by McBain, Tim
The screen door screeched behind her, and she turned.
“Thought I heard you out here,” Marcus said, coming down the steps with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “You OK?”
“I’m fine.” Erin forced a smile to her face. “Just needed some air.”
“Do you have to go back in right now?”
Erin shook her head.
“It’s OK if I leave him for a few minutes.”
Marcus intertwined his fingers with hers.
“You want some company?”
“Always.”
They walked over to the picnic table. Marcus climbed onto the top, and Erin sat below him on the bench, resting her back against him.
Marcus leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her.
“You smell minty fresh.”
“Helps with the sick room smell,” Erin said, and instantly felt guilty for lying.
She should just tell him. It was the perfect moment. They were here. Alone. She took a moment to organize the words in her head. Exactly what she’d say.
But Marcus spoke first.
“Delfino is right, you know,” Marcus said.
“About what?”
“You would have done the same thing. You wouldn’t have just let someone die like that, no matter who was after him.”
Erin clamped her mouth shut. She didn’t want to argue with Marcus about this.
“You don’t have to be so wary of everyone, is all I’m saying,” he went on. “It’s OK to trust people.”
“What are you talking about?” Erin craned her head around to look at him. “I trust plenty of people. I trust you.”
He snorted.
“What?”
“Do you not remember how it was when we first met?”
“Met? We didn’t meet, Marcus. I dragged your feverish ass to our house on a sled and nursed you back to health.”
“And then you tried to ditch me.”
Erin ground her molars together.
“What’s the point of bringing that up? To rub my nose in it?”
“Of course not. I’m only saying that the reason you hold such a grudge against Delfino is because you trusted him. And you don’t trust easily, so one little slip up, and he goes from friend to enemy, just like that.”
Marcus snapped his fingers.
“It wasn’t a slip up,” Erin said. “He willfully and intentionally screwed us over. I can’t believe you’re defending him on that.”
“I’m not defending him.” Marcus let his hands rest on Erin’s shoulders. “And I don’t disagree that he screwed us. I just think… sometimes you have to make some allowances. Friends are in short supply these days.”
Erin blinked a few times, choosing not to respond. What good would more fussing and fighting do?
Instead, she stared up into the heavens. Found her gaze falling past the moon, past the stars, and locking onto the vast emptiness between.
Lorraine
Rural Tennessee
1 year, 54 days after
When Lorraine woke some hours later, it took her several seconds to make sense of what she was seeing outside the car.
The daylight angled down from the sky. Filtered through wispy clouds. Lit the world around her fully after what felt like an eternity of darkness.
But it was wrong. What was out there was wrong.
Movement. That was what she saw at first. Something moving. Multiple somethings that carpeted the landscape.
Limbs. Torsos. Dead bodies propped upright. Shambling and fidgeting. The dead surrounded them.
A horde of them. There was no other word for it. A horde.
Dead packed shoulder to shoulder around them, tightly squeezed as though nearing the stage at an outdoor rock concert. The crowd spread as far as she could see, spilling over a small hill out of sight. Everyone and everything wet as hell. Slicked with muck and slime. Soggy.
The corpses jostled and bumped into each other. Grumbled out little sounds. Every once in a while a hiss emitted from deep in the mob.
Fallen trees snaked between the standing figures. Laid out at their feet like freshly felled lumber.
And trash occupied the strata below the deadfall. Plastic bottles and aluminum cans. Every color in the crayon box represented via soft drink branding, though black soot and sludge smudged this particular rainbow.
Everything had washed up here. Like driftwood on a beach.
Maybe it made sense. The surging flood had carried them all here to this big open space — a low sprawling piece of land — where the current kind of dispersed and left them. It looked like a field of some kind — a big, mostly flat piece of land with woods framing the distant perimeters. Roughly rectangular. Probably a cornfield before everything went to shit. Maybe soybeans or tobacco or some such thing. Whatever weeds had overtaken it had been trampled out of existence by the flood, either uprooted and washed out or smashed flat by trees.
Lorraine’s eyelids fluttered. Water rushing to blur her vision.
Yes, maybe there was some gravitational explanation for this, a reasonable, scientific cause for this effect. A big enough space would work better for drainage. Faster. More efficient. A place for all the water to go. That had a feel of truth to it, even if she didn’t know the science.
But Lorraine couldn’t see it that way. Couldn’t believe it that way. Couldn’t accept it.
The rain just made this happen? A random whim of precipitation? Atmospheric conditions? No. It was too meaningless. Too haphazard.
And yet the opposite explanation — some hand of fate intervening, a force guiding this series of events — seemed just as wrong, just as impossible. Absurd.
An act of God placed them here? Trapped them among this throng of the dead? What for?
One way or another, it had come to pass. Her whole life had led to this moment. The universe had brought her here, had animated her into existence some decades ago and set her on a course of events that led to this moment, this reality.
How could that be? How could there be any meaning in it?
She blinked. Hard. Tears spilled down her cheeks. But just two.
She fought them back. Stifled them.
And she slid a hand over the roundness of her belly. There were bigger things to worry about. More immediate things.
Again she cast her vision over the field.
The flood had died back to a trickle at the ankles of the dead, the water finding some way to run off, some form of relief, but the rain persisted even if it was only a sprinkle for the moment.
Lorraine couldn’t imagine the rain actually ending. Not anymore.
Louis put his hand on her arm. She’d almost forgotten him in the strange moment. Had he been awake this whole time? Seeing the same things as her? Did he give her a minute to take it all in?
Yes. He must have. Louis was odd in his way. Not terribly social, but from what Lorraine had observed, he knew that side of humanity well. The emotional side. He had a good sensitivity for that. An innate understanding of giving someone space, listening to them, offering them some comfort. Maybe nurturing them.
As he released her arm, she looked from his hand to his eyes, which were waiting to meet hers. He nodded toward the ignition, where his hand now clutched the key.
“Probably won’t work,” he said, his voice low. “In fact, I’d be shocked if it did. But I figure we might as well try it now. See what we’re working with sooner than later.”
She looked out at the endless mob of living dead things. Watched them knock into each other over and over. Bodies twitching and writhing against one another. Sopping and mindless.
She blinked a few times. Nodded.
He took a breath and held it. Removed his hand from the ignition to wipe his palm on the thigh of his pants. Three forward strokes.
Gripped the key again. Cranked it.
This time the engine made no noise at all.
Erin
Ripplemead, Virginia
9 years, 38 days a
fter
Water sloshed against the sides of the metal washing tub as Erin emptied another bucket into it. She stepped to the river, filled the bucket again, and dumped the contents into the tub. While Erin retrieved a few more buckets for the rinse tub, Marissa began dumping the dirty linens into the soapy water.
Erin yawned and watched suds form on the surface of the liquid as she took her turn swishing the clothes around with the handheld agitator. She was tired from staying up half the night before, but being tired didn’t matter when there were chores to do. And they had all of their usual tasks, plus the washing from the infirmary.
Marissa was feeding one of the sheets through the wringer when she spoke.
“So, how far along?” she asked, not even looking up from her task.
“What?”
“How far along are you?” Marissa repeated the question.
Erin stared at her, speechless.
“You didn’t think I’d notice?” Marissa smirked. “You haven’t had anything extra to wash for your monthlies for at least two or three months.”
And suddenly Erin realized how stupid she’d been. Of course Marissa would figure it out. She was a nurse after all. And always sticking her damn beak into everyone’s business. Always offering her opinion whether it was wanted or not. And yet… she didn’t seem mad. Or judgy. Not even a little. For some reason, that surprised Erin more than Marissa figuring it out in the first place. She realized she’d expected Marissa to be disappointed somehow.
Marissa kept feeding laundry from the soapy water, through the ringer, and into the rinse tub.
“Had to happen sometime, right? You know what they used to say. ‘Abstinence is the only 100% effective form of birth control.’” Marissa chuckled to herself. “Like that was ever going to keep a bunch of horny youngsters from humping like bunnies.”
“But we’re always safe,” Erin said.
“What, like condoms?” Marissa asked then shook her head. “Condoms have a shelf-life, sweetheart. They expire.”
“But I keep track of my… cycle or whatever,” Erin said.
“If I had a dollar for every time a woman ended up in our maternity ward because they’d been using the rhythm method, I would have been able to retire on my own private island in the Caribbean.” Marissa scrubbed at a spot on the sheet. “You told Marcus yet?”
“No. I mean, I’m not even sure. Not 100%.”
Marissa raised an eyebrow.
“How much more sure do you need to be? I suppose you could try to scrounge up one of those old at-home tests, but I imagine those have a shelf-life, too. Same as everything else.” She took a break from turning the wringer handle and wiped her brow. “Besides, it’s always been my opinion that you just know. I did with mine. I’ve heard stories, of course. Women coming into the ER with unexplained stomach pains. Then it turns out they’re nine-months in and going into labor.”
“Nine months?” Erin repeated. “How could you not figure it out after nine months?”
Marissa smiled.
“That’s what I always thought. It’s gotta be denial. On some level, they knew. Had to. It’s like you said. How could you not?”
The only sound for the next few moments was Erin turning the crank on the wringer and water dribbling into the wash tubs.
“So?” Marissa said.
“What?”
“What does it feel like to you?” Marissa put her hands on her hips. “Are you or aren’t you?”
Erin dropped a load of bloody rags into the wash tub. Clouds of red bloomed in the water wherever the wet touched the dried blood, and for several seconds, Erin just stared at the undulating crimson tendrils. Finally, she nodded.
Marissa snatched up the agitator and got to churning the laundry.
“Well then I don’t know what you’re waiting for when it comes to telling Marcus. You’ll have to do it sooner or later.”
“I know.”
“But?”
Erin chewed her lip, trying to put all of the murky uncertainty into words.
“What if he’s mad?”
Marissa halted her work and furrowed her brow.
“Mad? What in the hell would there be for him to be mad about?”
“I don’t know.” Erin lifted her hands and let them fall back against her thighs. “He didn’t… ask for this. And we’ve got our hands full now as it is.”
Marissa snorted.
“Girly, no one asked for this. And besides that, if I remember correctly, it takes two to put you in the predicament you’re in now. Unless you figured out a way to borrow his penis without him knowing about it.”
A laugh sputtered out from between Erin’s lips. Marissa snickered.
“Actually, that’s not such a bad idea, now that I think about it,” Marissa said. “A detachable penis. If you do figure that out, I hope you’ll let me know so I can get one for myself.”
“Marissa!” Erin said, still laughing. “Ew!”
“What? I don’t miss men at all, I’ll tell you that right now.” Water swished and splattered as Marissa went back to stirring the laundry. “But I do miss a good dick from time to time.”
Erin was laughing so hard now that she had to brace herself against the washing tub.
Marcus strode up then with Rayne riding piggyback.
“What are you two laughing about?” Marcus asked.
Erin shook her head, her face red from laughing.
“Marissa was just telling me how much she loves the—”
Marissa wadded up a soggy pillowcase in her hands and held it up like she might throw it.
“Don’t you dare,” she said, a menacing smile spreading over her lips.
“—how much she loves the slightly funky smell of clothes washed in the river water,” Erin finished.
Marissa lowered the sopping ball of fabric and nodded.
“They’re weird,” Rayne whispered to Marcus.
“I know,” Marcus agreed. “Anyway, Izzy sent us over to tell you that your patient’s fever broke.”
“Well shit. That’s good news,” Marissa said.
“Marissa said a swear,” Rayne said. “She has to put her name in the swear jar.”
Marcus nodded.
“She sure does.”
“Fucking swear jar,” Marissa grumbled. When Rayne gasped, she added, “Might as well get it all out now while I’m at it.”
“How’s his blood pressure?” Marissa asked.
Marcus hoisted Rayne a little higher on his back.
“She said all his other vital signs are normal.”
“Better than I’d hoped for,” Marissa said, glancing over at Erin and nodding. “OK. Let us finish up here. Tell Izzy we’ll be up in a few minutes.”
Erin watched Marcus carry Rayne back the way they’d come. Halfway back to the house, the kid clambered down from his back and took off running, shrieking with glee as Marcus chased after her.
“I don’t know what you’re worried about,” Marissa said, wringing out another sheet. “He’s already a dad to half the kids here. You think it’ll be any different if the kid is his by blood?”
“No. It just makes everything more complicated.”
Marissa let out her trademark laugh that wasn’t really a laugh.
“Kiddo, life is complicated. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”
Erin started wringing out the rinsed linens and dumping them into the empty bucket.
“Yeah. But what if there are… problems? During the delivery, I mean?”
“Oh.”
There was a long pause as Erin’s true meaning sunk in: What if she didn’t make it through?
“Well you don’t need to worry about that,” Marissa said eventually. “I’ll get you through it.”
When Erin didn’t say anything, Marissa wrapped her fingers around her wrist and squeezed.
“I mean that, girly. I’ll be right there with you, no matter what happens. You can trust me. You know that, right?”
And Erin c
ouldn’t help but hear Marcus’ words from the night before echo in her mind.
Erin nodded.
“Yeah. I know.”
Baghead
Ripplemead, Virginia
9 years, 38 days after
When Baghead woke, it felt like slowly rising to the surface out of some deep black depths where even dreams couldn’t exist — the nowhere nothing place that formed that final border between life and death — and maybe it was.
Reality occurred to him in stages: the glass of water on the bedside table came first. He reached for it. Drank. Felt like his mouth and throat were all cracked and dry, and his tongue tasted the way a wet dog smelled. The moisture was most welcome. He finished the glass in two drinks.
With that out of the way, he remembered to wonder where the hell he was. A small bedroom from the looks of it. Wood floor. Glossy paint on the wall in a soft blue color, perhaps powder blue. Well kept. Country decor. Unfamiliar.
Fresh bandages adorned the place where his hand should be. Neat white gauze to replace that crusty brown hand towel. So he was being cared for here, receiving medical attention in this place, wherever it might be.
Only one way to find that out.
He threw back the covers and then the sheet beneath them, squirmed and swung his legs to the floor. He sat up, took a few breaths. Just moving the blankets and sitting up had him sweating. Woozy. He’d need to pace himself.
He stayed upright a moment. Reminded himself to just breathe, feel the wind rush in and out, focus on only that. The dizziness faded some. Time to do this.
He stood, that most basic of actions somehow giving him a strange sensation in this moment. Felt like he was levitating. Head hovering over a distant body. Numb and alien.
Then his legs started shaking. Muscles quivering like newborn kittens. Throbbing he couldn’t seem to stop or even slow when he tried. Yikes. Weaker than he thought.
He took three steps and balanced himself against the door, his good hand splayed on the wood, helping him stay up. Blinking. More breaths. Now the sweat was really gushing from his pores, streaming off the corners of his brow to douse his cheeks.