He didn’t hear the soft footsteps padding behind him. Only the wild sobs of his wife.
Nausea gripped him as he neared the bedroom and he had an insane desire to turn right around and run. Run until he could run no more. Until he could return home to find this had all been a dream. A nightmare.
He reached out a hand that shook, grasped the door jam and literally pulled himself into the room.
Margaret sat on the bed, Elizabeth’s still body clutched in her arms. She rocked their daughter frantically, stroking her hair as she wept.
Elliot knew he should cross the room. Try to do something to comfort her. But he couldn’t move. Could only stand there and stare in horror while the reality of the scene before him sank in.
And when it did, pain such as he’d never known hit him like a physical blow. He wrapped his arms around his stomach as the agony spread to his heart, his head, his face, even his fingernails.
Tears stung his eyes, spilling over and rolling down his cheeks. In the far recesses of his mind, in the place where all good memories were kept safe, the past sixteen years rolled by like a moving picture.
A red-faced, squalling infant, moments after birth, howling her way into the world, and the pride he’d felt as he nervously held his baby girl for the first time.
A beautiful, toothless grin directed at him that had him grinning from ear to ear, filling him with pure delight. Her first, wobbly steps toddling toward Poppy’s outstretched arms. How she’d cried the first day of school, gripping his hand like a vice.
So many sweet memories crowding in, one after another, reminding him of happier times, even as his eyes took in the horror before him. His heartbroken wife clutching the forever still form of his precious darling.
Elliot had always felt a tremendous sense of pride in his ability to take care of his family. Now everything was spinning wildly out of his control and an awful feeling of helplessness warred with his pain.
As his knees gave way, an awful sound filled his ears. Something between a scream and a deep, gut wrenching groan, followed by out of control sobs. It was only when he hit the floor that he realized the sounds were coming from him.
Richard and Kathleen stood silently behind him, tears coursing down their cheeks, landing silently on the carpet on which they stood. Even Jonathon had managed to drag himself out of bed and stagger down the hall, now supported by Richard who immediately wrapped his arms protectively around his brother.
Their eyes met, each with an unspoken question reflected in their depths. Would Jonathon be next? Charles?
~~~
Every muscle in Colby’s body ached and he groaned as he lifted yet another wooden crate filled with canning jars of soup. The ladies from all the churches in town who hadn’t yet succumbed to the influenza were generously supplying the food to the families who had. And there were so many families. Forty-two on his list alone. He didn’t even want to know how many his fellow ministers had on theirs.
They would, as he had already done, pick up boxes of oranges from the grocers to deliver with the soup. It seemed like pitifully little to do for the families, but the doctors and nurses kept them supplied with aspirin powders and other medicines. Not that it seemed to be doing a lot of good. People just continued getting sick. And dying. So many had died.
He climbed into his wagon and wearily rubbed a hand across his jaw. He, himself, had officiated twenty-three funerals this week alone. Many from his own congregation.
His eyes burned with tears when he thought about Elizabeth Owens. Of her father standing alone at her grave because he feared exposing Richard and Kathleen. Of her mother, Margaret, who dared not risk leaving Jonathon and Charles alone. Not even to bury her beloved daughter. He prayed often that the good Lord would spare that family, but most especially Jonathon. He couldn’t begin to contemplate a world without that young man and his vivid, wonderful imagination.
“Enough of that,” he admonished himself. There was work to be done. People depended on him to do his job and so he couldn’t give in to his grief. Not yet.
Two houses down he stopped for another crate, then delivered food to the next four. Another pick up, followed by several more drop offs.
In the three blocks he’d gone so far, he had seen seven covered bodies lying on porches, waiting for the wagons. There were only four being sent around Charlotte, and so many to take care of that it could be hours before they might be picked up. Marcus, he knew, had begun working from sunup until sundown the past few days. Several volunteer firemen had finally offered to help, for which everyone was grateful. Nevertheless, there were too many people working too many hours, doctors, nurses and every veterinarian in the county. A few men were working at the lumber yard, but many more were too sick to help out. There just weren’t enough healthy, able bodied adults to keep up with the need.
Even though he’d had some warning, and ordered all he could afford, Marcus had run out of caskets less than a week after the first case of influenza had been discovered. Now it was simply a race between death and the woodworkers. They weren’t even bothering to shape them anymore. Just oblong boxes built as quickly as possible. Even so, the ice house downtown was being used to store a staggering number of bodies.
Earlier in the year someone had asked him if this was what had been foretold of in Revelation. Colby had even preached a sermon on it, assuring everyone that the war wasn’t the beginning of the end of the world. But that was before they’d known about the epidemic.
Could he have been wrong?
~~~
Daniel sat at his bride’s bedside praying for the countless time that God might spare her life, even as the influenza waged a mighty war against her. A war it seemed to be winning, stealing her strength in a matter of hours. Weakening her so completely that she had been unable to fight off the pneumonia that had settled deep in her lungs.
He squeezed the excess water from the cloth, as he’d done hundreds of times. Or was it thousands? He’d lost track.
It had begun to feel as though a lifetime had been lived in this room, listening to the shallow, labored breaths from the small form beneath the sheets. As though all eternity would be spent here, fear overwhelming him in wave after excruciating wave.
Gently, he wiped it across her brow. Down her temple, her cheek, her jaw. Starting over on the other side of her beautiful, flushed face.
So beautiful.
It never ceased to amaze him that Nina loved him. A gift that surpassed any he’d ever received, or could ever receive. One he’d hoped to cherish for decades to come.
God knew this. Surely He wouldn’t take her away. Not now. Not this soon. Of course He wouldn’t! Daniel forced the thought from his mind, unable to entertain even the remotest possibility that it could happen.
He plunged the cloth back into the bowl.
“It’s going to be all right,” he promised, his voice barely above a whisper.
Tears filled his eyes as he reached out his other hand to brush the hair from her face. Her skin was so hot he could feel the heat from it before his fingers actually touched her. And that’s all he wanted to do. Just touch her. To somehow lend her some of his strength so she could fight her way back to health. Back to him.
~~~
“I can’t do this anymore, Colby.”
Marcus had pulled the wagon over near a vacant field and began to sob. It seemed like that’s all he’d done for days now. He prayed all the time that it would stop. That the influenza would go away but it just kept getting worse. He was afraid that Derek had been right when he said that God might not even be powerful enough to stop it.
“I know,” Colby sighed, rubbing his back as his friend bent over his knees. “It’s getting harder every day.”
“They’re all dying. I’m afraid everyone is going to die. And I don’t want to see it anymore.”
“I don’t believe everyone is going to die. I won’t believe that.”
“The ice house is almost full. It’s not right, Colby. B
odies stacked like that? Like bricks or boxes, almost to the ceiling. Where will we put them when we can’t get any more in there?”
“I don’t know, my friend. Maybe in some of the private ice houses outside of town. I don’t know.”
“Mass graves is what’s going to happen. Instead of a decent burial, they’re going to be thrown in big holes and – I can’t do it. It’s wrong. It’s just so wrong!”
Marcus knew that his friend didn’t know what to say to that, but he continued to rub his back, trying to comfort him. But there was no comfort to be had now. No one in the world could have been prepared for a disaster of this magnitude and everything was spiraling out of control.
The mayor wasn’t even answering his telephone now. No one knew if he was actually sick, or if he just couldn’t handle the pressure anymore. Not that Marcus would blame him if that were the case. He didn’t know what he might do if everyone in the city expected him to figure out solutions to problems that there were no solutions for.
Except the one that no one wanted to accept. Even if he didn’t make his living in the funeral business, Marcus would have a hard time handling the thought of people being buried in mass graves. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how the families of the victims might react to that.
A few men in town, when their wives or children had died, were so appalled at the thought of their bodies being stacked in the ice house that they asked Marcus to return the next day. They had torn down shelves and broken apart chests of drawers and tables to build crude boxes in which to bury their loved ones.
Elliot Owens had done the same thing, with the help of his oldest son, when his daughter died two days ago.
It wasn’t right. A father and brother shouldn’t have to do that. But he understood that the alternative wasn’t acceptable.
“It’s hard for everyone,” Colby was saying gently. “We’re needed, Marcus. Desperately. What will they do if we stop helping? They’re suffering so much already. We can’t do anything that will make it harder for them. Can we?”
Marcus took a deep breath. And then another. Colby was right, as he usually was. It didn’t make it any easier, but he supposed he’d needed to hear that. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt these people more. Somehow he would have to find the courage to do the right thing.
He just wished it wasn’t so hard.
~~~
The sun, barely over the horizon, cast eerie shadows in even the deepest corners of the house. The little light that managed to peek through the closed draperies promised a bright autumn day.
A day to walk around town, wading through the crisp brown leaves that hadn’t been blown away by the strong night’s wind. A day to listen to children’s laughter, to sit by the fire with a steaming cup of cocoa.
But it wasn’t going to be that kind of a day. In fact, it was going to be the second worst day of Elliot’s life.
Something about his slow steps descending the stairs must have alerted them because Richard and Kathleen were waiting in the hall before he’d gone even halfway. Kathleen had come only because her brother had, not fully understanding the impact the influenza had already had in their lives.
Richard, on the other hand, knew full well what the threat to their family meant and was looking at him, his expression a mixture of hope and fear. An expression that changed instantaneously when he saw the tears streaming down his father’s face. So suddenly, in fact, that it was almost comical to watch. Elliot had an insane desire to laugh. But no sound came. Not even a whimper. He doubted he could utter the words. Not even if someone held a gun to his head and demanded he speak. If his lips parted even a little, he feared he might start screaming. And never stop.
“Jonathon?” Richard finally asked hoarsely, though he clearly didn’t want to know. Obvious in the way he’d wrapped his arms around his stomach, bracing himself against the blow he knew was coming.
Elliot could only shake his head and watch his son’s face contort as the agony of realization washed over him.
“Charles?” he whispered in a disbelieving squeak.
Elliot nodded, just once, as another wave of pain cut at the gaping wound in his heart. Somehow, knowing that someone else knew made it more real. More horrible. Unbearable.
“No!”
The deep, anguished shout was unexpected, but the way Richard turned and bolted down the hall even more so. His footsteps echoed to the kitchen, paused, then resumed, following the resounding bang of the door against the jamb. He hesitated but a moment before hurrying the rest of the way down the stairs, stopping momentarily to rest his hands against Kathleen’s hair.
“Stay here,” he said tonelessly, before hurrying after Richard.
His head start only a brief one, Elliot was surprised to see that he had already crossed Krebs Court and was quite a distance into the field that ran behind the houses on Main Street. Running as though the devil himself were after him. As if he could escape the nightmare. But it wouldn’t help. He couldn’t run fast enough, or far enough because if he could, Elliot would follow him every step of the way.
As he was now, though he was gaining precious little ground. Vaguely he wondered if he would ever catch up. Wondered why he was even trying.
All he wanted to do was crawl into a safe, warm place and hide, maybe never to come out. Because here, in this cruel world, two children had been viciously stolen from him, a third lay waiting, his fate not yet decided. And Elliot didn’t want to know because he couldn’t bear anymore. He just couldn’t.
Finally, as he approached Warren Street, Richard came to an abrupt stop, reaching down to rest his hands against his thighs. Even from the distance still separating them, Elliot could see his chest heaving as he gulped in great breaths of air, huffing out billowing clouds of steam.
It took another minute or so to reach him and he promptly collapsed against the trunk of the nearest tree, his lungs on fire, ready to burst as he gasped for air, doubting he would ever regain the ability to breathe normally. And not particularly caring if he did.
Quite a sight they made, neither able to stand fully erect, alone in a field in a city that appeared deserted, its inhabitants locked behind closed doors, hoping in vain to escape the ravages of the influenza. But it was a futile hope. Elliot knew that nothing would stop it. Nothing.
“Is Jonathon going to die, too?” Richard asked raggedly, glancing over at his father. His face was wet with tears.
Elliot looked at him for a long while, his silence speaking the answer more clearly than any words ever could. Still he said,
“I don’t know, son. I just don’t know.”
Slowly, as though time had nearly stopped, Richard dropped to his hands and knees, oblivious to the leaves and twigs snapping beneath his bare hands. The sobs that began deep in his belly and filled the air could probably heard a block away.
Elliot went to kneel beside him. He could offer little in the way of comfort because he hurt too deeply himself, so he just wrapped his arms around his son and held him.
He knew that they should go home. Knew that Meg needed him. That Kathleen probably needed comfort, too. He knew men couldn’t just run away. And yet, knowing all of this, he didn’t want to go back.
Home was no longer the haven it had been. Now it was a place filled with unimaginable horrors. Rooms echoing with silenced voices, filled with memories of his babies. It was a place where another sweet boy lay fighting for his life. A place where Elliot had become helpless to protect his family from danger.
Icy claws of fear closed around his heart and wouldn’t let go. Rooted him to Richard’s side. Not so much to comfort him but rather more because he couldn’t bear what he might find when he returned home.
And so he knelt there, the sounds of his son’s grief filling his ears, the cold numbing his flesh. Maybe if he waited long enough, it might numb him so completely that he would feel nothing at all.
Chapter 17
Colby wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep for a we
ek. He’d never been so utterly exhausted in his life. Ten days it had been now. Ten excruciatingly long days that he’d given everything he had to help as many people as he could. And now that he was confined to the house, whatever it was that had kept him going had deserted him so completely that he didn’t know how he could go on. It fled the second Anna had come to him during the night and slapped him awake because she was sick.
“Come, Anna,” Colby coaxed, holding a glass of cool water to her parched lips. “You’re burning up. You need to drink this.” He could feel the extreme heat from the fever through the thick tangle of hair as he tried to raise her head so she could take a sip.
“No, I don‘t want it!” she hissed, hitting it away from her with enough force to knock it right out of his hand. It shattered against the floral paper on her bedroom wall, water and shards of glass raining down on the floor. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“Anna. How can you get better if you won’t help me try to bring your fever down?”
“Help me? You brought this to me! I begged you not to go and visit all those sick people but you- You did it anyway! And then you brought it home to me!”
“If I did, I’m sorry,” he soothed, leaning down to pick up the fragments, wiping the water up with one of the rags that lay on the bedside table. That done, he squeezed the water from the cloth in the bowl of water and gently wiped her face and neck. He didn’t bother trying to explain to her that the influenza was making people sick who hadn’t been in contact with anyone in more than a week. She wouldn’t have believed him anyway.
Because he’d been in such close contact with so many other victims, he knew the fever would get bad but, because his visits had been brief, he hadn’t realized the endless challenge involved in trying to keep the fever under control. It was getting to the point where he couldn’t remember the last time the palms of his hands hadn’t been wrinkled from constantly holding the wet cloth. Since Anna had taken ill the previous night it seemed that he’d been sitting at her side for an eternity. A long, miserable eternity. Not just because the tending to her needs was never ending, but mostly because in her waking, lucid moments, Anna complained endlessly, accusing him of making her sick. And her waking, lucid moments were many.
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