by Chuck Wendig
Shana had to watch over her sister.
It was her job. Her only job.
Too bad it doesn’t pay dick, she thought.
She kept a hawk-eye on the CDC goon taking her sister’s BP. “If they hurt her…” she started.
“Yeah, yeah,” Officer Travis said.
“Don’t yeah, yeah me. This is serious.”
“Seriously fucked up is what you mean.”
He wasn’t wrong.
She pulled out her phone and tried to call her dad. Again. Still no answer. Shana had tried earlier this morning: went to voicemail. Tried again an hour ago, and again it went to voicemail. Just now: same deal.
Worry clawed at her insides. Maybe he’d just left the damn phone in the stable or out in the pasture again. Would be just like him. Since Mom was gone, Shana had to step up in many ways because as it turned out, Dad wouldn’t be able to find his own butt with a map and a fully charged Ass Detector.
About half an hour ago, those goons in the suits tried taking blood samples—none from her sister, thank God—but like the paramedics before, they couldn’t get a blood draw. The needles wouldn’t go in. One broke.
Shana didn’t know anything about medical stuff, but she was pretty sure that didn’t make a whole lot of sense. It scared her. What was this? Her mind raced with crazy ideas: Maybe it’s the government. Dad had a brother, Jeff. They didn’t call him Uncle Jeff because he was never there for them and Dad didn’t like him anyway, so he told Shana and Nessie that they didn’t need to pretend Jeff was real family. Few times Jeff came over he got drunk and ranted about conspiracy shit—chemtrails and 9/11-was-an-inside-job and something about a place called Germ Island, whatever that was. Seemed bugfuck nuts at the time but maybe he was onto something.
Or maybe it was aliens.
Like that meme, the one with the crazy-haired guy in the History Channel screencap:
I’M NOT SAYING IT WAS ALIENS
BUT IT WAS ALIENS
She also heard one of the cops say something about terrorism. Could it be that? What did that even mean? Terrorists controlling people’s bodies and minds? Why? How?
Up ahead, near her sister, a second CDC goon joined the first.
The hairs on Shana’s neck prickled.
Why two? They stepped on each side of Nessie as she walked. They matched her stride. Something gleamed in the one’s hand and they seemed to be…practicing something, miming some kind of action.
Around her sister.
They’re doing something to her.
Or rather, they were about to.
With her pulse galloping in her neck and her wrists, Shana felt her mouth go dry, felt her skin shiver. It was now or never. If they tried to stop Nessie, if she started to shake—even if they didn’t let her go kablooey like that cop did with Mister Blamire, who knew what was happening to her every time it started? Maybe it was cooking her brain, or damaging her heart, or—well, who knew? They didn’t know. They saw her as a lab rat forever squirming outta their grip.
The one reached for Nessie’s jaw.
No.
Shana pistoned an elbow into Officer Travis’s breadbasket—he oofed and doubled over as she broke into a fast-if-clumsy run like one of their cows escaping a stable. She screamed, yelled, waved her hands at them. They stopped their ministrations on Nessie and turned toward her.
“Don’t you touch her, you assholes!” She skidded her heels, slowing her run to a fast walk—both her hands were balled up in fists. The two CDC goons—one woman, one man—held up their hands. The woman had a small scalpel. The man had a needle. Shana growled: “I’m not gonna let you cut into my sis—”
Wham. Something slammed into her from behind, her backpack taking the brunt of it. Even still, Shana fell forward, arms out, her hands catching her and stopping her head from snapping against asphalt. Her palms stung and throbbed as they caught the rough road, but she had no time to worry about that—Officer Travis jammed his knee into the small of her back while wrenching her arms back behind her.
She heard the rattle of cuffs.
No, no, no. I need to be here for my sister. “Let me go! Get your stupid fuckin’ hands offa me.” She managed to yank one hand out of his grip—as she pawed at the ground to try to stand, she saw a smear of red there. Her palm was bleeding. An absurd thought did a fast lap around her head: The gun. Reach into your bag. Get it out. She didn’t need to shoot anybody, she just needed to show it to them, show them she meant business—
Then, a new voice: “Hey! No! Stop, stop, let her go.”
Shana craned her head, cheek against the road, to see who it was.
She recognized him—he was CDC, she thought. He looked young. Not teenager young, maybe college young—early twenties, or midtwenties with a boyish face. Slicked-back hair, brown skin, a button-down shirt and khaki pants.
He waved his hands. “Okay! Everyone stop. Please. Let’s everyone just…just calm down, okay? Okay.” Shana felt Travis let go of her hands, though he did not remove himself from pinning her, yet.
Now a new person showed up—a man, his CDC suit failing to hide his paunchiness, the windowed mask showing a face framed by fuzzy lamb-chop sideburns. “The fuck is going on here?”
Travis said: “This girl tried to rush the crowd—”
She objected, yelling over him: “Your fucking goons were going to cut into my sister—”
“None of you should be in the crowd without suits. And you, Avar—”
“Arav,” the younger man said.
“You especially. Officer, please, get off the girl. She’s just trying to protect her sister. This is hard for all of us.”
Her now-very-much-fucking-nemesis-forever-and-ever Officer Travis hurried to climb off her back. “Wait, am I infected now?”
“I don’t know,” Sideburns said. “Just stay with the walkers.”
Shana, meanwhile, stood up, braving a casual glance at her hands—each palm was road-burned just enough to draw beads of blood blowing up like little red balloons. Travis gave her a mean look, and she offered one of her bloody hands to him. “Sorry about that. Shake on it?”
His look went from mean to squicked out. It wasn’t just the blood, she wagered—it was everything. The CDC, the suits, the chance he might be infected. Germs. Disease. Cooties and plague. Travis turned greasy with nausea, and it gave her considerable pleasure to see him scurry away. Run, you dick, run.
All the while, the walkers kept walking. Moving around them like they were just rocks in a stream. The two other CDC goons stood nearby in their suits, looking to the Sideburns dude for some kind of clue. He introduced himself to Shana, his voice loud through the suit: “I’m Robbie Taylor, head of the response team here.”
“Tell your thugs to lay off my little sister.”
“They’re not—” The man sighed. “You know what, never mind. We’re just trying to get a DNA scrape or a blood sample, but we can try it from someone else. Deal?”
“I guess.”
“Great. Hey, Avar—” he said to the man, the one who’d run up yelling.
“Arav. Still Arav.”
“I could just call you Guy Who Should Be Wearing a PPE Suit.”
“I’m not trained—”
“Fine. Can you take—” To her again: “What’s your name?”
“Shana Stewart.”
“Can you take Miss Stewart here, maybe clean her injuries, get her some water? You could take her back to the tent—”
She protested: “No, hell no, the tent is like a mile back, I saw it. I saw it back there and I’m not going that way, because I’m staying with my sis.”
“I have a small first-aid kit in my pack,” Arav said. “And I have H2O.”
“Great. Go do that,” Robbie said. He added impatiently: “Like now?”
Arav gave h
er a sympathetic look. “Can we?”
“Fine.”
Arav led the way, and she followed, but she kept a suspicious eye behind her. Just in case. You leave Nessie alone, you pricks.
* * *
—
“AM I GOING to have to go into quarantine?” Shana asked.
“I don’t know. Protocol is still…uncertain.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not efficient. But we have to deal with local enforcement, federal enforcement, various agencies and hospitals. You may need tests—”
“I don’t want to go anywhere for tests.” Even now, she kept her eye on the walkers. On her sister. “I’m all Nessie has.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well.” Shana stepped off the road’s shoulder and into the shade of a tulip tree. “You look young.”
Arav shrugged. “I’m twenty-five.”
“You’re kinda baby-faced, though.”
“Oh. I guess so.”
She was about to say something else, but winced and sucked in a sharp intake of breath as he poured a little more water over her palms. The water washed away the blood. Arav wore blue latex gloves as he helped her apply a wide swaddling of gauze over each palm. His efforts were delicate and precise. She tried to look tough. She didn’t know why.
“I bet you get carded,” she said.
“I don’t, actually.”
“Oh. Cool.”
He smiled. “I, ahh, I don’t drink.”
“Oh. Is that like, a Muslim thing?”
“I am not Muslim. My parents are Hindu, though I’m mostly…not anything, really?”
“So why don’t you drink?”
He shrugged. Though the bandages were applied, and the work was done, he remained holding her hands. “I don’t know? It never seemed my thing. I was too busy in college to do that whole…‘college experience,’ the get-drunk-and-pee-in-a-potted-plant-at-the-frat-house deal.”
“Why aren’t you religious like your parents?”
Suddenly he let go of her hands and retreated from her now-bandaged palms. He was done, he had no cause to remain. Embarrassment passed over his face like a shadow from a cloud. “They’re not that religious, either, really. For me, the religion has a lot of beauty but…I just had other things to worry about is all. I think you’re done, by the way. Your hands.”
“Thanks.” She flexed her hands. The gauze was light and airy, didn’t make it hard or uncomfortable to close her fists. “Shouldn’t you be in one of those hazmat suits?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“Sorry. I’m nervous. And tired.”
“I totally get that. Anyway, yes, those are PPE suits. Personal protective equipment.” Almost confessionally, he said: “I’m not trained.”
“Shouldn’t you be in one if you’re near them?” Or, she realized, near me? Because if Nessie was infected with something, couldn’t Shana be, too? She pushed that thought out to sea. “That Robbie guy seemed peeved.”
“I mean, yeah, I should’ve been. I’m not supposed to get that close to the patients—I don’t suspect it’s respiratory, though, so mostly I’m trying to protect against blood and all that.”
“Like, what about my blood?”
He held up his hands, still gloved. “It’s not a PPE suit, but it’s something.” His fingers wiggled.
“Why did you get that close? Without a suit, I mean.”
“You seemed in trouble.”
“I was fine.”
“You were most decidedly not fine.”
She paused. “Okay, I wasn’t fine.”
“Your sister, she’ll be okay.”
“You can’t know that.”
He looked down at his feet as he said, “So, I’m not religious, like I said, but I do like the stories. And so there’s this one story, right? There was this princess, Mirabai. I forget when, exactly? Like, four hundred years ago. She did not want to be a princess, though, so instead she became this wandering…poet, like a poet-saint, singing and speaking poems to the gods and for the gods. One of her poems always stayed with me, and it’s this: O my mind / Worship the lotus feet of the Indestructible One / Whatever you see between earth and sky / Will perish.”
Shana blinked. “That’s fucked up.”
“What? Why?”
“You just told me we’re all gonna die. I’m worried about my sister and you’re trying to comfort me by telling me we will all…perish.”
“No, I mean—” He cleared his throat, looking at this point like he was so embarrassed he might climb the tulip tree behind them and hide among its leaves until she was gone. “Okay, I guess that is pretty fucked up. I’m sorry. I just—it helps me to think that we’re all in this together and we’ll all be okay even as we’re not okay. And though I’m not really religious, Hinduism accepts you whether or not you accept it, and part of that is the assumption that this isn’t the end. We just keep going around and around, and we get to come back and do it over.”
“It’s still kinda fucked up.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m going to walk away now because I’m a little weirded out.”
“That’s probably fair.”
“My sister’s not going to be okay, is she?”
“I…I really don’t know, Shana, I’m sorry.”
“Then you shouldn’t have said she was going to be.”
And with that, Shana turned around and stormed away.
* * *
—
ONCE AGAIN, SHE was at the back of the flock, feeling agitated like she had ants crawling all over her. Officer Travis gave her the stinkeye from about twenty feet away, and it took every ounce of self-control she could muster not to give him the middle finger. Instead she grabbed her phone, tried once more to call her father.
Ring, ring, ring.
Meanwhile, ahead, the CDC goons were near Headphones Kid. They had his mouth craned wide like he was one of those little coin purses you had to squeeze to open, and they were working in his mouth, juggling their own feet forward as he unstoppably walked.
Ring, ring, ring.
She turned her gaze to Nessie. Walking ahead. Bare feet padding on asphalt. Fingers of faint wind ruffling the girl’s long hair. Memories flicked through Shana’s mind like someone fast-tapping the button on a slide projector. Them as kids, chasing each other at the Jersey Shore. Shana teasing Nessie with a dead jellyfish. Nessie teasing Shana with little crab claws she found. That time Nessie fell in a big steaming pile of cow crap. That other time Shana got sprayed by a skunk and Nessie helped her wash off with a bath of tomato soup. The day their mother left.
Ring, ring, ring.
She looked down at her watch. Coming up on afternoon already. Where was Dad? Noon also meant that they might see another sleepwalker, soon. Another to join the flock. Another drop of rain to feed the river.
At least, if the pattern held.
Was this a pattern? A pattern of what? And why?
Officer Travis turned his head the way a spooked animal does—like he was on sudden alert. But his alarm turned fast to irritation, and when Shana followed his gaze, she saw why: because riding behind the flock was this obnoxious recreational vehicle, a boxy RV rocking side-to-side as it rolled on up. Already the trooper was marching out in front of it, waving his arms. Because this road was so narrow and the walkers numbered so many, the cops had set up a detour a few miles back and one a few miles ahead, rerouting traffic up around Sweet Arrow Lake.
“Turn around,” he yelled. “Go back a couple miles, turn off on Salt Bridge—if you’re local traffic, you’ll have to wait.”
The RV slowed but honked its horn a few times. The horn sounded about as obnoxious as it could, bleating a big, blustery braaaamp braaaamp. (At least it doesn’t play s
ome dumb song, Shana thought.) Officer Travis covered his ears as it beeped—and by now, lots of the CDC folks had looked up, too. The trooper started to yell again, but here came the horn as the RV slowed to a crawl:
Braaaaamp.
Braaaaaaaaamp.
Then something caught Shana’s eye.
The person driving was waving his hands.
Waving his hands and looking right at her.
“D…Dad?” she said. Next thing she knew, the driver’s-side window of the RV was down, and sure enough, her father hung his head out the window and called her name. A pink flush of teenage humiliation rose to her cheeks.
But at the same time, a surge of happiness rose, too.
Dad.
With the RV pulled off to the side, her father spread his arms wide as she stepped inside, like he was showing off a prize pig at the Grange fair.
“What do you think?” he asked.
It looked ancient. Had a smell to match: musty-dusty, moldy-oldy. It was all tan walls and plastic-covered furniture and cheapy-ass laminates. “Dad, I don’t know what this is.”
“It’s an RV.”
“I know that, I just…”
“I thought a lot about what you said on the bridge last night. I haven’t been all there for you and Nessie since your mother left. She’s gone, and I don’t know where and I don’t know why, but what I do know is that I can’t leave the two of you. I don’t know what…all this is, or what’s happening, but we’re a family, and we need to be together. I love you and I am sorry that I have not been—”
Shana did not let him finish.
She threw her arms around him, blinking back tears.