Due Preparations for the Plague

by Janette Turner Hospital

  He starts gasping, his breath rattling and bubbling through mucus-thick lungs. “Put me djow … djow … down,” he gasps, with whooping-cough sounds. “Gotta get my breath … right in a minute … listen up, now … this’s important …

  “Sarin’s deadly, but it’s volatile. No staying power. Same for mustard gas. Low persistency rates, and they settle low to the ground, so stay high, okay? Don’t lie on the floor. Now, what we have to do is find vents, leaks, cracks … oh shit, uhh … uhhh … can’t get my …” He leans against the wall, exhausted. “Sweating … like a pig … hot flashes … funny, huh, Joe? Me … hot flashes.” The camera picks up the gleam of moisture on his skin. Water drips from his hair. “Okay. Listen … lis’n up. Shit, I’m drowning in here, I’m drowning inside my friggin’ suit … Okay, lis’n … ’nother chemistry fact … As y’can see, high activ … cuts down s’vival time … so okay, quick re … cal … cu … lation.”—his words slur and pile up against each other—“eight of us, sixminseach, thssstill for’y-five mins, ’nough time … find hairline crack. Get fresh air … toxic’s seeping out anyway … ’coz porous … walls porous …” He licks his finger and holds it up. “Weak draft, see? Hellhole’s not airtight … shit’s dispersing … not fast enough, though …”

  He breathes noisily, raspily, for several seconds, then taps an adrenaline riff. He throws his body and arms against the wall, making great sweeping arcs. “If they got us in, there’s a way out … stands to reason. Why can’t I remember …? Ahhh, my eyes, ahhh … ahh …”

  He slumps against the wall and shields his face. “Anyone remember … how they got us in? Trapdoor … ceiling? floor? A door? Anyone know?”

  In slow stately fashion, bodies encumbered, his Martian cell mates sweep the walls with their gloves.

  “Must have drugged us … bricked us in, walled us in … but there’d be wet mortar, we could push … can’t find any joins … I don’t get it.

  “Must be the ceiling … a trapdoor … has to be … ahhh … ughugh!” He doubles over and shields his eyes with his arms, but as though taking up his crusade, the Martians group themselves and make arm-saddles, and others climb onto the saddles and push at the ceiling, testing for wet mortar that might give way. It’s swarm activity, a hive of frenzy and hope.

  “Damn thing is …” Billy Jenkins gasps, “same time your eyes adjusting to dark, same time you’re just starting to see, you go blind …”

  He begins to laugh in a helpless hysterical way. “Like getting last standby seat, huh? Been there, seen God, he’s a joker.”

  He is staggering now, admonishing himself, “Don’t fall, don’t fall, gases settle low, gotta stay high,” but he is gasping, crumpling to his knees, until the shadow-swarm, acting as one, lifts him and raises him high above their heads. He lies there, on an elevated bier, and speaks to the red eye.

  “That girl? With the onion eyes? They said accident, but rumor went around it was suicide … mother cancer jus’ before … sh’didn’ wanna go camp … father thought, good for her, good to get away … color photograph in camp newspaper … cut it out … still in my wallet …

  “Mom? Dad? Joe? I don’t get it. I don’t get death, I just don’t get it. Who th’hell thought it up? F’life, y’know. I’m for life. Love football, booze, getting laid.

  “And now I won’t ever—

  “Larissa Barclay, that was her name. Girl with onion eyes. Picture’s in my wallet.

  “Uhh … can’t … got fucking great wad of spunk in my throat …

  “Joe? Joe, you there? Do something for me? Call Mary Sue … tell ’er sorry about abortion … really sorry. Tell her … just realized … stupid moron I’ve been. Tell her … she was the one … only one.

  “Dad? I was saving … surprise for y’ birthday? Super Bowl, air tickets, everything. You ’n Joe ’n me. Dad … promise … you ’n Joe? Send word upstairs, eh, if Pittsburgh wins?

  “Mom? I don’t get it, Mom … last standby … ten min’s later … I woonta made’t’ome … just live instead … God’s a joker, eh?

  “Hap’ birth … Love you, Mom.”

  The hum of the bee swarm rises to cover him, a sonorous chant, but as the shadows bear him aloft to the corner and lower him, he sits up suddenly, in a final access of energy, and says clearly and desperately, “Volatile … low persistence … sarin dispersing … find cracks.”

  And then he begins to convulse and moan and …

  CUT

  William Jenkins

  Born Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, 1965

  5.

  On screen, time has stopped. A spell has been cast and everyone is stilled in mid-action. Private assessments are being made and you yourself are required to take stock and to place your bet. You feel claustrophobic, trapped, suffocating, as though you too are sweating like a pig inside your suit. You are making urgent statements (making noise, making babble) through your speaking tube. You are engaging in earnest debate. Listen! you shout. Listen to me! There is x and y to consider. And the earnest blather of response comes shussing and rabble-rushing back. Your ears are full of the hiss and spit and white-noise bubbling of chaos. You must recalculate. There is no room for error. If Billy Jenkins is right that the volatile gases are dispersing and leaking away, then you and your fellow padded shadows should wait.

  Simply that: wait.

  Wait things out.

  Should you? Yes, yes, obviously. But for how long?

  You will die entombed in your suit when the filter gives out. Five hours left? Four? Before that, you will drown in your sweat. You will die of body fevers that climb above the upper reaches of medical records. You are placing bets on a roulette wheel. Which will come first: Dispersal of gases? Or clogged filter? You are gambling away the chance to speak your last words. You know this.

  Place your bet.

  You lean against the wall, overcome by the torture of choice. You wait. You calculate and recalculate. You hedge your bet.

  You are for manageable risk and survival.

  You are for survival.

  You make a heavy decision and hedge your bet. In this decision, you are not alone.

  Someone rips off gloves, but not gas mask. The person-thing signals for a saddle to be formed. The intention is clear. He-she will read the ceiling’s braille. She-he will search for the trapdoor, the opening, the fault line, the entrance that has been sealed up. But the ceiling is high and cannot be reached from the saddle. More signals. Four beings lock arms to form a square, and two others, two smaller beings, in spite of their lumbering clothing, half clamber, half vault into standing position, balancing precariously on the others’ arms.

  Slowly, then, very slowly, the first rampart of the pyramid bends at the knees, and the one whose gloves have been removed vaults up to the second tier and then seeks to mount the final two. Failure. The structure collapses.

  Begin again.

  Failure.

  Begin again, slowly, carefully … almost … No. Yes. The delicate pyramid is achieved.

  The being at the apex grunts in triumph. “Contact!” he-she calls, though the speech tube is an echo tunnel and sound bounces like a stone in a well, genderless and furred at the edge. The climber reads by fingertip; the supporters, below, move like a cumbersome truck. These movements are awkward and dangerous. Inch by inch, the ceiling is mapped. A muffled order is called through the speech tube, unintelligible. The base of the pyramid lurches one way, the second tier another.

  The pyramid crashes.

  The shadow-beings are extremely fatigued from this exertion. Big-headed, they swoon against the walls and gulp air through their breathing tubes. They are drowning inside their suits, their body temperatures are at dangerous levels. Sirens scream in their heads. They fantasize ambulance drivers, paramedics, oxygen tanks. They hallucinate air and ice.

  The person-thing with no gloves rips at the Velcro collar of the mask.

  “Daddy!” Samantha cries.

  Without warning, a rogue breaker smashes o
ver her. She cannot stop sobbing.

  Lowell presses the STOP button and waits.

  “The ceiling feels the same as the walls,” Jonathan Raleigh announces. “If there’s a trapdoor, it would take way too long to find it by groping in the dark. I think the rest of you should try to wait it out. If Billy was right …

  “And think about this. Why haven’t we had any more sneering announcements from Sirocco? Because the Marines have got to him and his pals, that’s why. That must be why. Sharpshooters have got them. So it’s only a matter of time … Uh … my eyes!

  “Uhh …” He leans against the wall. “Never knew breathing could be such hard work.” He breathes heavily, slowly, deeply. “Don’t have much time and there are things I have to say before I go. Things I have to say.”

  He looks into the camera’s eye. “Lou, I’ve wanted to say it publicly from Day One, but I’ve been such a coward and a jerk. I’m sorry. Pathetic word, I know. I don’t expect you to forgive me, because what I did can’t be forgiven, it was criminal, but I don’t want to die without your knowing that I know what a coward I was.”

  He coughs a hacking cough and spits up phlegm.

  He rubs his eyes. “Little Matthew died on the plane, and Rosalie’s gone … but Sam’s safe somewhere. She’s yours now, Lou. Take care of her. Don’t let her turn out like me.

  “I think there’ll be some survivors of this mess, and for Sam’s sake, I was tempted to wait it out, but the dues I’ve got to pay are too steep. I thought if I could use my time to find an opening, help the others, it might atone …

  “Anyway, tell your parents. They have a right to know …

  “If it helps, tell mine too, even though it’ll break their hearts. My fault. I’ve disgraced my ancestors, who have plenty of sins on their heads, but cowardice was never one of them. I’m sure you and Rosalie got sick to death of hearing seven generations, blah blah, all the Raleigh movers and shakers, Revolutionary War, Civil War, all the medals, and how we never backed down, blah blah blah, always got our own way, mansions in Charleston, plantations, state legislature in our pockets, great slaveholders, and charm on top of all that, the Raleigh charm.”

  He sinks to his knees, coughing and spitting phlegm. “Jesus,” he moans. “My eyes.” He turns his blind face to the watching eye.

  “Only two other times in my life, Lou … felt helpless like this …

  “You know about one.

  “Other one’s about my father and I’ve never told …

  “Three years ago in my office … eighteenth floor … fabulous view of Atlanta … secretary says, ‘You’vegotappointment …’” His words slur. He gasps, breathing raspily, then goes on with a rush: “Very sexy young black woman walks in, gorgeous.

  “‘Penelope Lukins,’ she says.

  “Doesn’t ring any bells.

  “‘Remember Arabella Lukins?’ she asks me.

  “‘Good God, yes, housekeeper, like a mother to me.’ I go weak at the knees, Lou. Fresh-baked biscuits, peach cobbler, smells of childhood, I’m weak at the knees.

  “‘I’m her daughter,’ she says.

  “‘Good grief. Little Penny Lukins, used to hang around the kitchen door?’

  “‘That’s the one,’ she says. ‘You used to put junebugs in my hair to make me scream.’”

  Jonathan Raleigh laughs, and the laughter turns into a desperate coughing fit. He gasps and makes whooping sounds, struggling for breath. “Oh shit, my eyes.” He stumbles about, pounding on the wall with his fists, and manages to draw new breath from the stone.

  “‘Used to be a scrawny duckling,’ I tell her, ‘and look at you. Wha … doing now?’

  “‘Law degree,’ she says.

  “Could’ve knocked me over with a feather. ‘Could your mother,’ I say, ‘ever imagine …?’

  “‘Yes,’ she says.”

  Another paroxysm of coughing rattles him, but memory pushes up through it, forceful and clear. “‘Matterovfact,’ Penny Lukins says to me, ‘My mama always say: If that pea-brained little delinquent Jonathan Raleigh can get into college, then so can you.’”

  Jonathan Raleigh is laughing and coughing and choking. His eyes are streaming red tears. “I tell her, ‘Sweetarabella never talk like that in her life.’

  “‘Didn’t talk like that to white folks, is all,’ she says. ‘I do.’

  “‘So,’ I say. ‘What can I do …?’

  “She says, ‘Nothing for me, but for my little boy Damien …’ And I take my chequebook and say, ‘Sure, and I might have known this would be about a handout, and how much do you …?’ And she says, ‘Damien’s your nephew, I’m your half-sister.’

  “‘Bullshit,’ I say.

  “‘Part of my mama’s regular duties,’ she says, ‘being screwed by your father Wednesday nights when your mother played bridge. Give you a blood sample,’ she says, ‘DNA tests. Damien’s got sickle-cell anemia,’ she says, ‘and I’ve got no medical insurance. Pay you back after I get my law degree.’

  “Opens her damn briefcase, formal loan agreement all made out with repayment terms. ‘You decide the interest rate,’ she says.

  “I’m staring at her. ‘Did you go to my father?’ I ask.

  “Uh, uh, uh …” Jonathan Raleigh gasps. “My eyes … oh God, look at this … my hands.”

  Where Jonathan Raleigh’s hands rub against each other, the skin comes off.

  “Ahhhh … Penny!” he calls. “Penny, call them off. Call your dogs off.”

  He tips his head back and the red eye of God glares. “Where was I?” he asks. “Oh yes, Penny.

  “‘No,’ Penny says to me. ‘No, I didn’t go to your father.’

  “‘Why not?’ I want to know.

  “‘Two reasons,’ she says. ‘Despise your father, too much to speak to him. And two: curious to find out if you’re a self-righteous and fraudulent shit just like him.’

  “‘Get out,’ I say.

  “‘I will,’ she says. ‘But ’cause of Damien, I’ll be filing a paternity suit for medical support … and I’m sure your gracious mother will deal with the publicity with all her usual—’

  “‘Manipulative bitch,’ I say.

  “‘Must be the family gene pool,’ she says.

  “So I wrote the cheques for Damien’s treatments, Lou, but I never met him. I never saw Penny Lukins again, but she paid back her loan. Never told my father.

  “Had the shakes after she left.

  “It was, like, freefall …

  “My father … pillar of the church … good Republican … couldn’t get my mind around it … fraudulent shit just like him …”

  He’s gasping now. His eyes are swollen shut. He tries to speak and he can’t. He’s red in the face, but his will—a tornado—barrels through.

  “Lou,” he says, “got no right to ask anything … but if you could find Penny and Damien … my oral will. Leave everything to Sam … but twenty thousand dollars a year to Penny and Damien … should stand up in a court of law.”

  He is speaking faster and faster. He is coughing up phlegm. “Lou … unless you told her, Ros never knew. Tell Sam … apple of my eye. Tell her … she’s her mother’s daughter … no pretense … the real thing.

  CUT

  Jonathan Marion Raleigh

  Born Charleston, South Carolina, 1956

  6.

  Four bodies lie beneath the red eye, laid neatly, their shoulders touching. Six shadow-beings kneel and touch the bodies with the foreheads of their masks.

  One stands. He removes his headpiece as though he were a priest removing vestments. His motions are full of dignity and grace.

  The hair of Avi Levinstein, violinist, is sodden with sweat. It drips rain on his face.

  “I am a secular Jew,” he says to the red eye. He explains this earnestly. He speaks as though taking thoughtful part in a discussion, after dinner, say, or over sherry. “I don’t have a religious bone in my body—at least, that is what I have always believed. I have always said that my only
religions are music and love.”

  “Avi, wait!”

  The embrace of Avi Levinstein and Isabella Hawthorne is long and passionate, or seems long, though in fact it lasts for less than half a minute. Avi presses Isabella to himself, his hand on the back of her head, her cheek on his shoulder.

  “I discover, after all,” Avi Levinstein says, “and very much to my own surprise, that I am a religious Jew. I see now, I understand, that the religious impulse begins in awe, and awe begins at death.

  “It’s very strange. My father was a devout man and he often exasperated me and I argued with him and rejected everything he stood for, but I see I was wrong. I feel the need, the compulsion, for ceremony. I want to say something for these four—for us ten. I want to say something formal. I need to. We are joined in such an extraordinary bond …”

  He steps closer to the red eye. “You think you have forged this bond, Sirocco, but it no longer has anything to do with you. You are nothing. Do you understand?

  “Something is happening here and I need ritual to contain the feeling.

  “Words of my father are welling up in me, words I had no idea that I remembered.” He lifts his arms to the invisible opening above him and sings in Hebrew, then in English:

  “All flesh is grass …

  surely the people is grass.

  The grass withereth, the flower fadeth:

  but the word of our God shall stand …”

  “Avi, Avi.” Isabella is pressing her fingers around the sockets of her eyes. Her breathing is labored. “There are things I have to say. Be quick, Avi—”