Sins of Our Ancestors Boxed Set

by Bridget E. Baker

  This new mother, with her wavy blonde hair and delicate features, looks as much like me as Rhonda. Maybe more. That would probably mean more before I found out Rhonda probably isn’t related to me at all. When I glance down into this new momma’s lap, a white-swaddled bundle wriggles. I focus on the tiny thing, one itsy-bitsy, pinkish hand waving in the air, and a button nose scrunched into an apple-sized face. A tiny wisp of strawberry blonde hair curls onto her forehead, but what really draws my attention aren't her delicate features or her beautiful curl. It's the tiny rash on the perfect baby skin.

  I gasp.

  “My name’s Libby. Can you help my baby? Can you help Rose?” Libby’s voice shakes with fear and her eyes shine with hope, but it's the desperate longing that kills me.

  I shrug, trying not to get her hopes up, as if that's possible. “I'll try.”

  Job offers up a needle and I cross the room to where he's standing. “Oral, like Wesley?” I ask. “Or intravenous? I assume that's better.”

  “It should be.” Job shrugs. “There are quite a few viruses that pass via the intestinal tract, so it makes sense the immunity can too, like the kids' flu vaccination, but it's still more effective when given intravenously. We’re lucky you’re O Negative. If you weren’t a universal donor, we’d need way more equipment right now.”

  I try not to look at Libby and her baby while Job draws blood from the cradle of my right elbow, but I can't help it. The fingers on Rose’s hand are delicate, with perfect, miniature nails at the end of each one. She whimpers, and the sound makes me want to curl my arms around her and rock her. I want to fix everything, and she's not even my baby. “Why did you name her Rose?”

  Libby smiles ear to ear. “I wanted to give her an R name to honor you, but my mother's name was Lily, so I wanted to name her after a flower too. Gardens and blooms have survived the destruction of Tercera and still bring beauty and joy into the world, just like I hope my Rose will.”

  “Try dosing Libby too,” I say when Job finishes.

  Libby shakes her head so violently that the baby cries out. “No, give all of it to her. The more she gets, the better her chances, right? I'll give her my entire dose.”

  I frown. “Draw another syringe full. They can each have one.”

  Libby sets her jaw and I know she's planning to refuse.

  “Believe me,” I say, “This is far, far more than Wesley got, and look at him.”

  Wesley smiles. I can tell it's forced, but Libby probably can't.

  “Alright.” She slumps forward and when she looks down, I notice rings under her eyes that signal more than exhaustion. Before Job can approach her, Rhonda takes the syringe, widening her eyes meaningfully. “You haven't been inoculated yet, Job. Let me.”

  While Rhonda treats Libby and Rose, I walk across to find another syringe. I draw my own blood, which I'm proud I can still do. It's been years since I practiced this in Science. I hand the syringe to Job and whisper to him. “Time to dose yourself. Can't have my star scientist going down with the ship.”

  He glances at Rose and Libby, clearly feeling as selfish and guilty as I do, but he injects himself without arguing. “Thanks.”

  Baby Rose cries when she's injected, but calms quickly when Libby feeds her a bottle. I'm not sure what I expected, really. Maybe I thought the Mark would magically disappear when Rose got my blood, but of course it's a physical rash. Even if the antibodies are doing their job, the rash will take time to resolve.

  After watching them for a moment, both noticeably calmer than when we entered, I stand up.

  Wesley hasn't said a word since we entered, but he puts a hand on Libby and squeezes her shoulder as we prepare to leave. Once we reach the hallway, he walks us to a room and points at the door. “This is where you and Rhonda will sleep for the night. Job will be next door. There should be bowls of soup waiting in the rooms. I asked them to leave you some of what we made for the new mothers. Please let me know if you need anything else.” He inclines his head stiffly, which I've never, ever seen him do before, and then spins on his heel.

  “That boy is depressed,” Rhonda says. “What did you say to him?”

  “That boy doesn't even understand true suffering. He'll survive,” I say instinctively, and then it hits me all over again.

  Wesley will survive, but Sam didn't.

  My shoulders shake first, and I fly into the room and throw myself down on a bed before the curious people up and down the hall can witness my complete collapse. I'm not sure how long I cry into the pillow. However long it is, when my tears dry up, I know it wasn't nearly long enough.

  The bed creaks when Rhonda sits down next to me. She reaches her arm around my shoulder. “I know it's hard right now, because I can barely breathe when I think about him, but for the first time in a long time, things really are better in the world now than when you went to sleep last night. We have a, well, sort of a cure for Tercera, once we get some help from Mom to iron out the kinks.”

  I know Rhonda's right. The world's brighter today, and humanity has a future again. I should be happy. Maybe if I keep repeating that over and over, I'll start to believe it myself.

  4

  My eyes open and I look around for Sam. I want to see his half smile, touch his hand. My foggy, early morning brain finally processes what I know, and the realization I’ll never see Sam again hits like a load of rubble.

  I don’t even have a photo of him, much less the two of us.

  It’s a stupid thing to worry about, but once the thought reaches my core synapses, tears well up. I imagine his face in my mind so clearly now, but how long until it fades? How long until I can’t quite recall the way his eyes aren’t quite green or gold, but a mixture of the two? How long until I can’t get the details right of how he stands when he’s scanning the surroundings? How long until I can’t remember how his hand touches the side of my face, and his eyes soften before he kisses me?

  I sob into my pillow so I don't wake up Rhonda, and for the first time in my life, I want to roll back over and never get up. Except that would negate the benefit of his sacrifice, so I do get up. I put one foot in front of the other until I find myself standing a dozen doors down, peering around the corner at Libby. She's awake, and cradling her perfect little baby in the inside of her elbow.

  The smooth, clear skin of Rose’s forehead almost breaks through the sorrow-saturated fog that's taken residence in my brain. My blood did that, killed Tercera, saved a baby. My dad's research and his triple shot of antibodies allowed me to heal this tiny life, a child who would surely have died two days ago, but now might live to adulthood.

  When I glance up at her mother’s face, I almost can't breathe. Libby’s Mark is fading. I try to tamp down my hope, because the shrinking of her rash may mean nothing. Libby has sores on her arms, which also look improved, but she's been off the suppressant for quite some time. If she's had a baby, she's been off for over a year, and there's no telling how far the viral progress of Tercera has gone.

  Even knowing it’s a long shot, even knowing that positive signs may mean nothing, my lips turn upward. I need a smile like a drowning man needs a floaty.

  “I know.” Libby's eyes are red-rimmed from crying, but her own mouth breaks into a contagious grin. “It's a miracle. Thank you, a million times thank you.”

  Her expression is different when she looks at Rose this time, and I easily recognize why. For the first time in a decade, hope has outpaced fear. She might survive to see Rose's first steps. She might hold her daughter and rock her, and sing to her, and hear her speak her first words. She might be there for Rose for more than a month or two, or three. Libby might be there to see it all, to care for her own child. She might be able to do something the world took for granted ten years ago. But today, the hope of many tomorrows is a miracle today.

  And I'm part of it.

  That thought pulls me through the next few hours as I dose the newborns and their mothers in turn, and then as we begin the more mundane tasks of helpin
g the pregnant girls, the new mothers and their partners, siblings and friends pack up to flee. I personally help Wesley load two more cows into the back of our stolen truck, but there's only enough transportation for seven cows beside those two. That means we'll have to leave more than fifteen behind. Rhonda let the Marked know about WPN's plans to exterminate them, and they don’t want to wait around this close to the threat.

  My infection of King Solomon turned him into a ticking time bomb as well, and we can’t even guess how his illness might change those plans. We’re all positive we’d rather not be around to find out.

  I try to ignore the worried glances from caretakers and mothers alike at the cows being left, because there's nothing we can do about it. Hopefully the nine we're taking will make enough milk for the babies whose mothers are sick or dead.

  When no one's watching, I ask Wesley, “Do you know how much milk these cows make?”

  He sighs. “We're taking the top producers with us, but on average two or so gallons a day. They used to feed milk cows grain Before and they made several gallons per day, but we don't have much of that to spare. They produce way less milk when they're eating mostly hay and grass.”

  By my count, there are fourteen babies, and forty-three pregnant girls. “How much does a baby drink?”

  He frowns. “Ruby, we're taking care of this. You don't need to stress. One cow can feed eight babies, or maybe ten if we need them to. Besides, some of the moms can nurse. Especially if we cure them before...”

  Before their bodily functions shut down and they die. Ugh. I thought this through already. It takes six months or so from the suppressant failure for their bodies to develop to the point of sustaining a pregnancy, I assume. At least nine more months to grow a baby. At that rate, they're well into year three before the baby is born. The stress of pregnancy advances the disease course, which means these moms have months left at most, if not weeks. Looking around at the strength, or lack thereof, for each of these mothers confirms that I'm right.

  One mother has bright yellow skin: jaundice. One mother has swollen ankles: heart failure. One mother looks rail thin. I can't believe she's sustained this pregnancy. I'd guess her intestines aren't processing food correctly, which means the newborn will almost certainly be low birth weight. I shake my head and try to think of something else, because Wesley's right. Worrying won't help us right now, but I really wish my aunt was here.

  Rafe’s talking to a mother-to-be a few feet away about the same things I was worrying about. “I know the cows take a break each year. I know that makes you nervous, and you need to trust me.” He raises his voice. “We'll come back for them, okay? Make sure they have food and as much water as we can provide, and ensure the fencing is secure, but you mothers are our priority. Cows can be replaced.”

  Every time I turn around, Job hands me another glass of water. “Drink.”

  I drink whenever I'm told, and try my best not to feel like a walking blood bank. It gives me some insight into the life of these poor cows.

  The worst part isn't worrying, and it's not loading cows, or even dealing with their bodily functions. The worst part is saying no. At least twenty of the forty pregnant mothers beg me for blood. I always agree, because how can I possibly say no?

  Wesley, who otherwise ignores me, stands over me like a guard at the now defunct Fort Knox. He shakes his head each time, putting a hand on theirs, or an arm around their shoulder. “I know it's hard. I know you don't want to wait,” he says. “But you know we have to make a plan for all of this, and our top priority right now is research. We need to figure out what works and what doesn't so we can treat everyone as quickly and safely as possible.”

  After the first few, Wesley frowns when he walks back over to me, and mutters under his breath. “You shouldn't have given any blood to Libby, you really shouldn't have. Rafe's orders are there for a reason. Other than brand new births, no blood from you until we've run tests and made some kind of plan. Your blood isn't limitless, but the people clamoring for it. . . they are. You won't do anyone any good if you die of blood loss.”

  He's right. I know he is, but if I die at least the pain will stop.

  I try not to think that way because I know I shouldn't, but it's hard. When armed guards supervise our departure, I think of Sam. Every gun reminds me of him. Things as mundane as cans of food bring to mind making tea with Sam. When Rhonda repacks her backpack, the defense rations remind me of his jokes. I'm so pathetic that I even think of Sam whenever I see Rafe turn the right way, or smile, for some inexplicable reason, and Rafe looks nothing like him.

  By the time we all climb into the black WPN truck, weighed down with people, supplies, and cows, I breathe a heavy sigh of relief. Wesley drives again, but this time Rhonda sits in the back with me.

  “Where exactly are we going?” I ask.

  “The Marked encampment outside of Port Gibson isn't very large. We're headed for their home base near Baton Rouge. WPN sticks to port towns like Galveston and New Orleans, so the Marked set up a little more inland.”

  “How long's the drive?” Job asks.

  Wesley shrugs. “Depends on roads. We'll take I-10 past Lake Charles, just like we would if we were headed to Port Gibson, but then instead of branching North, we continue east. The scariest part of the trek is crossing the Atchafalaya, for me at least. So far one side of the bridge is fine, but it's a long bridge and no one maintains it.” Wesley shudders. “Assuming all is well, the drive should take seven hours give or take. We've got to move slower than normal with the cows in the back.”

  The Marked are a lot more organized than I expected them to be.

  After two hours Job takes the wheel, Rhonda moves up front, and Wesley climbs into the back with me. Rhonda and Job are chatting and laughing about the last time we had this many people in a truck, our trip up north when they had to make reports to the DecaCouncil. Job had an upset stomach, and we spent the whole trip with the windows down, stopping every twenty minutes. It's funny now, but it really stunk at the time, like literally. Listening to them bickering back and forth and reminiscing, I almost forget all the things that are wrong. I lean my head against the side window and close my eyes.

  I almost forget Wesley’s sitting next to me until he speaks.

  “Do you feel lightheaded or tired at all?”

  His voice is caring, kind, and familiar. It's just the wrong voice. I know it's not Wesley's fault Sam's gone, and it's not like Wesley can be Sam. Even so, I fake exhaustion. “Yeah, tired for some reason. I may try to take a nap.”

  As I say the words, I notice a big tree with a Cracker Barrel sign right in front of it. I freak out a little bit, the screams breaking free from my throat against my will. “Stop, wait, stop the truck. Pull over!”

  “Umm that little fit of yours just took a year off my life,” Job says. “What in the world is wrong?”

  “Pull over! Just pull over!”

  Job slows the truck and swerves onto the weedy, cracked edge of the road. I notice that several other trucks have stopped behind us since we're caravan-ing east to Baton Rouge. I should care that they’re all being inconvenienced, but I don't. They can wait a few moments. I race down the dirt path Sam and I stopped on that first night on the road. The pile of branches he dumped out of the truck bed still lies on the edge of the clearing, but the tire tracks are almost gone, along with our footprints. I shift some of the branches and find the gas cans, the ones Sam forgot that left us stranded. He was so angry at himself, at the world. Of course, if he hadn’t forgotten them, we’d have been caught by WPN and we couldn’t have saved Rhonda and Job. Even Sam’s missteps worked out in the end.

  Except for the last one.

  I point at the gas cans and Wesley and Job glance at me with identically baffled looks.

  “I left these here last time I was on this road,” I say. “Hopefully the lids are tight enough that the gas is fine. You should take it to the truck.”

  Gas is precious. Maybe they'll think that memo
ry is the reason I made us all pull over. My throat closes off, and I can't talk any more. I stumble toward the clearing where Sam and I ate our first dinner around a campfire.

  I sit on a stump near where he cooked the little rabbit on a spit. I think about the story he told me that night, about his uncle, about his parents. I almost welcome the pain, because it's a connection between us. I bend over silently while the agony claws at my heart, shredding ventricles, destroying my aorta.

  When I straighten, I see the trees off in the distance, where Sam taught me to shoot. I remember that he shot around my bullet holes, transforming my erratic shots into the shape of a heart. Showing off for me, even then. I walk toward the tree slowly, remembering how he taught me to shoot, shifting my stance, his hand on my hip. He loved guns so much, and I hated them equally. If possible, I like them even less now. They took my dad, and I felt adrift for years, never quite fitting in, never quite having a family. Then I found Sam, and now guns have taken him too.

  I reach out to trace the heart in the tree trunk and notice he did something else. He must've done it when he said he was picking up shell casings. He connected the gunshots with a knife, so it looks like a connect-the-dots picture. He carved something inside the heart, a sequence of letters. SR+RB. Sam carved our initials into the heart he shot. He hadn't lied. He'd loved me all along. And now because I dragged him all the way to WPN for no reason, he's gone forever.

  Everyone I love the most dies.

  I sink to my knees, and sob. If half the world's population wasn't relying on me to be their living blood bag, I'd never get up from this spot. Rhonda must've followed me, because she clears her throat, crouches down next to me, and pulls me against her chest.

  “It's okay.” She rocks me back and forth, and back and forth, again and again. “Or at least, it will be okay eventually.” She smooths my hair away from my face and keeps rocking.

  “It's not okay.” I hiccup. “It'll never be okay. The world won't ever be right again.”