turned against her—thudded.

  Returning to the hospital meant facing Dr. Gettler. A fierce cold gripped her body, providing no relief from the fever. Shivering and wet, she huddled in the corner of the stern.

  She had to go back. For a chance at preserving the antibodies within her, Dr. Gettler would do all he could to aid her body’s fight against the infections.

  But at least one of them should gain her freedom, and Mary had already promised to contact Cora’s mother.

  The water looked furious and unforgiving. In those waves, she would never reach North Brother. And who knew what sea creatures lurked below? When she was younger, she’d read in the newspaper about a great white shark caught in the harbor.

  Out of habit, she blew into her reddened, bare palm, quickly realizing that the calming technique wouldn’t work. She hadn’t just woken from a nightmare; she’d entered one.

  Cora tried to swallow a sob, but her swollen throat thwarted her effort.

  She had to jump. Now. Cora shifted to a crouch.

  Helmut stopped rowing. Joining with the other two, he stared at her.

  “I’ll swim,” she said through what felt like shards of glass lodged in her tonsils. “Life jacket?”

  No one responded.

  “Can I have . . .” Of course. Not even Mary would give up her preserver: they still needed them, whereas Cora was practically dead already.

  She clasped her hands, and the skin between the pustules turned white. Jumping out now would be suicidal, but remaining in the boat would be equivalent to murder.

  By Mary’s and the men’s horrified expressions, Cora knew that they thought so, too.

  She coughed to clear the glass from her flaming throat. “Mary, remember your promise.”

  Mary’s grimace relaxed into a sad smile. “You’re a strong lass. You’ll make it, and I’ll find a way to git ya free, I promise.”

  Despite everything Cora had told her about Dr. Gettler, Mary still didn’t understand. “Don’t forget my mam.” If only she’d brought the golden guinea, Mary could have passed it along to Cora’s mother.

  “Ta, absolutely.”

  Cora pulled off her face wrap and dropped it into the river, then her cloak. She knew she should remove her shift and bloomers as well but couldn’t bring herself to do so in front of the men.

  “Jump!” Mary barked. “Git on with it!”

  Cora covered her ears, but the shrill sound continued.

  Seagulls circled overhead. Cora looked at Mary, who appeared to be sobbing.

  “Jump now!” the seagulls shrieked.

  Delirium. Another symptom of smallpox. And measles. And typhus and typhoid.

  The pests were quickly overwhelming her. If she didn’t reach shore before they completely stole her wits, she’d drown for sure. Please, God. She pressed her crucifix pendant to her lips.

  Gripping the gunwale, she pulled herself upward to stand. The sky and river merged, and she swayed as the boat jounced in the waves. If she didn’t throw herself over now, she’d topple onto Mary, so she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and . . .

  Pain shot through her lower back, followed by a suffocating coldness.

  Moments Later

  idal water flooded her mouth as a rushing sound filled her head. The water seemed to be getting heavier, pressing against her skull. She tore at the churning river, but the darkness deepened. Her ringing ears felt ready to explode.

  The surface should have appeared by now; she must be pointed down. Air. She needed air. Up had to be in the direction of her feet. She folded at the waist to reach for them, but a riptide spun her.

  The fire of the fever: that had been nothing compared to this burning in her lungs.

  Suddenly light appeared. She refused to believe it was anything but the sky.

  With both arms, Cora pulled toward it and kicked hard.

  The current’s force lessened, and she reached for the brightness. The wind hit her face, and she inhaled and gagged. Too fast. She coughed out water and sucked in air. Her body tingled, and all she could see was blinding white.

  Slowly her lungs ceased their wailing and her vision returned. An intense ache replaced the numbness; the incision on her abdomen stung. In her struggle, the stitches must have ripped free.

  Sculling with her hands, she searched the horizon for a boat that could rescue her.

  No. She had to let go of that hope. If a ship came to her aid, she would have to drown herself before they could haul her aboard. Her arms slowed with the realization, and her legs felt like sacks of coal, pulling her down.

  “Keep your head above water. Don’t panic: it’ll tire you out.”

  Mary. They’d come back for her!

  Searching for the boat, Cora thrashed in a circle.

  “Find the lighthouse, and swim toward it. Cruadal, my friend, cruadal.”

  The voice, urging courage, had to be in her head.

  Still, she should heed it. She cleared her eyes and cast about for a familiar landmark.

  The Williamsburg Bridge appeared on the horizon. She pivoted and found North Brother’s lighthouse, and to its right, South Brother Island. They were shrinking; the current was dragging her away. She had to swim hard, or she’d be carried into the harbor. Her bloomers billowed around her legs, so she yanked them free.

  A swell knocked into her, and she hacked to clear her breathing passages.

  The whitecaps made the front crawl impossible, so she dog-paddled. After a few awkward strokes, she managed to
establish a rhythm. Her muscles burned, and her stomach felt like it was ablaze. To keep the spray from her eyes, she squinted, and every few pulls swiped at them.

  The horizon blurred and the lighthouse refused to stay in view. She stopped and treaded water while reorienting herself. Blood ran from her nose. Farther away, everything seemed both light and dark. She blinked to clear her vision.

  Beyond the Williamsburg Bridge rose Manhattan.

  Her mother would continue to wake alone. Cora’s tears vanished with her blood into the tidal strait as she kicked her legs to spin away from the city.

  The physical plant’s smokestacks came into view, and she began swimming toward them. Yanked by a current, she struggled against it. Her muscles were cramping, and she had a side ache. Soon she wouldn’t be capable of staying afloat.

  Something grazed her leg.

  Shrieking, she peered down but couldn’t see even her hands, just below the surface.

  Another delusion, she hoped.

  She grasped for a calming thought: Maeve’s giggle after she’d beaten Cora at Old Maid.

  The creature banged against her thigh, and she screamed. As it glided past, it maintained contact with her skin, giving her a sense of its length.

  Only she could hear her desperate, terrorized cries.

  She sprinted toward North Brother. Within a few strokes, the cramping had reclaimed her muscles.

  Again, something scraped against her thigh; panic locked her limbs as she imagined the long outline of a shark.

  Far worse than fluid filling her lungs, her body would be shredded and consumed. The sea devil must be circling her now. At any moment its jaws would pierce her flesh. Now hyperventilating, she broke into a coughing fit. Her legs felt exposed, like bait dangling from a hook.

  Again, she made for the lighthouse.

  A current repelled her; she fought back. Her shoulders felt like meat beneath a butcher’s cleaver. She was tired, so tired. She craved sleep as her head went under, and she began slipping downward.