Red Death (Book 2): Survivors

by Robinson, D. L.

  The committee was bringing suits, masks, gloves, bleach and cleaning solution, all they needed was their manpower. Since Lee was going to be disabled for eight weeks yet, Tara figured it was her civic duty to help.

  “Let’s make sure our suits are extra tight.” she said, pulling a roll of duct tape from her pocket to show Mary. She’d brought it to seal all the seams at their wrists and ankles, becoming increasingly squeamish as the time drew near. She and Mary had each brought a change of clothing in their backpacks to be assured of not carrying Ebola virus home with them. She forced her mind away from the job ahead.

  Clyde was sitting in the sun on his garden bench. He waved at their approach and Tara hurried to hug him, noticing how pale and paper thin his skin looked. She loved the old man. He tried to stand up and fell back onto the bench on shaky legs, which alarmed Tara.

  “No, you sit down, Clyde! We just stopped by to say hi before the cleaning committee meets at your neighbor’s house. Are you doing okay?”

  “I’m tolerable, girls. ‘The old will die, the young may die’, as the good book says.”

  “Well, none of us are dying anytime soon, Clyde!” Tara scolded him.

  The old man smiled and nodded, pleased to see them. Mary moved closer and put a hand on his forehead, seeming concerned. “Clyde, you’ve got a small fever. Are you hurting anywhere?”

  “Well, I’ve got an itchy, scratchy feeling all over, other than that no, not much.”

  She smiled at the old man. “I don’t think you’ve got Ebola then, maybe coming down with a cold or something.” Mary told him the news about Julie and Luke’s pregnancy, and just as expected, Clyde was filled with joy.

  “Life goes on ladies, just as it should. This old world ain’t quite done yet. The dark side didn’t win this time!” They all laughed together like old friends and Tara asked him who had lived in the house slated for disinfecting.

  “Old Missus Baines lived there, Tara, Elvira Baines. She was a mean old woman, but orderly. Never gave any trouble to folks, unless of course any kids came onto her yard, or God forbid, a stray animal.” Clyde sat and pondered a moment. “One time I seen her out there with a rifle across her lap. I watched for a bit. She was shooting at squirrels, right here in town! I ‘bout busted a gut laughing.” The old man chuckled. “And here I was a’feeding ‘em. We had a sort of contest going on for a while there, I think. She would glare down this way at me, knowing I was propagating the species, while she was trying to exterminate ‘em!”

  Clyde shook with laughter, mostly Tara assumed, because the joke was on Mrs. Baines now. Clyde tended to find amusement in having outlived nearly everyone he had formerly known.

  “We’re hoping she either died in bed, or left— peaceful and less messy.”

  “She might have done,” Clyde nodded sagely.

  Tara pulled out a square of foil and unwrapped it as Clyde watched hungrily. He was used to treats from Tara by now and had quite the sweet tooth. It was a piece of peanut butter fudge she’d thrown together the night before. They didn’t have any milk or butter, but the last of their peanut butter, powdered sugar and vanilla had made a ghetto version of it. “I saved you some of this. I kind of figured you’d like it.”

  Clyde devoured the candy, licking his lips and making happy noises. Mary watched him, laughing, agreeing it was pretty tasty.

  Just then a sound from down the alley drew their attention. A couple of workers from the cleaning committee had already arrived in one of the camp’s white vans at Mrs. Baines’s house. Tara grabbed the handle of Ben’s little red wagon, said goodbye to Clyde and the women headed on over.

  The men were unloading and stacking supplies; mops, buckets, bleach, uniforms and face masks. Tara and Mary greeted them and began putting on their suits. They took turns duct taping any open seams in each other’s sleeves and slip-on booties.

  After they checked each other’s suits for gaps, Tara pulled her mask into place and stood for a moment, staring into Mary’s equally worried eyes. Neither woman was thrilled to be entering an Ebola contaminated house. “Think of the food, Mary,” Tara said, and with a deep breath, picked up a bucket from the row outside the door, and followed the two hazmat-suited camp workers carrying supplies in. Mary entered the small kitchen right behind her. They stood surveying the scene, trying to get a sense of what they might be in for, before they went any further. It’s not too late to get out of this.

  A small dinette set with a table and two chairs sat under a window which looked out over the back yard. Salt, pepper, and sugar shakers were placed neatly on a maple Lazy Susan at its center. Several other committee members were already inside, and Tara heard a woman’s voice coming from deeper in the house. Buckets of water and jugs of bleach were already lined up on the kitchen counter. Tara and Mary slowly wandered toward the voices.

  A cozy living room was just off the kitchen, with the back of a large sofa facing them. A rocker and easy chair flanked each side of the fireplace on the far wall. Tara came around the back of the couch and into the room. She stopped short at what reclined on cushions there.

  The tiny mummified body of what could only be Mrs. Baines lay propped up on one end, her now gray-black skin stretched tightly over cheekbones and her shrunken lips pulled back. Her wide open mouth bared impressive teeth. Tara’s eyes immediately darted to the tiny terrier lying across the room, just as shriveled. Beside the long-dead dog, one of Mrs. Baines’s gnawed-clean femur’s poked out of a pink tennis shoe with Velcro straps, foot still inside.

  With a shriek, Tara backed out rapidly, nearly tripping over Mary. The two male workers came quickly at the sound of Tara’s cry.

  “There she is,” announced one of them. “We were looking in the bedroom.”

  Tara watched as the men matter-of-factly lay plastic down beside the couch, shook out a large body-bag beside it, then grabbed the former Mrs. Baines by her shoulders and remaining foot and swung her over the plastic sheeting.

  Halfway to the floor, her other leg broke off at the knee, dumping her unceremoniously in a leathery heap onto the plastic. The worker stood there frozen, holding Mrs. Baines’s leg in his hand. Mary clutched at Tara, making gagging sounds. Both women backpedaled from the room and Mary stumbled toward the back door. Tara followed.

  Mary stood in the warm spring air, mask down, gasping. “Oh, dear God. Sweet baby Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

  Tara was surprised she didn’t feel ill, in fact, she was barely fazed. I guess I’m getting jaded. A moment later, the two men carried the sagging body bag outside and lifted it into the white van. Tara wondered briefly if Mrs. Baines’s dog had died of Ebola too, after snacking on her limb. Sick. Slightly queasy at this thought, Tara waited on Mary to recover. The two men finished with Mrs. Baines’s body bag, closed the van doors and headed back inside.

  “I guess that was the worst part, Mary. Now we just go back in and clean it all up.”

  Just then Mary’s daughter Julie called to them from down the street and Tara turned to see her and Luke approaching hand in hand. Suddenly, one of the workers came out of the house, holding Mrs. Baines’s pink Velcro, tennis-shoe-clad foot and femur out at arm’s length. Julie screamed.

  Chapter 3

  Tara gasped and moved to intercept Julie, as the worker with Mrs. Baines’s leg disappeared into the back of the van. The shock on the young woman’s face spoke volumes.

  “Oh no, Julie!” Mary rushed over to her daughter, tossing back an “I don’t want them here, no way.” Tara totally understood her change of heart after finding Mrs. Baines, especially in light of Julie’s pregnancy.

  Mary turned Julie away from the gruesome sight, throwing a quick look at Luke and whispering she wanted them to leave. Julie recovered her bearings quickly and swallowed hard.

  “Mom, it’s okay, we want to do our part.”

  Mary told her daughter she and Tara could handle it, that Julie’s shock was enough excitement for her for one day. “Besides, I decided I don’t want you in the
re now, not with your new passenger.” Julie nodded, apparently appreciating her mother’s protectiveness.

  Tara gave Julie a wave as Luke led her back toward Tara’s house, where Lee was babysitting Ben while they worked. He’ll just have to find another way to take his mind off his pain today.

  “C’mon Mary, let’s go do this.”

  The women started into the bungalow, and immediately had to back out again. Two workers carried the overstuffed sofa which had most recently been Mrs. Baines’s bier past them.

  “I suppose all the stuffed items need to be removed. But I assume maybe the hardwoods, and things like tables and chairs can be disinfected?”

  The men heard Tara’s question. “Yes, we’re taking the bed, couch, cushions and all soft goods to the bonfire. We’re wiping down everything else.”

  “But isn’t there a chance one of us will miss a spot that has the virus on it?”

  “Yes, I suppose there is. As you’re wiping things off, just imagine it’s your son or daughter moving in here. That should keep everyone honest.”

  Tara glanced at Mary, a skeptical expression on her face. Sure, they might do a good job, but what about these others whom they didn’t know at all? Nothing against men in general, but she’d never seen Lee to do a thorough job cleaning anything. Tara shook her head, hoping the virus had died on surfaces by now. She knew the Zaire strain of Ebola survived up to seven weeks on glass. It survived dried on surfaces, or in liquid-like vomit and mucus. It also survived in temperatures as low as 39 degrees Fahrenheit. It lived in semen for a while too, and early on had been cultured from a survivor’s eyeball fluid two and a half months later. Even Lee was still careful almost six months after his near-deadly bout with it.

  Hopefully, any incompetence in our cleaning skills won’t kill anybody.

  The women carried out blankets and sheets from the linen cupboard, towels from the bathroom storage rack, and needlepoint pillows from around the house. Luckily, Mrs. Baines was the orderly type, and all these items were stored in their respective places.

  After all the cloth goods were removed, the serious work began. The small home soon reeked of bleach and disinfectant as they scrubbed, wiped and mopped floors, walls, countertops and furniture. The sweat ran down Tara’s face in rivulets behind her mask. She had to keep pausing to soak it up with a sleeve.

  One of the women workers called Tara and Mary into the kitchen before they were finished. She flung open the pantry and Tara’s mouth began watering at all the food there. There were several large jars of peanut butter, bags of pasta, cans of Chunky Soup, and at least ten pounds of flour and sugar. They divided up the spoils and Tara could see Mary’s eyes shining with excitement. They hadn’t had any canned food for a very long time, so this was a real treat. Plus the flour, sugar and pasta would go a long way. Not to mention the peanut butter. Tara immediately planned to make some more “fudge” for Clyde.

  “I’m thinking this was worth seeing Mrs. Baines and her unattached leg,” Mary mumbled. Tara burst out laughing. A little gallows humor in this situation was called for, and she hugged her friend, suit or no suit.

  They loaded the little red wagon full; their shares were two bags of sugar and flour and one bag of pasta each, six cans of various soups and vegetables, and two jars of peanut butter. This would also make Lee’s favorite bait for his squirrel trap.

  Finally, after a couple hours, they finished all the cleaning. The house shone; Tara felt she could’ve eaten off the floors, her personal standard of a good job. She would have no problem living there herself, so she knew it would be safe for anyone else. She also now felt a sense of obligation to attend each cleaning, just to make sure others disinfected up to her standards. No, not fun, but definitely necessary.

  The women stepped outside and were helped out of their suits and old clothes behind a makeshift barrier— a sheet hung on a clothesline, followed by a full body spray-down with disinfectant by a female worker with a canister strapped to her back. Tara and Mary dressed in their fresh clothes, leaving the old ones behind for the bonfire.

  Tara was bone tired, and even though they now had a bunch of canned soup and other foods, the thought of the fresh eggs in her backpack fueled her original craving for sponge mushrooms and scrambled eggs. They were so close to the old mushroom spot above the river, it was best to go now.

  “C’mon, Mary, let’s check for the Morel’s while we’re in the area. It won’t take but a few more minutes.”

  Mary seemed tired too, but didn’t mind accompanying her. “Let’s drop this wagon full at Clyde’s first.”

  Clyde still sat outside on the bench, but he didn’t look as well. At Mary’s prodding, he admitted it. “I am feeling a bit poorly,” he muttered.

  “Clyde, go in and lay down. We’re going to hunt for some sponge mushrooms and will come back to get this stuff and check on you then. We’ll push the wagon into your garden shed for now, it’ll be fine there.”

  Tara took his frail arm and helped him into the house. He wanted to lie on the sofa, and she propped pillows under his head.

  “I love you like a daughter, dear,” he told her. This misted her up for a minute. He’s not usually so sentimental. He must be feeling pretty bad. This worried her even more.

  “I got some peanut butter and I’m making fudge for you tonight, Clyde. You rest, and I’ll check on you in a little bit. I have some cold medicine at home, and we’ll get you started on that later too.” The old man smiled at her and nodded.

  Worried, Tara let herself out and told Mary what he’d said. At his age, he could pass away any day and both women knew it. They dreaded finding him dead in bed one day, but even worse would be watching him go downhill with some illness. The women were quiet, each thinking their own dismal thoughts.

  They backtracked down the alley, too tired to talk much, and then the country road to the field above the river. This was a spot where Tara had found Morel’s before. The path ran through old woods, and last year’s brown leaves lay curled and matted to the forest floor. This is partly what made the prized Morels so hard to spot.

  The tan, conical sponge mushrooms were as delicious as they were capricious—proper conditions had to be met for them to grow. Finding them each season had been a springtime rite of passage in her area from the time Tara had been a little girl. She smiled as the memories rushed back; her dad taking her each year, and in turn, she and Lee taking their own young son before he’d been killed. All the old rituals lost with the death of society tended to make you treasure those that could still go on unchanged.

  “Over there is where I always found a crop,” Tara said, pointing to the thickest area of trees along the bluff over the river. They threaded their way through the knee-high weeds.

  “Check over that way, Mary,” Tara said, pointing in the opposite direction, “I’ll start here.”

  As a veteran mushroom hunter, Tara knew the trick was to stand in one spot long enough to let your eyes adjust to the ground cover. The yellowish-beige sponge mushrooms were just a bit lighter than the dark tan leaves. Once you found your first one, it became easier to spot others. Of course, sometimes there were a variety known as gray or black Morels too, but Tara had mostly found the yellow ones here.

  She heard Mary’s footfalls crunching off into the trees. She’s going deep. Tara smiled. Hunger is the great motivator.

  Tara scanned the ground all around her thoroughly before moving further into the woods. Sometimes she crouched down, looking close for anything that jutted above the leaf fall. Finally, she spotted two pointy pale spikes popping above the ground cover.

  “Woohoo,” she hooted, loud enough for Mary to hear. As Tara knelt to break the stems off close to the ground, she heard Mary’s answering laugh, far to her left. Tara stood and cleared off a spot with her foot, scraping the leaves away to bare ground. Then she shook the mushrooms over the dirt, so the spores might plant themselves there for a crop next year. She tucked the delicate mushrooms carefully in a side pocke
t of her knapsack so the duck eggs wouldn’t smash them.

  Tara walked into the thickest part of the woods, approaching the edge of the drop-off to the river below. A few yards away, through a gap in a huge wall of piled logs, she noticed what looked like a fresh hump of dirt. The dead fall of old trees blocked her way, making it nearly inaccessible. She stood there, trying to see what could have disturbed the earth in such a remote place.

  Groundhog, maybe? Tara had seen some humongous groundhog holes, major excavations with bones and all kinds of crap lying around the heaped up entryways just outside them. Finally, her curiosity got the best of her and she started climbing. Up and over the pile of logs she went, noticing some were old, bleached wood, while others were fresh and still mossy. Almost like someone placed them here.

  At that thought, she picked her way carefully down the other side, and now could see something sticking up where the fresh dirt was. Tara also saw some other places on the forest floor nearby that didn’t look quite natural, a few strange lumps and rounded bumps under the matted leafy ground cover. A thick patch of spring Trillium’s bloomed just to one side of the mound, their dark green leaves and glossy-white tri-petal flowers starkly beautiful against the brown of the forest floor.

  Straining to see, Tara’s first thought was that a gigantic pale mushroom sprouted on the other side. But as she got closer, it looked like something else. Is that…?

  Horrified, her stomach gave a lurch. Those are fingers!

  Tara’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a scream. The dirt around them seemed to have been disturbed by the clawing of these digits, two of which stuck straight up from the ground. Tara could almost picture it unfolding—the fingertips poking through and scrabbling for purchase in the loamy soil, mounding up the earth around them. They were a tannish-gray color, with dirt from their grave embedded under the nails and crusted on the skin. Tiny dark hairs sprouted on the backs of them.

  Tara screamed then, unable to stop herself. She backed away, her mind not wanting to accept the obvious—that someone was buried here—and they were obviously not dead when they were.