by E. R. Arroyo
“I'm stopping, Sawyer. The last thing I want to do tonight is clean the seats.”
“You have five minutes,” Sawyer instructed as they pulled into a gas station just outside Chinatown.
Claire had five minutes to plan her escape, and she could only hope that the bathroom had some way to the outside.
Racing to the safety of the gas station, she found the bathroom and thanked the gods for the window above the sink. Climbing onto the porcelain sink, she shimmied through the tiny window and dropped the six feet into a dark alley.
With nowhere to go, and what seemed like two military men on her heels, she pulled out her cellphone and dialed the only person she could—Logan.
“Claire?” Logan answered on the first ring. “Are you okay?”
“No,” she panted into the phone, “I'm not okay. I'm in an alley, running from GI Joe one and two.”
“Where are you? I'm coming to get you.”
She looked around until she saw a street sign. “Just outside Chinatown on Park Row,” she replied quickly.
“So they were right,” Logan breathed into the phone.
“Who was right about what?”
“Staten Island.”
“What? I'm nowhere near Staten Island,” she snorted, mentally raising Logan’s crazy level a bit higher.
“Stay in the shadows and start working your way north. I will find you.”
As instructed, Claire started north, staying in the shadows when she could. To her, it felt like hours were passing when she knew it was only minutes. With every noise she heard, her mind raced and her body tensed. But it wasn’t until the sound of screeching tires sliced through the eerie silence of the night that her breath caught in her throat.
Looking up, she froze as a white van slid sideways, stopping inches from her feet. Before she could scream, before she could run, the side door slid open and a masked man hauled her inside.
“There’s my girl,” Logan crooned from the front seat of the van as the man that grabbed her strapped her to the seat.
“What the hell is going on?” Claire screamed as she tried to fight against his hold.
“We need you, baby.” Logan turned in his seat, face red, sweat dripping from his brow.
“Logan,” she spoke his name as calmly as her nerves would allow, “you’re sick. We need to get you to the hospital.” But how was he sick? He had a card that said he was immune.
“They can’t help me,” he coughed out, the violent heaves racking his body. “It’s you I need.”
What? Panic overtook her as she began to pull at her restraints.
“Start the line,” Logan ordered the masked man. “Don’t worry, baby,” he smiled as he looked her over, “you won’t feel a thing.”
“Why are you doing this?” Claire began to thrash in her chair as she tried to fight off the man with the needle.
“You thought I was crazy.” Logan laughed through hacking coughs. “You never listened to me, but you can never say I didn’t try to warn you.”
“Warn me about what?” Claire hoped that if she kept him talking, he would change his mind. He had to change his mind.
“This was all planned—the virus, the deaths…everything.”
Without warning, the pinch of a needle bit into her arm, and she yelled out from the sudden pain.
“Don’t fight it, Claire,” Logan spoke in a soothing tone. “Like you said, you’re going to save lives.”
“How’d you know?” She hadn’t told him she was immune.
“Do you think I'm an idiot?” he snorted, sounding insulted. “You have been tirelessly working with infected patients without a single symptom. If you hadn’t come back to the hospital, if you would have just stayed home like I told you, all of this would have been done and over with hours ago.”
“I loved you,” Claire whispered out as fatigue started to take over.
“And I had to find someone immune.” Logan smiled back at her. “What better candidate than the woman who once loved me?”
“No.” Claire’s mind drifted to Haylee who was alone and dying in a hospital bed.
What felt like a weight was placed on her chest, and with every breath she took, the pressure increased.
“It won’t be long now,” she heard Logan mumble.
“Do we need all of it?”
The world started to blur for Claire. It tilted on its axis as she watched her blood travel down the thin tube connected to her arm.
“Every last drop.”
A scream sounded from far off, a screech? Lights flashed, blinding lights that made her wonder if she was back at the hospital.
Cracks of thunder exploded through the van, followed by what she thought was rain.
How is it raining inside?
Claire tried to force her eyes to open, to focus, to fight the pull of sleep.
“Get that out of her arm!” she heard someone scream.
“Sawyer?” she asked, but he didn’t hear her. Nothing could be heard in the darkness that pulled her under. No light, no sound, no pain. It was a place void of all emotion. It wasn’t death that was hard for her; death was easy; death was painless; death was letting go.
* * *
“Claire?”
The light called to her like a Siren on the ocean, but she fought it, refused to answer its call. The darkness was where she wanted to be.
“Claire?” Her name was spoken by a familiar voice. “You’re okay. You can wake up now.”
Claire knew there was no use fighting the light. The darkness was gone, and with it, so went the numbness that swaddled her in its protective hold.
Upon opening her eyes, Claire saw a face beaming down over her, but it wasn’t the face she wanted to see.
“Cindy?”
Learn more about Megan White
The long shift at the bakery had taken its toll on Lexia. She wrapped a loaf of bread in wax paper and sat it on the step in the alley just outside the back door. Double checking her pocket to make sure she had grabbed her keys, she walked quickly past shops and businesses lining the busy streets to the subway station and descended to the underground world of eccentricity. In nine stops, she could emerge into the light again. While waiting on her train, she popped her earbuds in and cranked her iPod’s volume up.
She stretched her tired back and fingers. With a sharp mind and fast hands, she’d always performed tasks quickly. Not only had it been a necessity at such a busy workplace, it had meant her survival. Her mom had passed away three years ago and the life insurance money, combined with the money she earned by working was enough to keep her alive. With it, she was able to pay rent, buy food, and even splurge on thrift-store gems once in a while if she was careful. Making money stretch was an art form.
The subway train was late, according to the digital clock on her iPod’s display. Come on.
At sixteen, she lied about her age. Every piece of identification lied for her. They said she was eighteen, old enough to work and live on her own. The concerned looks for her said that some questioned her affirmation. But no one cared enough to bother her. She was making it. Maybe they asked themselves, “Why ruin a good thing?” She would be eighteen soon enough and most people didn’t want to meddle, or didn’t care enough to take action.
She could hear the train approaching, even over the music on her iPod. She waited for it to stop and the doors to open. Passengers flowed out of the cars. She and the mass of people around her pushed their way inside just before the beeping sound signaled the closing doors behind her back.
No seats were empty. She didn’t need one anyway. Holding tight to a metal pole that was anchored at the ceiling and floor, she let the rocking rhythm soothe her tired legs. Lexia couldn’t hear much going on. But her light brown eyes took it all in. Some folks in her car looked frazzled and tired. Others impatient. No one looked happy or even content.
An older woman with fuzzy blue hair coughed into her hands and then clutched her handbag as if she was about to be mugged
.
To her left, almost pressing up against her side, a middle-aged business man, wearing what looked like a designer suit and too much cologne, sneezed into his perfectly pressed, white handkerchief. She told herself she was just being paranoid.
All she’d heard at the bakery during her shift was about the truck that wrecked a few days ago, and how people were falling ill all over the city because of some virus. The patrons of the bakery who were still well had been ordering bread and cakes as if tonight might be their last supper—literally.
It was kind of like the pandemonium a snow-storm caused in the aisles that had bread and milk: chaos and empty shelves.
The train stopped at another station and then pulled away again. Two more stops and she’d be able to get out of the metal car.
Her cell vibrated in her pocket so she pulled it out, ignoring the coughs and sneezes around her, and swiped her finger across the screen.
It was a text from her friend Mary, who also worked at the bakery.
DID YOU KNOW THAT GIO AND TONY WENT HOME SICK TODAY? THEY’RE BOTH IN THE HOSPITAL NOW.
Great. She’d worked this morning right alongside Giovanni. He hadn’t looked well at all. She noticed his absence in the afternoon, but was so busy she couldn’t allow herself time to dwell on it.
She typed a reply.THAT’S AWFUL :(
It only took Mary a second to respond.
DO U THINK IT’S THAT VIRUS FROM NEWS? PEOPLE ARE DYING NOW!
Lex looked around the train.NO. PROB JUS A COLD.
RIGHT. That was all the reply Mary gave. Lexia bet she moved on to another friend who would discuss the possibility of an apocalyptic scenario. The girl read too many books. Lex shook her head briefly and shoved her phone back into her pocket.
Her stop was fast approaching, so she moved closer to the doors. When they opened, she made her way out of the underground. It was three blocks of sidewalk lined with cabs on one side and shops on the other. Her building wasn’t anything special. Just brick, mortar, and glass. It was non-descript but functional—a shelter from the street. She climbed the three flights of stairs to her tiny one-bedroom.
Looking over her shoulder, she quickly unlocked the three deadbolts and the lock on the door handle. She shuddered. Maybe her dad’s paranoia had rubbed off on her after all. She pushed that thought out of her mind as she stepped over the threshold. It took her less than two minutes to drop her stuff on the tiny folding table standing by the door, and head to the shower to wash the lingering smell of sugar and dough off her skin.
That night, she began to chill. Lexia didn’t own a thermometer, but she didn’t need one. It was obvious that she had a fever. With the fever came a headache so severe that any sliver of light was too much for her to bear. She stumbled across the floor and barely made it to the bathroom before vomiting up what she believed was every tiny speck of food she’d eaten that day and maybe the day before.
Vomiting’s friend diarrhea came to visit her and actually spent the night. But those kinds of sleep-overs were the worst kind.
By morning, Lexia was weak. Every single muscle fiber in her body ached. She didn’t want to move. She didn’t want to open her eyes.
When she did peel herself off the couch for yet another bathroom excursion, she saw that those eyes were bloodshot. It was disturbing as hell.
Lexia touched the tender, swollen skin around her face, her mouth gaped open at herself in the mirror, a strand of drying saliva stretching from lip to lip like an errant spider web.
That was when she collapsed. Her legs were no longer able hold her weight. Soon, her lungs were unable to expand with the life-giving oxygen she needed. She fell asleep to the fluttering and pecking sounds of the pigeons that always perched on her windowsill, oblivious to anything but the hope of their next crumb.
* * *
Lexia stared at the door. Someone was outside—a very angry someone. They were beating on the wood like they wanted to splinter it, jerking the door handle so hard she feared that the entire thing might tear off its hinges. The warped wood would only last so long and the longer she watched the peeling paint curls shimmy and shake under the beating they were taking, the more worried she became that the person on the other side of that door would soon burst into her living room.
She was afraid.
She bit her thumbnail and curled into a ball on the sofa, making herself as tiny as possible.
The furious pounding continued.
Dramatic? Maybe. But she’d survived the virus and was trying to survive the apocalypse. She’d earned dramatic.
The wild beating that the old door was taking proved its strength. Some paint chips weren’t as stubborn. The weak ones floated to the floor, delicate as feathers on the wind.
Finally, she heard an exasperated huff from behind the door just before something heavy fell against it. Lexia presumed it was a body. Didn’t matter. She wasn’t going outside. Uh-uh. Not for anyone or anything. No. Lexia was staying put. It was safer that way.
When her father was taken away, Lex had been forced to drop out of ninth grade. She got a fake I.D. and a job. Before the bakery, she’d taken any odd job offered, some that paid almost nothing. But every little bit helped and somehow she’d made it. She’d often gone to bed hungry, cried more times than she could count or remember, and lost track of almost all of her friends.
Lex stared at her phone. Nine-one-one wasn’t an option anymore. There was no one else she could count on. She’d tried texting, calling, e-mailing Mary. No response. Mary was either holed up too…or dead. Probably the latter. A tear fell onto her cheek.
Then, the thing outside her door made a noise—a familiar tone that she hadn’t heard in so long that it literally broke her heart.
“L-L-Lex.”
She jumped from the couch, running across the cold, bare floor, and fumbled to release every deadbolt that separated them. When she opened the door, he fell inside.
“Dad?” The word left her mouth in a whisper. But she recovered her voice. She extended her fingertips toward him. Was he real? When he looked up at her and extended a hand for help, she eased hers into his and squeezed, pulling him upright. “What are you doing here?”
She hadn’t paid her bills this month, hadn’t worked since she got sick. But her water still ran, the electricity was still on, and her cell and television still worked. No one was worried about delinquent accounts when everything around them was collapsing, rotting. It made sense that her dad had escaped. Everyone was dropping like flies. They couldn’t have the staff to cover the asylums.
“No g-guards. I left. Home is safe,” he asserted.
Grabbing his elbow, she helped him up with a grunt. Gregorio De Santis stood just inside the doorway, looking shiftily around the small apartment. He turned to the door, glancing between it and Lex. “’s not safe.”
Lexia glanced to the still wide-open door, moved over to it and closed it, twisting all of the dead bolts until they couldn’t twist any more.
Her dad nodded. “’s not safe.”
He always said that. He’d been saying it for years. It was a nervous tic, part of a multi-word diagnosis that at the same time fit him perfectly and yet couldn’t quite pin him down. It didn’t matter what they labeled him. Lexia’s dad had lost part of his mind.
Lexia watched her father nervously pace around the room. He had nothing but the clothes on his back. He eyed the perfectly intact, but old windows as if they were broken, with shards gouging into the air at precarious angles.
She took him in. It had been almost a year since she had seen him. He was too thin. His hair was completely gray, too. The strands of dark brown had been hanging on for dear life last time she’d seen him. Amazing how much could change in three hundred sixty five days. But then again, so much had changed in just the past couple of weeks.
“’s not safe,” he muttered, pointing at the window and looking at her with fear-widened eyes.
“Do you need your box? Can you make it safe, Dad?”
He nodded. So, she went to the tiny closet beside the bathroom and began removing all of the crap she’d piled upon the box. The box held all the things he would have wanted her to keep. All but the newspaper clippings—they ended up in the garbage. At one time, he’d plastered them haphazardly all over every inch of wall surface. Some were even taped to the ceiling; the tiny squares of adhesive still peppered the plaster in places when she’d left the house for the last time.
Lexia hefted the small cardboard rectangle and carried it to the card table, setting it down gently. There’d been times when she’d gotten angry with him for going crazy, for being hauled away from her when she needed him most. More than once, she’d considered chucking the box out the window.
Her father wrung his hands. The tension didn’t last long. He dove into the box, sorting at a feverish pace until his hands hit pay dirt.
Oh, no, she thought, wishing she’d taken that item out of the box. She could have used it for herself and avoided this entire scenario. But, how was she to know her dad would bust out of the crazy house and come knocking.
Greg held up the almost-full roll of aluminum foil like he was lady freaking liberty, wearing a cheek-splitting grin.
Lexia let one side of her mouth tip upward as he went to work covering her only view of the outside world. She wasn’t sure what exactly he thought the foil would do for them. Block the aliens from spying on them? Prevent the intrusion of the government spies he thought were everywhere? Or maybe he used it to make himself feel a sense of peace, or safety. If it helped him with that, she could live with foil-covered windows—at least for a while.
She didn’t have much food left in the cupboards and the fridge was bare, too. It wasn’t like she could run down to the corner store anymore. So, she’d made what she did have stretch really far. Since she’d gotten ill, Lexia hadn’t had much of an appetite anyway. But now, she had her father to feed, too. She would have to figure out a way to get some food.
There was always raiding the other apartment units for food that may have been left behind. But the thought of smelling the rot of the dead turned her stomach into mush.