Dead of Eve (Trilogy of Eve)

by Godwin, Pam

  Fire spread in my cheeks. Tingling sparked through my arms and fingers. I failed Joel. My eyes blurred as I lost my grip on consciousness.

  My hand slipped around the knob. The door opened. A breeze greeted me. Metallic. Familiar.

  Clank.

  Joel bucked against the pole. My voice wouldn’t work. Neither would my legs. I floated away from myself. My limbs moved mechanically.

  Clank. Clank.

  I gripped the cold chain to stop the banging. My blade touched Joel’s forehead. The bead of blood grew. His eyes glazed. The pain was too much. I pushed hard and fast.

  I woke again.

  Aaron was sitting in the captain’s chair. He stood—solid but airy—and drifted toward me, one hand behind his back. Booey hung by a paw from his belt loop. He lingered close enough to touch and looked down at me with yellow-green eyes, outlined in a brilliant ring of emerald.

  His hand appeared from behind his back and his fist opened. A ladybug perched on his palm, peaceful and unafraid. He brought it to his face for closer inspection. It lifted red wings as if to stretch then tucked them back to its body.

  Puckering his lips, he blew on it until it took flight. It danced between us then flew over my head. Aaron extended a tiny finger and pointed behind me. His voice was harmonious. “Follow them, Mommy.”

  Over my shoulder, swarms of ladybugs fluttered around the bow and over the water that stretched to the eastern shore. They winked in and out like beacons toward the undeveloped savannahs rich with Mead’s milkweed and other native grasses. It was a dreamlike landscape. Maybe I was dreaming.

  The ladybugs hovered as if waiting for me to respond. The pack lay next to me, unopened. I turned back. Aaron was gone.

  Grief consumed me, ripping and pulling. I yanked at my hair. Buckled over, hugging myself, rocking on my knees. “Where did my brother go? Where did my brother go?” Then I snapped.

  I grabbed the first thing in reach, the pack Joel left me, and heaved it across the boat. Despite its weight and the little strength I had left, it flew through the air and propelled over the side, hitting the water with a splash.

  Darkness tried to steal my vision again. The spotted beetles pestered. I swatted at them and screamed, “Leave me the fuck alone.”

  The pack burped. I moved to the edge and watched it sink.

  Whatever you do, don’t lose this.

  The last of the air escaped and water rolled over the insurance policy I’d hoped to never use. Shit. I dropped to my knees and lugged it back onto the boat. The swarm settled around me.

  A.L.I.C.E. All-purpose Lightweight Individual Carrying Equipment. The durable olive-drab rucksack was designed to haul basic survival supplies for the U.S. Army. I eyed it with contempt. He had it all planned out. The boat, a deliberate choice assuming it was aphids I was escaping. And the pack. I bet it contained everything needed to survive. What made me sick was the realization that his pack wasn’t there. His attention centered on my survival and mine alone. I loosened the cover straps with a thousand pound heart.

  A cortege of soggy contents poured into my lap. Sleeping roll. Individually wrapped MREs. Camel Back water hydration system. Solar flashlight. Otis gun cleaning kit. Water filter system. First aid kit. Spare mags and throwing knives. Waterproof matches. Waterproof pouch.

  I tipped over the waterproof pouch on the boat’s vinyl seat. My cigarettes fell out. Then my music player, wrapped with headphones and a solar charger. I thought I’d lost it. I pressed the power button and my spirit lifted a little as my punk rock playlist loaded up. I tilted the pouch and a sundry of batteries rolled out. I held up a package of lithium button cell batteries. What would I use these for? Unless…

  I tapped out the remaining item. My bullet. My little pleasure toy. My shoulders slumped. Of course he did. He knew me better than I knew myself.

  When I repacked the waterproof pouch, I felt a piece of paper folded in the bottom. I opened it with trembling fingers.

  Ba-y,

  If you’re reading this, then our paths have parted. You have the tools to travel yours, with or without me. Remember our mantra. If you think about giving up, remember your promise. Keep breathing. Find your tear ducts if you need them. Stay hydrated.

  I’m so grateful you shared your life with me. Fuck, I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs when you rose from that bed and strong-armed your grief. I wanted to scream with pride because I knew what it cost you. And I wanted to scream in fear because I’m a selfish bastard and I didn’t want to share you with the world. You’re special, Evie. You survived for a reason. I know you’ll figure this thing out and provide hope for those left.

  There’s a community of scientists making progress on a reversal for the nymph virus. They’re searching for human women. I didn’t know how to tell you. I couldn’t. I was scared, so damn insecure about others finding you, taking you from me. But, I have faith in you. Should your path lead you to Reykjavik, some call them the Shard.

  No matter where your feet take you, wrap yourself in the gift Annie and Aaron gave you. Wear their unconditional love like armor. Let it keep you warm and protect you. No one can take it away.

  And when the time is right, listen to the song and remember I love you.

  Joel

  The letter crumbled in my curling fists. Then I read it another five times, trying to decipher when he wrote it.

  Find my tear ducts? Fuck if I could. I loosened a dagger from the sheath on my arm. The tip glinted. The paracord handle stained red. Was it Joel’s blood? What had I done?

  My throat burned as I tested the keen edge with my finger. I couldn’t carry the weight of his final breaths, the memory of his eyes. I didn’t want to know what happened to him, certain it would destroy me.

  I flicked the dagger into the bench that wrapped the bow. The bow pointed east, like the needle on a compass. I didn’t want to know about the Shard. Our cruel gluttonous race didn’t deserve saving. I’d mind his mantra, but Iceland was out.

  Listen to the Song? Joel’s notions of love and following the heart had always been too abstract for me. In matters of intimacy, I relied on sensory data. Like the tremolo of a racing pulse. The quavering hum below the belly. The serenade of laughter. Joel called it the song. But why include it in the letter?

  I contemplated a life alone. Would my need for touch, for sex, force me to seek comfort in another man’s arms?

  My guts rebelled, sent me dry heaving over the side of the boat. The ladybugs were restless as I hung there, spitting from a dry mouth. They crawled in my hair and slipped under my clothes. Most of them were still flittering toward the eastern shore.

  I didn’t want to leave the boat. I didn’t want to face what prowled on land. Not without Joel.

  The first aid kit soothed some of my sores. I cleaned and patched with detachment. My torn wrists. My battered eyes and lips. But when I reached the mangled flesh between my thighs, I couldn’t fight the violent tremors.

  To avoid another bout of dry heaves, I choked down water, tuna and a handful of crackers. So much for my vegetarianism. Piece by piece, what made me me was being stripped away. What would be left?

  I repacked, returning the letter safely to the waterproof pouch. The motor purred as I guided the boat to the eastern shore. There, I disembarked it for the last time, humping the pack, the pistol, the carbine and the AA-12.

  I slipped into the concealment of the woods where the ladybugs dispersed at the tree line. They were leaving me? I didn’t know where I was going. When I stumbled upon a quiet creek, I let it lead me through the thick brush. On edge with misanthropy, I moved quickly. Joel’s moaning reechoed until I wanted to stab my ears to make it go away. So I chanted. Stay alive. Seek truth. Do not look back.

  I treaded all day through the forest along the creek, keeping my senses alert to buzzing or blood in the air. I didn’t pause once, knowing if I did, the abyss would find me. My back and shoulders ached from hours of hanging on a pulley. The weight of my burden magnified the
throbbing. My arm sheathes rubbed against the bandages on my wrists. But it was nothing compared to the pain of Joel’s absence.

  Where would I go? The provisions in my pack wouldn’t last forever. I followed my feet and ache in my chest as if both were pushing me as fast as possible away from the place of painful memories.

  When the treetop spray of daylight retreated behind the big oaks, I looked for a spot to make camp. A short time later, the dense woods opened into a glade. I let my head roll back. Full and glorious, the moon kept me company. It didn’t care that I was a woman or judge my godlessness. Didn’t try to plug the gaps in my memories or question my sanity. The moon was simply there, sharing its light.

  The ripe odor of sweat overpowered the clay and mud that clung to my boots. My tank top dripped under the rucksack. I removed it and my fatigues and hissed at the sight of my bony hips, which bore open sores from the rubbing pack. Then, under the protection of a large American elm, I unfurled my bed roll and listened.

  Nothing. Not the singing crickets. Not the warble of a bat. Not even the wind brushing the leaves. I knew very little about biology and life science. Maybe the ecosystem was somehow impacted by the virus? Or by the introduction of a mutated species?

  I closed my eyes and focused on the single sense. I wanted to hear something besides the pounding of my own heart.

  Then I did. A rustling. Soft footsteps across the ground cover. Wet heavy breaths. The breathing grew louder. I sighted the carbine in the direction of the disturbance.

  A pair of large brown eyes glistened in the moonlight through the brush, no more than six feet away. Propped on one knee, I inhaled and slid my finger next to the trigger.

  The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

  But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.

  Robert Frost

  CHAPTER TWELVE: DARWIN

  Whatever was in the bushes didn’t give a shit about discretion. Its breathing alternated between sniffs and muffled huffs. The leafy underbrush thrashed. I steadied the carbine. My fingers ached with tension. I waited.

  A dark football shape rolled out of the brush. I strained my eyes, tried to make sense of it. Covered in green and brown feathers, a long neck flopped to the side. A dead duck. No visible wounds. No odor. Realizing I’d dropped the barrel, I raised the carbine back to the breathing shadow.

  Two tan paws slid out along the ground. A dark wet nose settled between them, eyebrows twitching and brown eyes shifting upward.

  I sat back and squeezed the carbine to my chest as it was the only thing I could hug. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The dog’s tail swished somewhere behind it in the brush, rustling the ground litter. Relief poured out of me in a long deep breath.

  It inched forward and nudged the duck.

  A gift? If I moved to pick it up, would I scare it?

  Another nudge. Then it scooped up the duck in its mouth and flipped it to me. A smile took hold of my lips as I pulled the offering into my lap.

  The dog watched me with puppy dog eyes, crawling ever closer on its belly.

  “Hi.”

  It lifted its head and barked once. Then it rose and sat before me, panting. A German shepherd. Larger than me, he bore a muscular and well-fed frame. Golden tan markings outlined the black on his back, tail and muzzle. Large pointed ears defied gravity, flicking back and forth.

  I extended my hand. He pressed the top of his head to my palm so I could scratch between his ears. I held up the duck. “Dinner?”

  The dog followed at my heels. I kindled a small flame and cleaned the duck. My anticipation for a fresh meal overruled my worry about attracting threats with a fire. He watched while I cooked the bird on a spit. A thick pink tongue hung from the side of his lips, which seemed to curl in a smile that matched my own.

  Where did he come from? I hadn’t seen a dog since the outbreak. Though humans were the only species that could contract the virus, aphids fed on all mammals. How had he escaped them for so long?

  I knew the breed was intelligent. Opa, my grandpa, held membership in the Vereinfür Deutsche Schäferhunde, the German Shepherd Dog Club of Germany. He bred and trained dogs for a living using Schutzhund style training. A style that focused on tracking, obedience and protection.

  We picked over the duck and the dog lapped up water from my camel back. Then I extinguished the fire and crawled onto my bed roll. The dog settled on the other side of the clearing, watching me. Alone in the woods all day, my senses were strung out from patrol. But as I watched the dog watch me, my muscles began to relax. My vigilance eased little by little, comforted by his keen stare. He looked at me as if waiting for instruction. Had he been trained? Opa taught me a few Schutzhund commands. I tried to remember some as I fought the increasing weight on my eyelids.

  A howl pierced the haze. Darkness pinned me down. A string of whines rang out, high-pitched and relentless. I jerked up, landed on the balls of my feet, the carbine in high ready.

  My eyes adjusted. A fog hung over the glade and clung to my skin. Moonlight thickened the haze into a squatting cumulonimbus.

  The dog stood a few feet away, nose pointed at the tree line, haunches up. His withers spiked in golden tufts. His whine deepened into a throaty growl.

  I trained the carbine on his point. Through the scope, through the fog, through the shadows of the raving sweetgums, a silhouette flickered. A tennis court length away, the distance was nothing for the carbine and scope. But spirally stems and broad leaves concealed the kill shot. I inched into the clearing.

  The hunched-back figure pulsed, varying its illumination. Alien vocal cords filled the air with a screech as it sprang forward with the strength of its mutated legs. The dog spooked and darted into the woods. The bending and snapping of woody hurdles narrated his parting. The crackling faded and eventually died. He was gone.

  I couldn’t stop my disappointment from distracting me. A swell of heat spread inside me, simmered into convulsions that made my hands tremble. Losing the dog resonated a hollow thud in my head, muting all other sounds. Screw the kill shot. I lowered the carbine a few inches, moving the sight to the shoulder. Was that one alone? I scanned the area with a hunter’s calm. Alone indeed. Exhale. Squeeze.

  The thing thrashed backwards against the impact, buzzing and snarling. Its arm hung by mangled sinews. I sighted its other shoulder and repeated the shot. It fell down, but quickly regained its footing. Gristle and bone coruscated under black blood pumping from the crater that was its arm.

  The aphid crept closer. The torso seemed to float on its double-jointed legs. I sighted between its eyes. Twenty yards. I knew where the kill shot was. But I knew little else about its defenses. Fifteen yards. Could it regrow limbs? Did it need its organs? Joel had won the arguments against capturing and experimenting on one. Ten yards. I lowered my scope, settled on its knee. Time to test some theories. I squeezed the trigger. It squealed and dropped. Then it leveraged its bloody stump and rose on one leg.

  Its remaining arm lolled by a string of muscle. I shot it off. The aphid spun around. A pit blossomed on its side. It landed on its back. I closed the distance. Three yards. I aimed at its good leg. A sting of snapping rubber bands rippled through my gut. What the hell was going on with me? I pulled the trigger.

  The aphid’s torso lay in a welter of life and limbs. It stretched its jowls. Fleshy bits wormed in the mouth, arranging themselves around the tusk-like tube. The meaty fingers melded to form a sheath for the spear. Perhaps a casing for air-tight suction.

  Carbine on my sling, I released a dagger from my forearm sheath and swiped. The aphid’s remaining weapon plopped in the goulash.

  I picked up an amputated arm. The aphid’s orbs followed my movements as I flipped the arm back and forth, stretching the pincers and clamping them shut. Rows of sharp barbs jetted in one direction on the forearm. Tiny hairs furred the thin green skin.

  Its chest heaved. Sputters purled from its throat. It choked. Something like static pinched my insides.
I tossed the arm and kicked its torso, rolling it on its side. Then I crouched next to it.

  Blood coursed from the shredded mouth and with it the aroma of rot. I flicked the dagger in front of its face. Its eyes stared. No blinking. No expression. I rubbed my stomach. A vibration sparked under my hand. I gripped the carbine, sat back and rested it over my knees. Would it regrow new limbs or would it bleed out? How long would it take?

  The tiny aphid pupil didn’t move. A hum churned inside me. I wiped my palms on my jeans. The hum I felt should’ve been the twinge of mercy. But it wasn’t. I waited.

  I opened my eyes against the light penetrating the forest canopy. Blood and decay tainted the warm breeze caressing my shoulder. Shit. I flipped over and met face-to-face with the still breathing aphid. Its wounds had soldered sometime during the night. Black leaking holes were dried and closed. No regrowth. At least not yet.

  The aphid’s hanging jaw twitched. I should experiment more, remove some organs, and try to bleed it out. My stomach groaned. Food first. Then weapon cleaning. Then I’d deal with the aphid—

  A twig snapped in the scrub across the glade. I lifted the carbine. A blur of tan and black splayed the fronds. I gulped a breath and dropped the gun on its sling.

  The dog bounded toward me, tail to the sky, tongue flapping. My knees hit the grass and he licked my hand. I stroked the top of his head, relishing the silken warmth of his coat. A prickle broke out on my spine. Then a strangled buzz from the aphid behind me. The dog scrambled backwards.

  “Oh no, wait.” I lunged after him, palm out. When he nudged my hand, I led him away from the bug, scratching and rubbing his ears as we walked.

  How was it that he and I survived when so many hadn’t? Was it genetic or environmental? Did some kind of Peter Parker freak exposure make us super? Maybe I watched too many movies. Whatever the reason—survival of the fittest, natural selection—the dog and I survived. The knot of loneliness in my gut loosened, cracked, and the sharp edges fell away.