by T M Edwards
“Thanks.” She set her tray down and took a seat. “Listen, I’m sorry about that interaction with Zena.”
I nodded silently, because I still wasn’t quite ready to forgive her for it.
The blond woman sighed and looked down at her food. She took her fork and picked at the oatmeal. “Look. It’s nothing against you, okay? I’m just trying to protect my sister.”
“By trying to prevent her from making friends?”
“No. By preventing her from trying to make friends with people who end up hurting her.”
I set my spoon down hard enough that it clattered on the plastic tabletop. “I’m not going to hurt Zena. It sounds like she’s had enough hurt already, between school and your parents…”
“Did Zena tell you why she thinks our parents hate her?” She cut across me before I could finish my sentence.
“She said they thought she was stupid.” I wouldn’t use the word Zena had used.
Kiera laughed without humor, and swirled her fork through her eggs. “Sure, they said that, among other things. Zena’s convinced herself that everybody hates her because she’s autistic. She’s a smart girl, she knows she’s awkward, no matter how hard she tries to act normal.”
I was now thoroughly confused. “Then why?”
“Because Zena’s really my half-sister.”
“Many people have blended families. I don’t see why…”
She set her fork down. “No, you don’t understand. My parents have been married since before they had me. I’m seven years older than Zena. Mom is black and Dad is white. I’m mixed, Zena isn’t.”
I felt like I was probably being dense. I was still tired, and my brain didn’t want to function.
Kiera sighed again. “Mom had an affair, and got pregnant with Zena. She’s a constant reminder of what happened. My parents stayed together because they thought being unhappy and married was better for raising us than being happy and apart. I think they both hate Zena a little bit for it. They were awful to her, but they never told her why, so Zena thinks it’s because of her autism. My parents are very active members of their church, and they’ve lived in constant fear that their friends would find out.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yes. And I guess Zena’s real dad has autism in his family, so Mom and Dad thought that if people knew, they might put it all together, since nobody else in our family has it. So she wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. They didn’t even tell the teachers, and denied it when anyone brought up Zena’s behavior. They were getting ready to pull her out and homeschool her next year, after Zena got suspended for getting in a fight.”
My heart ached for a girl who had been through so much, and all because of something she had no control over. “It’s all horrible. But I would never hurt her. I swear.”
Kiera rubbed her forehead wearily with her hand. “I just...I just don’t want to see my sister hurt again. She’s been a bit of a Golden Child here, because she was the only one who could go out to the object and bring back data to help everyone else try and figure out what to do about it. People think she’s weird, but they need her. You don’t. You can come and go as you please, just like she can. I just didn’t want her to end up hurt if you one day decided you can’t stand her anymore.”
“I won’t. I promise. I can’t make it alright, what happened to her, but I know what it feels like to be different. Really,” I added, when I saw Kiera look like she was about to protest.
Kiera closed her mouth and nodded. “Okay. I believe you.” She speared some eggs on her fork.
“Thank you.”
The fork stopped halfway to Kiera’s mouth. “Why?”
I shrugged. Why? Because I wish I’d had someone who would fight for me like this. “For caring about her. For not giving up on her.”
“She’s my sister and I love her. I’ll never give up on her as long as we’re both alive.”
***
A whole day had passed since I first woke up in the bunker, and I had done little more than meet a few people, take a shower, and worry over Sam.
Oh, Sam. Sam, who lay, still and pale, in the hospital bed that I had recently vacated. The young man with the tousled hair that now was plastered to his forehead. The arms that were so strong, the eyes that were so vivid, but now the arms were limp and the eyes were closed.
Dr. Haroun said he had an infection. I could have guessed as much. Antibiotics and fluids ran in steady streams from the IV bags and into his good arm. Fever raged within him, and I could see in the doctor’s eyes that even she was concerned.
I sat on the cot where Sam had slept to watch over me, and in the twilight of the one oil lamp I stared at my friend as if the force of my gaze could wake him.
Around the time that the bright sunlight of mid-morning had started to seep around the cracks of the tent flaps, I heard footsteps outside. Then I heard Doctor Haroun’s voice and a man’s. I couldn’t quite place his accent. Whatever it was, it sounded exotic.
“Doctor.”
A pause. “Dalen.” Her voice was tense, different from her normal way of speaking. That was odd. Wasn’t Dalen the man who ran the bunker? I thought everyone loved him.
“How is your patient?”
Haroun sure was taking her time responding. “I expect him to recover.”
“Doctor, you know that our resources…”
“I know our resources are limited. He’s a Resistant, Dalen. I won’t allow any person to die, much less someone who could save us.”
Feet shifted on the concrete. “We have other Resistants, Doctor. I will not have one man consume enough resources and more than one person could die for the lack of them. We must be prepared for the worst.”
Haroun snorted. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that the ‘worst’ was exactly what you’re hoping for.”
“Of course not, Doctor. I want this crisis ended as much as you do. However, I didn’t become the leader of this community without the ability to manage numbers and inventories.”
“They’re not numbers and inventories, Dalen. They’re people.”
“Of course, Doctor. And I trust we will soon see the world fixed, for their sakes. Until then, please conserve our resources. For all our sakes.”
Before I could decide what to think about the conversation I’d just overheard, the tent flaps shuddered. Then they parted and a man entered. He was very tall, so much so that he had to bend his head to enter the doorway. In contrast to the ubiquitous gray sweatshirts and pants that comprised the wardrobe of the rest of us, he wore a suit that was exquisitely tailored to his thin frame. It was navy blue, with a pink handkerchief stuffed in the front pocket. His hair was graying, and both it and his salt-and-pepper goatee were immaculately groomed. He looked like he belonged in a conference room on the top floor of a high-rise, not beneath the ground in a hangar-turned-bunker, hiding from the apocalypse.
“Ms. Scott?”
I felt small and drab in my gray clothing. “Yes?”
“Ms. Scott, I am Dalen White. Owner of this place, and leader of this community. May I have a moment of your time?”
I shot a glance at Sam. “I…”
“I assure you, you will soon be able to return to the friend who you so loyally attend. Please.” He stepped out of the tent, leaving me wondering in frustration if he’d noticed my splinted leg. I limped over to the wheelchair and sat down heavily in it.
When I emerged from the tent, the man didn’t look back at me before he started walking. He led me, breathing heavily as I wrestled with the wheelchair, across the common area. We were headed toward the blue tent on the far side of the bunker.
I was breathless by the time I followed the tall man into the blue tent. When the door flaps fell into place behind me, I found myself in an aisle between two rows of tables that were laden with various computers and electronic equipment. Everything was illuminated with the light of electronic screens and oil lamps.
“What is this stuff?” I asked, as I followed hi
m to the end of the aisle, where there stood a single folding table with an electric desk-lamp clamped to one side.
He gestured at the machines that surrounded us. “These are merely some tools that we use to stay aware of the outside world. “ He led me to the table, then sat in a folding chair and waved for me to park my wheelchair on the other side. I really needed to hunt down a set of crutches before my arms fell off.
Mr. Dalen White leaned forward and tapped his steepled fingers against his lips. The lamp was positioned above his head, which caused shadows to form on his face and make him look even more gaunt.
If he’s going for “overdramatic and creepy,” he’s got that down pat.
“Ms. Scott, are you aware of what is going on outside our walls?”
I leaned back in the chair and crossed my arms, uncomfortable with the way he stared at me and suddenly regretting that I’d followed him into this tent alone. “You mean the weird meteor that’s throwing spores into the air?”
He nodded. “A simplistic explanation, but yes.”
“Then yeah, I know about it.”
“Then you are likely aware that some few people are immune to the effects, and are therefore more valuable to us in our endeavors to end the production and spread of the spores.”
I nodded.
“Yourself, Sam Harrison, the girl Zena, and two others.”
I stared at him in shock. “There’s only five of us?” How are five people supposed to save the world? This is insane.
“That have made it here, yes. Of the other two, one is a child aged five years, and the second is a ninety-five-year-old man. Neither are going to be of much help, for reasons that are likely obvious.”
I ran my hands wearily through my hair. Neither is Sam, if this creep lets him die to save resources. “Okay, so what do you want us to do?”
“When I built this shelter, I did not anticipate the volume of people that would inhabit it. I expected a few dozen, not the two hundred that currently live here. As such, I did not anticipate a need for multiple people to be leaving the shelter, which was built more with the intention of providing a place of protection for a few individuals in a long-term crisis.”
“So you’re saying you don’t have the equipment you need for people to be safe if they go outside?”
He lowered his hands to the table, and nodded. “Indeed.”
“Can’t you just make something?”
“Air filtration masks would be relatively easy to make. However, even skin exposure to the spores will cause effects if a person remains outdoors for a period of a half-hour or more. Those who go outside must remove all clothing and clean their skin once they return, or they will be affected as well. And once they are affected, even briefly, it can take days for the symptoms to wane. There is no efficient way for a group of any significant size to study the object for an amount of time that would lead to progress in understanding it. From here, it is nearly a half-hour drive to the object.”
“So you need us to, what, study it?”
“That is correct.”
“Mr. White,”
He interrupted me by putting up a hand. “Dalen, please.”
I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of returning the first-name favor. “Dalen, I don’t have any experience in science stuff.”
“I understand. You would carry the instruments, and those with experience would remain here, and maintain contact with you via audio and video means.”
You. This was a singular, not plural. The weight of the responsibility hit me like a ton of bricks. Zena was barely more than a child. Sam was deathly ill. The other two were too old and too young to be of any use. This was all on me.
“Don’t you have any Hazmat suits or anything?”
Dalen shook his head. “We did have two, but those who wore them were involved in a vehicle accident. Even though they survived, the suits were damaged beyond repair.”
I indicated my injured leg. “I can’t even walk.”
“I am aware. The girl will accompany you, to help with mobility, until such time as you are able to walk again.”
“Okay.” I took a deep breath, and tried to quiet the anxiety in my brain.
But Sam. We can’t leave Sam alone. What if he dies? What if he dies and I’m not there for him?
What if all these other people die because they run out of food? Doesn’t Sam have a better chance of surviving if you end this thing so that Dalen doesn’t consider pulling the plug on him?
I can’t. I can’t let them depend on me. I’ll let them down.
Doesn’t seem like you have much of a choice.
“Ms. Scott?” Dalen’s smooth voice intruded on my internal debate.
“I’m sorry?” He was looking at me like he’d asked me a question.
“I was asking when you feel you will be ready to begin your work. I assume you are able to drive a vehicle?”
“Yes, of course.”
He nodded with satisfaction, and leaned back in his chair. “Wonderful. I suggest you return to the space you have shared with Mr. Harrison, where you will find some work-appropriate clothing laid out for you. Then you may return here to collect your equipment and instructions.”
He stood up and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from his suit. Then the man with the goatee nodded to me, and walked out of the tent, leaving me alone at the table.
***
Nearly an hour later, I was exhausted, and once more sitting in front of the blue tent. Those “more appropriate” work clothes had involved tracking down someone in scrubs to ask them to take the splint off of my legs so that I could get the pants on, then having to find the person who dispensed clothing when I was informed that there was no way the splint was coming off. Then to the bathrooms to change. I was breathless, shaking, and fighting back tears as I sat in front of the doorway. Everyone who saw me had just watched me struggle, and nobody had offered to help. I had been too frustrated, and too cowardly, to ask for the help I needed. So here I was, getting ready to help save the people that wouldn’t assist me, and wondering why I was even bothering to do it.
“Hey.” I turned at the sound to see Zena walking up next to me. “What the heck are you wearing?”
I knew if I opened my mouth, I would start crying. I just smoothed a crease in the ankle-length denim skirt that had been what I ended up with. It was the only thing they could find that was more sturdy than thin sweatpants, and would fit my injured leg without drowning me in fabric.
Zena grabbed the handlebars of my chair. “Ready?”
No. “Yes.” I stared at the doorway to the tent, which had now been tied open, and an interior which was now bustling with people. I’m not ready. “Let’s go.”
I took a deep breath as we crossed from daylight to the light of oil lanterns and electric lamps, and tried to convince myself that throwing myself out of the wheelchair and limping or crawling to the safety of the less-crowded common area was not a viable option.
I was immediately surrounded by people. People talking, people handing me things, people shoving things in my ears and clipping them to my shirt. People trying to meet my eyes as they assured me that whichever piece of information they were imparting was of the highest priority.
Zena pushed me from the tent twenty minutes later with my lap now full of electronic instruments, a button-sized video camera attached to my shirt, and an earbud that had been shoved into my ear so roughly that I felt like I should check for blood.
“Let me help.” I turned to see a man, maybe in his thirties, walking up to us. He was tan where Sam was fair, and a thick beard covered his face. His arms bulged with muscle. “That ramp is a killer.”
Zena stepped aside, and he grabbed the chair’s handles.
“Thank you,” I managed, though even that sounded breathless and weary.
“It’s no problem.” After we had passed through the inner door and the chair was rattling up the ramp, he spoke again. “You’re Deidre, right?”
“Yes.”
The three of us reached the top of the ramp, and Zena opened the door in the outer wall. Crisp air flooded inside. Alan pushed me out onto the concrete, and toward the truck that was parked near the road.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
Alan stopped the wheelchair at the truck, and held out his arm for me to hold onto so that I could climb into the cab. He then folded the chair and lifted it effortlessly into the truck bed.
The keys were already in the ignition. I turned them just as Alan returned and tapped on my window. I heard Zena buckling her seatbelt in the passenger seat.