“Quarantine,” was the sentence handed down gravely by the FEMA official. The cop’s fellow officers patted his back and shook his hand as he was led away—in shock, not yet in tears—to join the apartments’ detained occupants.
“Hello?” came a woman’s voice from inside the infected girl’s apartment. Rifles and machine pistols swung toward her.
“Come out with your hands up!” barked a police officer, whose gas-mask covered right eye was lowered to the sights of his ugly black weapon.
A fortyish woman crawled over the toppled armoire then raised both hands above her head. “Coming out! Infected. Infected.” True to her word, her pupils were fully popped.
“Anyone else in there?” asked the cop.
“My husband,” she replied, “Her father. But he’s dead.”
The looks exchanged by the cops and soldiers signaled, Isabel understood, silent comments on the infected woman’s total lack of concern about her dead family. She had only glanced at her still oozing daughter and not registered any reaction at all.
Although the woman didn’t appear much of a threat, cops edged by her to search the apartment as if she were radioactive. Isabel asked the woman what had happened. “Her father barricaded the front door when she got sick. Afraid you might shoot her.” The comment was made in a matter-of-fact way. “Then came the illness, and she attacked.” The woman held up a forearm wrapped in bandages. “She couldn’t move the armoire to get out of the apartment, and she couldn’t get into the locked master bedroom. Then you arrived.”
And shot your daughter, Isabel thought. She wondered if the day would ever come when Infecteds’ complete loss of emotional response didn’t shock her.
The cops unfurled a black body bag that was far too large and laid the little girl’s body inside it. They also cut out a huge segment of carpeting onto which she had bled and placed it in the bag with her. The Incident Commander halted his men before they zipped it all up. “Do you want some time?” he asked the mother, who stared blankly back at him. “With your daughter?” The FEMA official knelt and tenderly brushed the dead girl’s tangled hair from her face, now relaxed and sweet in her blood-splattered repose. “Do you want to say your good-byes?”
“I think she’s pretty dead,” her mother replied as if baffled by having to state the obvious. She looked at the Incident Commander quizzically, as if he were the one with mental issues.
The cops slapped a quarantine sticker on their apartment door. The Incident Commander zipped the little girl up, crossed himself, and said a silent prayer.
Chapter 19
THE SHENANDOAH VALLEY, VIRGINIA
Infection Date 52, 1300 GMT (9:00 a.m. Local)
Although they had only been up at the Old Place for two weeks, routines had developed. A rhythm to life. You wake up early, dress, eat while watching horrible news on TV—today, it was non-stop stories about the fall of New York City—and then tend to your chores to help forget what you had just seen.
Natalie lovingly, glowingly admired the miracle of sprouting vegetables and beans in the humid grow labs. Chloe chased chickens and attended to her social media profile on her iPhone, much of which was now chicken-themed. One photo’s caption, which a snickering Natalie showed Noah, read, “This rooster I call Justin cuz he’s always chasing hens!” Jake went down his daily checklist of mechanical and electrical systems, essentially confirming from a safe distance that they made the same motions and sounds as the day before, and nothing was seized up, grinding, or aflame. Noah checked on the fences, cameras, lights, and other security systems. Their assignments were totally gender-based, but after about a week the complaints about his misogyny and heteronormativity had run their course.
So it was with suspicion that Natalie regarded Noah when he said he was going patrolling. It was a break from their routine. “This early?” she asked. Noah mumbled something about not becoming too predictable. “You’ll have your radio, right?” she asked.
“Always.”
About half way up to the cabin, he could smell wood burning. At the last of the finger ridges, he lay on his stomach and raised his binoculars. Smoke rose from the cabin’s chimney. The chair placed in front of the front door had been moved aside.
Noah slowly made his way down to the rough, one-room structure. About twenty feet away, he called out, “Emma? Emma?” There was no reply at first. He began to fear that maybe it was someone else, and raised his rifle to be ready. “Emma, it’s Noah!”
The door cracked open. Emma’s now tanned and wind-chapped face appeared. Noah lay his rifle on the ground, removed his backpack, and held it in front of him like an offering to potentially dangerous natives. “I’ve brought food.” She remained motionless and mute. Noah unhooked his pistol belt and dropped his only other weapons—9mm and knife—beside his rifle.
Emma opened the door wide. Noah extracted a mask from his camo jacket’s pocket, covered his nose and mouth, and pulled on stretchy Latex gloves. She wasn’t supposed to be very contagious, but…His sister wore the exact same jeans, sweater, and boots—all now filthy—that Isabel had brought to the hospital for Emma to don upon her release. She had added an oversized camouflaged parka whose odor, even through his mask, caused Noah to wince. “Whoa! Did you lose a fight with a skunk or something?”
Emma looked down at the garment before shaking her head. “I saw raccoons, possums, deer, squirrels, and birds, but no skunks.” She stepped aside and allowed him to enter. Other than her jacket, whose smell she somehow failed to register, the cabin was clean and orderly. Dishes dried beside the sink. A fire crackled in the stone fireplace. Her sheets and blanket were folded atop her pillow on one end of the single cot she’d set up.
Noah unloaded the food from his backpack. “I’ve been thinking about you ever since you jumped out of that freaking car. I’m glad you’re all right.” Emma had nothing to say in response. “We stored some emergency rations up here. I guess you found those. But you might like some variety.” Emma said nothing, but sniffed and then removed the foul-smelling jacket, which Noah noticed for the first time had brownish splotches along its front and sleeves. Dried blood?
Emma’s fists clenched and unclenched. Cords popped through the chaffed and red skin on the backs of her hands. She crossed her arms and pinioned her flattened palms beneath them as if hugging herself.
Noah closed the kitchen cabinet and turned, slowly and non-threateningly, to face his now vaguely terrifying little sister. She was petite, but according to Isabel she would attack with an abandon unleashed by the elimination of all constraints on her behavior. “Watch out for your eyes,” had been a cryptic text from Isabel after touring outbreak sites in New England.
Emma walked to the fire, still embracing herself as if she were freezing. Noah followed, but Emma said, “Stay back,” over her shoulder.
“Okay.” The silence lingered. “You know, at your habeas hearing that doctor at the NIH told the judge you weren’t really very contagious after two weeks.”
“It’s not that. It’s not safe for you here. I get…nervous.”
“But Emmy, it’s just me,” Noah said limply. He lowered his mask. Isabel had said that would be okay. Wearing gloves was more important. And he wanted her to see his face and be able to confirm from his expression that he harbored no ill will. But then, how could she tell? If she felt no emotions whatsoever, could she understand any of his?
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Emma said. Noah initially took comfort from the reassurance, though on reflection was unsettled that it needed to be stated and realized it was really a warning. “You’d stop providing food if I hurt you or your family.”
“You’re family too, Emmy.”
She sat in a chair, disabling her hands beneath her thighs as if to restrain herself physically. “Maybe…you should go.”
Noah took a step toward her, but halted. Her eyes had returned to their natural b
right green. But that made her behavior seem more abnormal, not less. Emma had always been lively and animated. Like her twin sister, her eyes frequently betrayed fleeting feelings before her guard rose, suggesting a flourishing inner life.
But now, Emma’s face betrayed…nothing. The twins used to play a game with Noah when they were young. They would come out of their room, one-at-a-time, and let him ask a single question to try to identify which twin it was. They took pains to wear their hair the same way and change into the same clothes. They always chose orthodontic bands in contrasting colors, so both curled their lips over their teeth to further the deception in an absurd solution that only a child would devise. To the maximum extent possible, they remained expressionless—like Emma just now—to avoid revealing some idiosyncrasy that might give them away. But if Noah told an R-rated joke and a twin flirted with a smile before its suppression, it was Emma. A blush meant it was Isabel, who would shake herself like a dog emerging from water to facilitate restoration of her lifeless visage. His favorite question was, “You’re Isabel, aren’t you?” The one whose eyes widened at his amazing guess was Isabel. The one stifling a smug smirk of superiority, that was definitely Emma.
That Emma, Noah thought, is dead. The first American victim of Pandoravirus. Emma 2.0 now occupied his sister’s skin and animated her muscles. She betrayed nothing and stared back with unending patience and abiding indifference.
“Are you,” Noah asked, “angry at me for some reason?”
“I don’t have feelings like that. Remember? Isabel said I only have reflexive reactions, like agitation, and urges. To eat, sleep, cough, urinate, defecate, and have sex.”
Noah could only imagine what his face betrayed. But whatever it was, it was lost on Emma even though she tilted her head and studied his changed expression.
“I know it doesn’t matter to you, but we all still love you, Emmy.”
“I don’t love you. I don’t really have any idea what I thought love was, or why it seemed so important. Books are filled with words whose definitions, when I look them up, don’t make sense anymore. I knew them, once, I’m sure I did, but they’re a mystery now. And I suppose that’s the issue. I don’t have feelings, Isabel said, because there is no I inside me anymore.”
Noah had no idea how to respond. Again, the conversation faltered. So he said, “Emma, if you see anyone up here, the safest thing to do is to assume they mean you harm. People are spooked. Until things settle down, you should be extra, extra careful. Okay?”
“They’ll want to kill me because I’m a Pandoravirus carrier.”
“And also because people are ignorant and fear anyone who’s different.”
“Do you fear me?” Emma asked, looking straight at him so brazenly he turned away. “Because you should.”
“Whatta…whatta you mean?”
“Killing, I’ve discovered, is actually fairly easy. People’s trust, and their soft tissues, make them vulnerable.”
“Emma…what?”
“Don’t worry.” He relaxed, until Emma added, “I’ll kill anyone who comes up here.”
“I didn’t…I didn’t mean, Emma, that…”
“My heart starts pounding. My mouth gets dry. I feel like I have to do something.” A grimace seized her face. It was sort of like an emotion. She clenched her jaws and her captive fists before slowly regaining a calmer, less threatening demeanor.
Noah took a step back in hopes the added space would ease her anxiety. It was also closer to the door, and to his rifle and pistol outside fifteen or so sprinted strides away. “Take it easy,” he said both to Emma and to himself. “It’s only me here. And your family. Everyone who loves you. Plus Izzy, who’s gonna come here as soon as she can so we’ll all be together.”
The mention to Emma of her loved ones brought zero reaction. “Maybe I should be with other people like me,” she said instead.
“You’re with your family, Emma. There’s nowhere else you should be.”
“Maybe I should be with people who don’t have good reason to kill me. Because I understand that reason, and it’s a legitimate one. You don’t want to get sick and either die or lose the meanings of all those words in the dictionary, and your feelings, emotions, and sense of self, too.”
“There aren’t any other people here who are…like you.”
“There will be. After reestablishing order, I need to resume teaching, publish my research, find a husband, buy a house, get pregnant, and raise a family.”
“The Sequence, they call it. You know, the order of life events that historically produced the greatest financial success.”
“The Sequence,” Emma repeated. “The Sequence.” Her eyes darted at what could only be ricocheting thoughts.
“Emma, the world is falling apart. Dreams like those are from a different time.”
“They are my plans. But you’re probably right. Reestablishing order will take more time than I originally budgeted.”
Noah still didn’t think she understood. “I’m sure Johns Hopkins is closed. Everything is closed. All the faculty and students have gone home.”
“They’ll be back.”
“Not for a very long time. People aren’t gathering in large numbers anywhere.”
“They will. People who’ve turned will. Just not too densely.”
“So, you imagine you’ll…what? Go back to school and teach infected students? Then get married, by a minister, in a church, to someone else who’s…who’s turned? Get pregnant, go to a hospital, have babies, raise a family? An infected family?”
“You skipped buying a house. We’ll need shelter.”
“You’ll walk into a bank, fill out paperwork, and get a mortgage?”
She shook her head. “We would do it online, my husband and I.” Noah was mystified. How did her mind work? “Real estate should be cheap with the population reduced by half. And I need exercise,” Emma said, her eyes wandering space as she compiled her mental to-do list. “Being fit will help me survive in an emergency, contribute to my general health, and keep me trim and attractive.”
“What?”
“Improved cardiovascular conditioning would allow me to flee dangerous situations and…”
“No. I meant the ‘trim and attractive’ thing.”
“Oh. Jogging and plyometrics will facilitate maintenance of a desirable appearance. Men, including infected men, react at a physiological level when presented with a sexually appealing figure of their preferred gender. In most Western cultures, that means slender, especially for women. That mating preference should be unaffected by any damage caused by Pandoravirus.”
Noah’s myriad questions got jammed when trying to find simultaneous expression. “Wha…? Why…?” He shook his head before remembering. Emma was not Emma anymore. He resolutely abandoned the jumbled queries and tried to compose some kind of rational response. “So, Emmy, in this new future, where you’re teaching a bunch of infected kids before going to infected yoga class in a world that’s turned, what happens to the rest of us? Do we have any place in that future you see?”
Emma looked at him with an expression devoid of any artifice or fraud. “Yes. If you’re like me.”
Was she recruiting him? Surely not. “You mean infected? But then, we would never have feelings again? Love, joy, pride, respect?”
“Or fear, or greed, or pain, or a lot of the other words in that book.”
Noah followed her gaze to the large dictionary. It was a duplicate purchase, so he had brought it up to stock the cabin’s tiny library. It was open to “J.” He took a closer look. Emma had highlighted a word, “Jealousy,” and written, in the margin, “Like envy? ‘Bad.’”
“The words in this book?” Noah raised the dictionary from the coffee table.
“No, the other one.”
A paperback of Anna Karenina, which Noah had bought in anticipation of t
heir long isolation, was now dog-eared. It was Emma’s favorite novel, which he had first long ago, and numerous times since, promised her he would read, but hadn’t gotten around to it. Its pages were fluffed up and its spine was broken from his sister’s repeated re-reading. Words were underlined on almost every page, he saw upon inspection. Love and hate. Anger. Fear. Surprise. Disgust. Trust. Friendship. Shame. Pity. Amusement. Courage. And jealousy, the last of the confusing nouns on the page she had just read.
“Take it,” Emma said. “I remember understanding everything in that novel. Now, I don’t understand anything. If she loved the Count, why didn’t she leave her husband? Why does she kill herself? She could have killed her husband.” Emma’s voice, and her agitation, were on the rise. “None of it makes sense. But it’s useless, anyway. It’s all made up. Take the book.” When Noah hesitated, she snapped, “Take it!”
She buried her hands in her armpits in a self-imposed straightjacket.
“Okay, okay.” Noah retreated toward the door with the paperback classic in hand. “I’ll come back and check on you. Every couple of days. Bring you some of Natalie’s cooking. Okay?”
“Do you have any .308 caliber ammunition?” Emma asked.
“Uhm…no. Ours is all .227, for rifles, or nine-mil for pistols. Emmy, why…?”
“Never mind. How about paper and a pen?” Noah said that he could supply. The log in the fireplace popped. Emma turned its way, and her gaze remained fixed on the dancing flames.
Noah closed the door behind him, relieved to be out of there. He strapped on his pistol belt and slung his rifle over his shoulder. But he’d forgotten his now empty backpack inside. When he opened the door with a knock and started to explain the reason for his return, he saw Emma standing over the fire. In it blazed the now obsolescent dictionary.
Chapter 20
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
Infection Date 52, 1500 GMT (11:00 a.m. Local)
On the computer monitors set up in banks like at NASA’s mission control center, Isabel and Rick watched the downfall of New York City. Brandon flitted from workstation to workstation dispensing his expert opinions. How charged was the crowd gathered at Union Square? How close to the tipping point was the mob piling up at Pier Ninety-four? He seemed to Isabel frantic and on the verge of breaking down, as if he alone were responsible for turning back the unstoppable tide.
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