Lee had been next, breaking down Khang's door when he didn't answer. The vacuum had still been running and his son had thought that Khang had injured himself, was lying helpless on the floor. Instead he found his father crouched over the body of his sister. Lee had run to help Khang, to find out what had happened. In his shock he never even registered what his father was doing until Khang sprang on top of him.
Khang used his fists. Lee struggled to get free, never hitting him back.
"Dad, stop, please," he'd cried. "It wasn't me, I didn't hurt her!" thinking Khang had mistaken him for Jia's murderer. But Khang hadn't stopped. Couldn't. His son's cries had become weaker and farther apart and had finally ceased.
Khang opened his eyes in the bright light of the Cure tent and wailed, having said nothing to Dr. Rider. He didn't need to. She placed a warm hand on his back as he wept, wrapping a thin blanket over his shoulders. She didn't interrupt him or even speak, but gently pulled his arm out and injected the IV port with a mild sedative. Then she sat beside him for a long while until he cried himself out and looked up at last.
"Both?" she said.
He nodded.
"I'm sorry," was her only response.
"You've seen this before?" he asked.
"Yes. You aren't alone."
"Why? Why did I do this? I'm not a bad man. I never hurt my kids. Never even spanked them."
"The Plague. It makes your own body fight your brain. It makes infected people aggressive, clumsy, have pica— that's a craving for something that's not food."
"You mean— for people?"
"In this case, yes. Well, meat of any kind it seems. And since the Plague itself isn't deadly, the infection persists. Until now, until it was cured."
Khang clutched his head as if he could force the memory out. "My own children," he muttered, "I can remember every day of their lives. They were my entire purpose. How could I? This must be hell. Anywhere else and I would have been struck dead on the spot. This must be hell. I must be dead."
She let him talk, watching him as he rocked on the cold metal chair. The curtain swung open and a man peered in. "Sorry to disturb you, Dr. Rider, but your assistance is needed."
She frowned and looked hesitantly at Khang. The she nodded at the other man. "I'll be right there. Could you take Mr. Yeo to the shower room when he’s feeling up to it?" She gently placed a hand on Khang's shoulder. "I'll be back soon, Mr. Yeo. I've given you a sedative, so you should feel a little calmer in a bit. I know it's an impossible thing to ask, but try not to think beyond the present for now. Try and concentrate on filling your physical needs for now. I hear it makes this transition less difficult. I'll check in with you in a little while."
Khang barely noticed that she'd left. When he finally raised his head, a man sat across from him.
"Let's get you into the shower. And after, you can get some lunch. I promise it will make you feel ten times better," said the man.
Khang doubted it, but he followed the man numbly, too exhausted and depressed to argue. The man handed him a toothbrush and a small tube of paste, a bar of soap, a towel and a bland set of mismatched clothing from a long table.
"It's not high fashion, but we don't have much choice these days. What size shoe are you?"
"Nine," Khang said blankly. They walked into a long trailer that smelled like fresh soap and was still filled with steam.
"Looks like everyone else is done. Don't know how much hot water you'll have left, but at least you'll get some privacy. I'm going to get you some shoes."
Khang placed everything but the soap onto a damp counter. The other man turned around. "Look, I'm supposed to watch you. Cured people— they try to overdo it on the cleaning. You can't clean it up, all right? You can't rub it out with a bar of soap, no matter how much we all wish you could. I think you've been through enough. You deserve some time to yourself after all this. So I'm going to go get shoes, right? And you're going to relax in the shower and not do anything stupid. 'Cause you're just going to hurt yourself worse if you do."
Khang stared at him and then nodded. He waited until the man disappeared into the steam of the long trailer and then pulled off the shards of stiff cloth that still clung to him. They were stiff, like cardboard, and just tiny patches of what they had been. His work shirt was almost gone, just the buttoned collar and a shred of cloth with his name embroidered on it. He yanked on the button, pulling it from the cloth. It had come loose a few days before the accident and Jia had sewn it back on. Here it was, surviving whatever he'd done. Surviving her. Khang kissed the button and folded it carefully into the pocket of his new pants. He stepped into the shower stall and the struggling tank managed some lukewarm water. He let it roll over him, his mind a blackening, directionless bruise. The soap slipped from his hand and he looked down in surprise. He didn't recognize his legs as he leaned past them to pick up the bar. They were stilts, sun-beaten driftwood. He rubbed one with his hand to be sure it was real. They were crisscrossed with thin scars where he had run through brambles or knocked into fence wires. He held his arms out in front of him. They were just as deteriorated. One of them had broken at some point. It wouldn't straighten all the way. He wondered about his face. Khang leaned out of the stall only to realize there were no mirrors here. He thought of the hundreds of others discovering their bodies weren't as they recalled and guessed it was probably a good thing they couldn't see themselves.
He hoped he looked like a stranger. He didn't want to see what his children must have. He didn't want to know how frightened they must have been to see the face they'd trusted their whole lives twist into a monster. Khang sobbed and shook his head. Try to concentrate on now, she said. He watched the drain suck thick scales of dirt and sticky, melting blood clots away, back into the dark where they belonged. Was it his blood? He'd never know. How many people have I killed? He squeezed the dissolving bar of soap furiously. Not now. The soap slid over his skin, trying to clean away the questions as it broke up the filth. His caretaker came back, holding up a pair of sneakers.
"You almost done man?"
Khang nodded.
"You brush your teeth yet? You do that and we'll see about that nose and then food."
Khang turned the shower off. The man passed him a towel. "I'll go tell Dr. Taylor you're almost ready."
Khang waited until he had left to step out of the stall. He dressed almost frantically, because as soon as the man had mentioned his teeth, Khang could taste the foul, greasy film that coated his mouth. He wanted to vomit, even though seconds before the taste had barely even registered. He stumbled to a sink, the paste shaking onto the brush. He plunged it into his mouth and almost screamed as the brush touched the nerve inside one of his broken teeth. The taste was worse than the pain and he pressed on, roughly scrubbing the gritty slime that covered the interior of his mouth. He kept spitting and spitting, but still the taste lingered. The tube was empty and he kept scraping the brush over his tongue. The spit turned pink and his caretaker came back and stopped him.
"Shouldn't have left you alone for that bit. You all do that."
Khang swiped a hand over his mouth. The caretaker sighed and reached into a pocket.
"Here," he said, handing Khang a tiny silver-wrapped stick. "But don't tell anyone. Gum is hard to come by these days, especially with all the people who had to quit smoking."
Khang stared at the gift. "Thank you," he said, before unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth. The man nodded and led Khang out of the trailer. They stopped in a larger tent that still bustled with people. The man helped him up onto a gurney.
"You're lucky today." The man reddened and scratched his head. "I mean— aside from the obvious. Dr. Taylor is going to see you. Not often you get the head of the whole shebang to treat you, is it? He'll be by in a minute. I'll come back to take you to the mess hall when you're done."
Khang fumbled for the tiny button in his pocket. He pressed it between his thumb and forefinger hard enough to leave dents in his skin. The doc
tor walking toward him was pristine. His coat was ironed, he had a dress shirt and tie beneath. He sat down in a low chair across from Khang and stuck out a hand. Khang shook it in his own, bewildered.
"Hello Mr. Yeo, I'm Dr. Taylor. I'm going to give you an exam, just so we know the extent of any injuries you might have. I see your nose recently suffered a break. Do you remember when?"
Khang shook his head. "Maybe when I fell in the field out there," he guessed.
"And I see you have an old break in your right arm as well. Have you noticed any other serious injuries?"
Khang shook his head.
"Well, let's take a look then." Dr. Taylor stood up.
"I was told you run this place," Khang said abruptly.
"The Cure camp? Yes, I'm the administrator here."
"Did you invent it?"
"The Cure? Goodness no. This is just one camp. There's half a dozen scattered over the length of the Barrier— never mind, I'm sure this is all very confusing. You don't need to worry about that now. But Dr. Carton is the one who invented the Cure." He leaned in to look at Khang's nose but Khang leaned away.
"But you're the one who decides who gets cured, right?"
The doctor stood straight up with a frown. "It's not really a decision. If we find Infected, we bring them in for the Cure."
"Why?"
The doctor looked startled. "What do you mean?"
"Why are you curing us?"
"Well, if simple compassion isn't good enough for you, then I suppose it's because the Infected are killing the rest of us. I don't know what you've been told about how things are now, but without the Cure, we aren't going to make it. You haven't seen it yet because the camp is crowded and we have plenty of food and electricity for things like water and surgical instruments. What you don't know is that this camp, and the others like it, have all the resources the City can spare. We're monopolizing the electric plant, the manpower, even the food to bring you back."
"And what are we meant to do in return? Are we meant to be slave labor? Breed new people? Why did you bring us back?"
Dr. Taylor stared at the wasted, skeletal man across from him. "We're good people. We don't enslave people. Sure, we need skilled people, I won't lie. I'm a psychiatrist, not a physician, but I have more medical training than most so I pick up the slack. I'd love to find a good physician among you. But I wouldn't force them into working. We have boys and girls manning our Barrier. Kids that should be going on first dates and worrying about prom, not holding a gun, because we don't have enough soldiers. But we're good. What did you do Before?"
"I drove a bus," Khang said flatly, "you want me to drive a bus?"
"If that's what you want."
"I killed my children. My neighbors maybe. I can't even remember who I've killed. The other people here— they did too. They slaughtered and ate their fellow man. You want us to go to your City and just what? Pick up where we left off? Pretend it didn't happen? Live with people whose loved ones we killed?"
"What alternative is there?" asked Dr. Taylor, folding his arms across his chest.
"There's dying. An end to this misery. Did you know, doctor, that when you cured us, we'd remember everything?"
"Not at first. We found out at the same time our first Cured patients did."
"But you knew before you cured this batch. If you were truly as good as you say you are, you would have killed us instead. It would have solved your war and been a mercy to us."
Dr. Taylor nodded. "That's a common reaction after the Cure, Mr. Yeo, but not everyone feels that way. And once you've moved through your initial shock, I think you, too, will change your mind about that."
Khang shook his head. "You don't know. You can't know. You’ve taken away one sort of madness and replaced it with another." He raked his hands across his cheeks.
Dr. Taylor stood up. "Please, Mr. Yeo, remain calm. Try and concentrate just on what's happening right now. Take a deep breath—"
"I can't concentrate on 'now'! Now is pointless. Now is a nightmare. Just let me—"He made a swipe for the tools on the table beside the gurney. Dr. Taylor shoved it aside before Khang's hand could close around the scalpel.
"Nurse!" called Dr. Taylor. He grabbed Khang's shoulders. The Cured man fought, but he was terribly weak and soon fell still. Dr. Taylor continued to inspect him as if the outburst hadn't happened, but the nurse stayed nearby. When he was done, Dr. Taylor looked up at the nurse. "Would you please show Mr. Yeo where he can get a meal?"
But Khang shook his head. "I'm not hungry. Just check me out and I'll be on my way."
The nurse and doctor exchanged a glance.
"Mr. Yeo, you have to eat," said Dr. Taylor, "you may not like it, but it's my job to keep you alive, to help you recover. For the time being, you are under my care and must remain in the Cure camp. I won't argue with you about it until you've had a chance to process what has happened. You just woke up. If I must, I will put in an IV in order to get you the proper nutrients, but I know you'd feel better if you just ate."
Khang glared at him. Dr. Taylor sighed. "We've gone to great trouble to bring you back. You might not appreciate it, but we've sacrificed to keep you alive. So have the people you— you consumed. Can you at least honor that sacrifice for the moment and let us help you? Can you put off dying just for a few days to recognize what's been given to you?"
The point hit home and Khang thought of Lee, begging Khang to stop hurting him, but never striking back to defend himself. He nodded at the doctor.
It was noisy in the large tent, even at night. They'd moved him in with the others after he'd eaten and he watched them dully from his cot. He had expected to see people of all ages and sizes around him, but time had whittled them all to the same genderless spike of bone and skin. They all looked around sixty to Khang, though he doubted many besides himself actually were. Some of them talked to him. They were all looking for someone. A brother, a spouse, children. No one had answers for them. He watched the person across from him crying. Too tired to sob, it just leaked at its eyes. It noticed Khang and shrugged with a half smile.
"I know it's stupid. There's so much that's so awful," a woman's voice came from the bony figure, "but I had the prettiest hair once. My mother used to brush it for me. Now the barber is coming to cut it." She raised her hand to point across the room where a man with blunt scissors and a bucket of trimmings made his way down the cots. Khang thought it would be a relief to be rid of the tangled, itchy filth on top of his head. But he remembered Jia and the dark stream of hair that fell over her shoulders. How beautiful it had been! Before he'd twisted it and torn it. He stopped a passing nurse.
"Excuse me," he said, already blushing, "is there a hair brush around anywhere?"
The nurse smiled and went to find one. Khang patted the cot. "Come here," he told the woman, "I used to brush my daughter's hair, after her mom passed away. She used to get the worst snarls."
"Oh," said the woman, "I know it's just silly. It will grow back. And I'm sure there's— stuff tangled in there. I don't think it will come out."
Khang shook his head. "It's not silly, if it will make you feel better. It will make me feel better, too. Do an old man a favor and let him remember his daughter in happier times."
The woman shrugged shyly and came over to sit on the cot. He stood up and gently picked at the strands of hair with the brush. It took all of his concentration to untangle the mess without hurting the woman, but it soothed him and he lost himself in it until the barber reached them. The woman started crying again and Khang looked up. The barber shook his head.
"It's okay, darlin' you don't have to snip it if you don't want to. I have something that might help." He pulled a small bottle out of his pocket and knelt down in front of the woman. "Now don't be saying anything about this. It might be the last bottle of conditioner there is for all I know. But most of you— well, most of you just want to chop it off. You take this into the shower while I tidy up this gent. Then, when you get out, we'll see w
hat we can do. I promise you'll be the prettiest girl in the whole place."
"Thank you," she said, shakily taking the bottle. She gave Khang a smile that would have been bright if her cheeks hadn't been so hollow and walked off toward the shower.
"That's the kindest thing I've seen since I woke up," said Khang.
The barber ducked his head and shrugged. "She your kid?"
"No," said Khang, "I don't know her."
The man nodded and placed a stool down for Khang. "Yeah, well, it's a little creepy, isn't it, shearing all these people like sheep. Reminds me of those old concentration camp photos. Gives me the willies. Never been able to get past that. Makes me feel better to let someone keep it if they want to. Normally don't have enough time to do a nice job with it though, and it still ends up chopped a little. But she'll keep most of hers, thanks to you. And what about yourself? A little off the top?"
Khang sat on the stool, his back to the man. "Shear away," he said, "It'll be a relief."
When the lights went out for the night, the woman in the next cot whispered, "Thank you." Khang just smiled. "Good night," she said and he nodded. She turned away from him, relaxing into a light sleep. Her hair flowed down her thin back. Khang could still feel the tough strands biting into his skin as his fist tightened on a clump of his daughter's dark ponytail. I'm so sorry Jia, he thought, If only I could give you my own life for yours. He squeezed the thin button in his pocket. In his dreams that night, Khang was drowning in rivers of black hair.
He woke just before dawn, when gray light slicing through the tent seams slid over him. He opened his eyes and watched the small bundles of cloth around him. They were still now, not restless as they had been when he fell asleep. As if the nightmares shrank and fled away, leaving the Cured to rest for a few moments before they met the terrible visions again in their waking memory. The night nurses slipped away and the morning shift bustled in. People began stirring, the soft static of running showers became constant, and the smell of cooking filtered into the tent. Khang didn't move. He wasn't the only one. Here and there, other people lay in their cots. Some stared at the rippling canvas roof. Some closed their eyes. Some cried without sound, devastated to wake up again. Dr. Rider walked over to his cot and crouched down. She took his pulse and gently peeled a bandage off the back of his hand.
The Z Chronicles Page 30