by Glynn James
“Did you radio in?” Handon asked.
“Yes,” Sarah said. “We’re on their registry. I can’t say that’s made much difference to our day-to-day struggle.”
Somewhere in CentCom, Handon knew, they maintained a list of all known pockets of survivors around the world. He thought he remembered the biggest one was a few thousand. And the smallest were single dudes. LaMOEs.
“I know it’s not much,” he said. “But the idea is: some day. When we beat the virus. When we figure out some way to destroy the dead. One day, when we fight our way back, they can use the registry to go around and police up survivors, everyone who made it.”
“It’s a nice dream.”
This made Handon a little sad. He said, “You’re right there’s nothing we can do for those people right now. But it takes little enough power to send out the transmissions. And they say it helps us hang on to our humanity. By not abandoning others to their fate. Wherever they may be. And whether or not they ultimately make it.”
“Okay,” Sarah said, monitoring the plashing waters as they burbled by. “That’s all nice enough. But if you can’t rescue people… then what are you doing, actually? Your team is clearly not sitting around making cave paintings.”
Handon smiled. “Back to your original question.” He was still pondering how to answer it.
Sarah turned in and pinned him with her eyes, which he now saw were a rich, forest green, with tiny flecks of exotic black. They also seemed to be some unlikely combination of flinty and kind. Like they could flash with either boundless compassion or ice-cold malevolence as the situation required.
Also, deep down beneath all that, was something like vulnerability. But well buried.
And, in that instant of looking into her eyes, Handon decided: he trusted her. He knew he’d trusted her, for some reason, the minute he laid eyes on her. And that made it reciprocal. Because Handon knew perfectly well the risks she had taken. Not just in rescuing them – but in bringing them back to her sanctuary. She had risked everything. So she must have felt like she knew something about them, as well.
Or maybe just about Handon.
“We’re scavengers,” he said. “Ranging outside of Britain, but solely in Europe – until now.”
“Scavenging for what?”
“There are other teams, out looking for all kinds of things society needs to run: food, seeds, manufactured things. Industrial parts, electronics. Medicine. Fuel.” He paused, still holding her gaze. “But our team is single-purpose. What we’re searching for is a cure.”
“A cure?”
“Or pieces of it. Research. Samples. Chemical or genetic models. Clues, roadmaps. We launch these ops over the water to the labs of pharmaceutical companies, biotechs, university research labs… Anyplace we think might have been on the trail of a cure. Before the fall.”
Sarah looked very intent as she processed this. “And so what would a cure look like?”
“From what they tell me, most people think it will either be a vaccine, or a serum. Or some kind of gene therapy.”
“And did you find such a thing? Out on Lake Michigan?”
Handon looked back to her from the stream. “Our target was Chicago. A biotech, downtown.”
“Jesus,” Sarah said. “What was Chicago like?”
“Crowded.”
She laughed. “You still didn’t answer the question. Did you find it?”
Handon looked across at her again. For some reason, their conversation was zero small talk, and all cutting right to the heart of things. Maybe there was no time for anything else. “I’m not sure,” he said. “We found Dr. Park, and we got him out, along with his research materials. And he’s got hold of something.”
Handon tossed a stem he’d been winding into the stream.
“He thinks he’s close.”
The Air Between Them
“How were things in the town?” Homer asked, finally stirring them both from the sweet reverie he and Ali had been enjoying on the porch. It was so pleasant to be out of doors, out of danger, alive, and there together. “It looked hairy around the church.”
Ali shrugged. “I don’t know. Every time you think it’s gotten as bad as it can get, and still have anybody survive… Every time you think we’ve taken it right down to the wire…”
Homer smiled, puzzlingly to Ali. “Well, it couldn’t have been worse than Chicago. Could it?”
Ali softened. “No. You’re right. You’ve got me there.”
“And we survived that.” He paused again.
“Please don’t tell me it must have been for some higher purpose.”
Homer was imperturbable. “Well, I don’t know about you,” he said with laughter in his voice. “But I didn’t make that trip for no reason.”
Ali spluttered. “That was our purpose! Not a divine one!”
Homer nodded, serenely. “Maybe. And maybe you can tell the difference.”
“Goddammit, Homer.” But she immediately regretted saying it. She reached across and squeezed his right bicep with her left hand. She changed the subject. “What’s your take on the situation here?”
“What – in the cabin, with the Camerons? You tell me.”
“Okay.” Ali generally hesitated long before speaking ill of people. She also took a look around to see if anyone was within earshot. Screw it, she thought. “I think the kid is trouble. Just a sense I’ve got. I’m afraid he’s going to bring the swarm down on us.”
“Teenage boys usually are trouble,” Homer said. That struck Ali as uncharacteristically uncharitable. Or maybe that was just him trying to be funny.
“The husband is obviously the weakest link,” Ali added. “But probably harmless. Now Sarah… she’s amazing, as anybody can see. But I don’t think she likes me very much.”
“Why not?”
“Mostly because her husband does like me too much.”
Ali shrugged again. She was basically dismissive of domesticity, and she knew it, without being proud of it. Sarah’s were choices Ali never made – never had the opportunity to make.
Homer said, “I wouldn’t be too hard on the husband. He probably hasn’t laid eyes on another living female in over two years. I’m sure he means well.”
Ali blinked once, heavily, but kept silent. Homer always thought everyone meant well. He always thought the best of everyone. Come to consider it, she had no idea how he was still alive at this point.
Maybe it was God looking out for him.
It had to be something.
* * *
“That a waterproof pouch for your cleaning kit?” Henno asked Juice.
“Yeah. I’ve gotten soaked to the skin on what turned out to be a long-ass mission, just one too many damned times.”
Predator looked over from the couch. “How many times was that?”
Juice looked up at him like this was a strange question. “Once,” he said.
Just as he was sliding the upper receiver of his rifle back onto the lower, the boy emerged again from his bedroom. Juice guessed he’d heard the discussion, as well as the clacking. He got a strong sense the kid was interested in weapons. Then again, at this point, pretty much anybody interested in going on living had better be.
Juice nodded seriously to the adolescent, as the boy entered and resumed holding up a wall. “What’s your weapon of choice, then?” Juice asked. He was thinking the kid was more than old enough to go armed. Hell, there was arguably no such thing as too young anymore. Especially not out here.
The boy nodded toward the gun rack by the door. “I know how to use the shotgun.”
Predator perked up at this conversation. “Is that what you carry when you go out?”
The boy looked at his shoes. “Not really. Most of the time, Mom doesn’t let me.”
Henno and Predator laughed aloud at this – and, before he could stop himself, Juice chuckled as well. But, trying to be conciliatory, he said, “Must be rough living in a world with one woman.”
“We live
in a world with one woman,” said Predator.
“Yeah,” said Henno, “but she’s his mum!”
They both shouted with laughter.
Juice saw the kid’s face going beet red. He cleared the chamber of the rifle, locked the bolt back, and waved the boy over. “C’mon, I’ll show you how to use this one.”
* * *
Handon and Sarah had now sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. She was clearly absorbing everything he had told her, the implications and importance of it. About the possibility of a cure.
Finally, Handon said, gently, “I’m sorry you lost your dog.”
She looked at him, surprised. Handon gestured back up the trail behind them. “I saw the metal eye screwed into the porch. No chain, but no other obvious reason for it.”
Sarah nodded. “Yes, there used to be four of us.”
“How’d you lose him?”
“The usual way. He got eaten.” Handon gave her a stage reaction – the scandalized look. “Not by us!” she said quickly. “Jesus. We loved that dog.”
Handon smiled. “I know. Of course you did. Why the chain, by the way, if you had the fence?”
“Built the fence after we lost the dog.”
“Good thinking.”
“It’s necessary, but not sufficient. You don’t want to get trapped in there. But I figured it to save us from a lone one or pair, wandering in while we’re sleeping.”
“Has that ever happened?”
“I’ve seen one or two go by in the dead of night. We were lucky they didn’t catch scent of us. If that’s how they do it.”
“Our experience has been it’s more sound than smell.”
“Agreed. That’s why I’ve religiously avoided gunfire anywhere within five miles of the cabin – and worked hard to avoid it elsewhere. So far, the secret of our location has been kept.”
Handon rested his forearms on his knees and leaned forward. “What brought you all out here? Why the bug-out location?” He took the risk of trying on some of the survivalism lingo, offering it as a shibboleth. She was clearly a survivalist of some type – you could tell because she’d survived. Also, everything in the cabin screamed of it. Including the existence of the cabin itself. And, at this point in time, it hardly looked like a radical fringe movement anymore.
“I suppose it’s a hobby,” she said. “A bit like any other. You start off storing some bottled water and a first aid kit, and it kind of goes from there. Also, I think it was in part the police work that shaped my view. When you deal with the worst examples of human behavior, day in and day out… well, it’s easy to develop a pessimistic view of the prospects for human civilization.”
Handon nodded. He knew what she meant. Though he had generally killed the bad people he dealt with before getting very close to them. He didn’t do a lot of restraining suspects, searching them, or booking them into custody. But he guessed she had.
“Also, there were the debt-to-GDP ratios,” she added. Handon arched his eyebrows at this. He didn’t get it. She elaborated.
“The math stopped working. The public debt in most western countries, the U.S. and Canada included, well, it got so high that, mathematically, it could never go down again. With all the social spending that was set in stone, there was no way to tax enough of a surplus to pay down the debt. Not without cratering the economies of these countries. The best long-term scenario was something like Greece. In the worst, major currencies collapsed, governments defaulted on sovereign debt – and the U.S. and Canadian governments basically folded.”
“So you were ready for a breakdown in government services. Maybe a major civil unrest.”
“Yes. But we weren’t ready for this…”
“Nobody was. And you were a hell of a lot better prepared than most.”
She smiled sardonically. “Well, I certainly don’t regret the five hundred dollars I dropped on that Mossberg.”
Handon smiled. “Excellent zombie-fighting weapon. As any video-game player back in the world could have told you.” They both chuckled. “And is that why your cabin is in the U.S., rather than across the border? To keep the heavier hardware?”
“One of the reasons. The gun laws are certainly laxer here. There was also the location – distant from major population centers, isolated. But also within striking distance of a town, if we needed supplies or support. It’s also a good spot for fish and game. And only a day’s drive from Toronto. Finally…” and with this she looked around her, with obvious affection. “The Manistee National Forest is totally beautiful. This was our weekend retreat, before all of this.”
Handon took a second to look around as well. “Is that where we are?”
“Actually, we’re just off it. You can’t build in the national forest itself. But a lot of property on or near the lake is privately held. And the forest stretches out behind us, and to the north and south, for forty miles in every direction.”
Handon piped down, and just enjoyed the silence for a minute. The stillness. The peace. Something they’d known damned little of lately… Finally, he shook his head and said, “Yesterday morning we were on an aircraft carrier in the Atlantic, packing our chutes and getting ready to jump over Chicago… Everything seems to happen so damned fast in the Zulu Alpha.”
“The what?”
“Sorry. Military phonetic alphabet slang. Zulu Alpha – the Zo—”
“I get it from there,” she said, gently. “But I don’t know that I agree with you. The spread of the disease, and the collapse, of course they happened unbelievably fast. But, since then… well, actually, everything has seemed to take forever.”
She turned to face him, and he dared look back into her eyes.
They sat this way, breathing, and feeling electricity pour out into the moment, until the air between them was swollen and raging with it.
* * *
Ali and Homer had been sitting in happy and intimate silence themselves. But it had now started to go on too long. It had acquired a subtext. Like Handon, Ali was also feeling increasingly like life was short – you never knew how short, in this age. And talking around the real topic was silly at best. At worst, it might prove tragic – forever regretted.
She stole another look at the side of Homer’s face. She could see it written there.
“You’ve been thinking about your family, haven’t you?” She said it gently. Not as an accusation.
He hardly hesitated before replying. “How not?”
Homer never knew how to talk about his wife and children with Ali. It was like two parallel universes, ones which could never intersect. As if, when he was in one, the other was totally unreal, notional, theoretical. As, he supposed ruefully, his old life and family now WERE unreal.
They were gone. Almost certainly.
But Ali seemed to understand all this, without him having to say anything. He said it anyway. He had to clear his throat first, and then spoke very quietly.
“I swore something to myself going into this mission…” But then he trailed off.
Ali put her finger to his lips, shushing him. She had felt this coming. It had always been coming. She knew that things were changing quickly. On this mission, which was of such unspeakable importance… well, for Homer, duty had always come first.
And it would still come first now.
But this mission would soon be drawing to a close. (One way or the other, Ali mentally amended.) They had the mission objective. All that remained was getting it out, and safely back to their command authority. There were still a huge number of question marks, and terrible risks still lay ahead. But they had already traversed half the length of Lake Michigan – halfway from Chicago to Beaver Island. Only half remained.
Ali was also aware of the biggest change: they were now on the other side of the Atlantic. And Homer was out on the ground. She could feel the pull his old home exerted on him, so much closer than it had ever been before. She could feel the growing weight and leverage of everything he’d left behind.
> Of course everyone had left so much behind. And none of it was coming back. But once they got to extraction, and Homer’s duty was fulfilled… maybe then he would be free? Ali didn’t know. But she was afraid.
When she looked up again, there were three magpies now, clustered and hopping around the base of an ancient and bare cedar-hemlock at the edge of the clearing.
Homer spoke evenly, as if in a trance.
“Three for a wedding.”
But to whom? Ali thought to herself, sadly.
She guessed she’d find out.
Darkness Revisited
She still jumped at most noises, and thought every movement in the old tenement building had to be one of the dead. The bump of a closing door or the creaking of old floorboards set her nerves on edge every time, even though she told herself that it was just other people moving around. It was an instinct born of two years inside the darkness of the Channel Tunnel, always listening for signs of movement that shouldn’t be there, or sounds that weren’t being made by her fellow survivors. It would be a long time before she could put that aside and live normally – as normally as life in Fortress Britain allowed.
It had only been a couple of days, though, she kept telling herself.
The daylight was also painful, the light hurt her eyes, and that wasn’t even the full glare of the sun; just stepping out into the daylight clouded her senses as though the sun itself were on fire and burned a hundred times brighter than it did for everyone else.
Amarie glanced down towards Josie, who lay breathing, and making little whistling noises, in the cot next to her. A few moments of peace as the child slept. This was nothing to be taken for granted, as Josie also suffered from the same problems. Bright light, odd sounds, all of these things were alien to the tiny girl, who had been born and developed for eighteen months in near complete darkness. If they went outside during the day she was apt to cry or twist around in her stroller trying to turn her face away from the sunlight.