by Tracey Ward
She didn’t last long. She took off one night when I was five and never came back. I barely remember her. The raspberry print curtains with uneven hems hanging from the kitchen window are the only proof she was ever here. Dad says he keeps them there to remind us both to forgive her because she tried. This life just wasn’t for her.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s for me or if I grew up in it and don’t know any better. Would I like living in the city? Do I want neighbors? What’s it like to pick fruit off a table instead of a tree?
I have absolutely no idea, and the not knowing bothers me.
I hear it when my dad turns over in bed, moans in a long stretch, and finally rolls out of the bunk to land on the hard floor with a soft thump. He shuffles out of the bedroom with wild, long hair, scratching his dark beard absently.
“Hey, buddy,” he mumbles groggily. “What are you doing already up?”
“I couldn’t sleep. There’s a leak.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. I can’t find it.”
He drops his hand and looks at me quizzically. “Then how do you know there is one?”
“I can hear it.”
“Over the sound of the rain on the roof, you can hear a leak that you can’t see?”
“Yes.”
He wanders over to the kitchen and pulls the kettle down off its hook on the wall. “It must be a drip outside on the porch or something.”
I shake my head. “It’s inside.”
“Maybe you’re imagining it.”
“I’m not.”
“Well, we’ll look for it a little later, okay? Let me make some tea, hit the head, and we’ll find it together.” He points to the newspapers on the table, the old ones he gets second hand from the Farm when they’re finished with them. “Have you read those yet?’
“Not yet. Did you?”
“Most of them. It’s bad news.”
I pick one up and scan the front page, but I know what it is. For the last year all bad news has boiled down to one thing. “The Fever?”
“Yeah.” The kettle whistles sharply and he turns to pull it off the burner. “That cure didn’t work. All those people trapped in the quarantine in Oregon are going to stay that way for a while.”
“It’s already been almost a year. I doubt they’re ever getting out.”
“Maybe not.”
“Will they burn the rest of the state the way they burned Portland?”
He stops pouring the hot water into his mug, his rigid back to me. “I don’t know,” he answers softly. “I really hope not. That’s a lot of life to lose.”
I nod my head silently, but I don’t bring her up. I don’t talk about where she went when she left us. Between the faded curtains and my bright blond hair, neither of us goes a day without thinking about her.
“Kyle called them zombies,” I comment, tossing the paper down.
Dad snorts. “He’s not the only one.”
“What do you think they are?”
“Draculas,” he jokes distractedly.
“You mean vampires. Dracula is a person not a species.”
“Fine. Frankensteins then.”
“Frankenstein was the doctor. The guy with bolts in his neck was Frankenstein’s monster.”
Dad groans, rubbing his hand over his eyes. “I’m not awake enough for one of these conversations.”
“What are they?” I ask again.
He finishes making his tea and comes to sit down at the table with me. “Aliens.”
“You’re hilarious,” I droll.
He chuckles. “Clearly it’s not a trait I passed down to you.”
“What are they?” I demand, getting annoyed.
He sighs as he sits back in his chair. “They are what the reporters say they are. They’re sick people.”
“Yeah, but they’re eating each other. That’s not just sick, that’s something else.”
“That might not be true. I know from the pictures we’ve seen come out of Oregon that they’re attacking each other, yeah. The people affected by the Fever are delirious, their brains are melted and lost, and but we don’t know for sure that they’re eating each other.”
“That’s what people were saying when it first started happening.”
“Yeah, but they were scared and panicked and trying to put a name on something they didn’t understand.”
“It sounds like zombies,” I push. “The scientists say it’s transmitted through bodily fluids. So if the sick people aren’t biting everyone then how is it spreading so quickly?”
“Sneezes. Coughs. Sweat. Spit.”
“Sex?”
Dad hesitates. “Possibly.”
“How exactly? How would that work?”
"How would... how does sex work?"
"Yeah. Walk me through it."
He freezes, his expression shifting slowly into fear. He opens his mouth twice to speak but nothing comes out.
I smile with satisfaction. “I’m kidding.”
“You’re—you what?”
“I’m joking,” I laugh. “I know how sex works. I learned in school years ago. I’m messing with you.”
“Oh thank God,” he breathes, his body collapsing forward in relief.
“And you said I’m not funny.”
“You aren’t. You almost killed me.”
“Are you done with your tea? Can we look for the leak now?
“I don’t hear a leak, Trent. I only hear the rain.”
“I’m not making it up.”
“No, but I think you’re bored and you’re looking for things to work on.”
I bite my tongue before telling him that’s exactly the same thing as saying I’m making it up. I try not to let my frustration boil over any more than it already has. Over the last year we’ve started snapping at each other more and more, this sort of conversation rising into an argument for no good reason. It comes out of nowhere and luckily it disappears just as quickly, but it’s still strange for us. There’s a faint tension in the air that wasn’t there before and it refuses to go away completely. The cabin has started feeling smaller and it’s not all because of my growing body taking up more space.
“I think I’ll go to the Farm,” I tell him, standing to go get dressed.
“I thought you didn’t have school today.”
“I don’t, but maybe they have something going on.”
“Do you want me to drive you?”
“Is the truck working?”
“I can get it going, I’m sure.”
“No, I’ll walk.”
“That’s a long way to walk in the rain.”
“It’s the same distance in the sun,” I remind him, disappearing into the bedroom to change.
When I head for the back door I find my dad already there slipping on his raincoat. He hands me mine and I step into my black rain boots.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Outhouse. How long you gonna be gone?”
“Few hours.”
He grins mischievously. “Say hi to Zoe for me.”
“I doubt I’ll even see her,” I mumble, ignoring the rush of my blood through my veins at the mention of her name.
“If she hears you’re there, she’ll find you.”
I flip my hood up over my head and hunch my shoulders to burrow deeper inside the jacket, and I don’t respond. Instead I hurry to open the door and step outside. The rain hits me immediately, pelting down on the thick material of my coat, and I wonder if I wasn’t imagining it after all – the leak. Dad’s right, how could I possibly have heard it over the sound of all this rain coming down outside and on the roof? Must have been my mind making worries so I’d have something to—
“Dammit!”
I turn sharply and look back at my dad. He’s sitting on the bench by the door, his boot in his hand and a sour expression on his face.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He holds his boot up and tips it sideways. Water pours out onto the sto
ne floor of the entryway, creating a puddle at his feet. I notice then that the sock on one foot is darker than the other. It’s soaking wet.
“I think I found your leak,” he tells me dryly.
Chapter Three
Vin
I jog across the street, dodging puddles. Most of them I miss. Some I can’t escape. By the time I’m under the awning outside the entrance to the bar my shoes are soaked clear through to my feet. They leave their own tiny puddles on the floor behind me as I walk deep inside the dark building.
“Hey, what’s up, man?” Wright calls from the bar. He’s sitting casually on one of the stools facing the entrance. A short black guy built of brick, he travels with the boss everywhere. He’s a cool guy when you’re in good standing, but if you fall off he’s a fucking nightmare. When Bennet surfaces, the Boss will put Wright to work on him and I want to feel bad for him, but I don’t. Not after the night I’ve had.
Wright stands from his stool to take my hand and pull me into a half hug. I slap him on the back firmly once before pulling away.
“Nothin’ much,” I tell him. “Cashing out for the night.”
“You took the trip to the Southside?”
“Yeah. Filling in for B.”
Wright shakes his head as he takes his seat, his lips pinched in annoyance. “Dude still hasn’t surfaced.”
“How long has it been since anyone saw him?”
“Too damn long. He’s getting close to the point it’s better he never shows up again.”
“Don’t say that,” I groan, pulling out the envelope of cash I have stuffed in my pocket. “If he disappears, I inherit his route. Is the Boss in with Marlow?”
“Yeah. Just went in.”
“You mind if I cash out with you? I’ve been up all night, I gotta get some sleep.”
“Yeah, no problem,” he answers absently, his eyes locked on the TV behind my head. “You seen this shit?”
I glance up to the screen to find it filled with news coverage, the ticker at the bottom going crazy as it speeds across familiar aerial images of the Oregon forest.
Immunizations failed…Warm Springs colony on lock down… Quarantine secure…
“The immunizations? Yeah,” I mutter, turning my back on the TV to open the envelope. “The cure was crap.”
“Unreal. Said they thought they were going to be bringing people out of the colony next month, but now the whole place is shut up tight.”
Warm Springs is a little shit town in eastern Oregon that’s become famous because it sits right up against the wall of the quarantine. The military and all of their scientists set up shop just on the other side of the fence from the place and they’ve been working with the people inside the city. Warm Springs built fences and walls of its own to keep the infected out and last I’d heard the head count inside the colony was somewhere just shy of two hundred. That’s a lot considering how many died when the Fever first hit. It’s the biggest pocket of humanity left inside the quarantine and it’s the first place they started their trials with their cure. We heard for months that they were doing good, but then around Thanksgiving things took a turn. Now here we are coming up on Christmas and news about the Fever has been scarce. People are getting worried.
“Your dad came around looking for you.”
My eyes snap to Wright’s, my entire body going tight. “When?”
“Day before yesterday.”
“You didn’t tell him where I’m living, did you?”
Wright laughs. “Hell no, man. I wouldn’t do you like that. ‘Sides, I don’t know where you live anyway. No one does.”
“Good.”
“You’re like Batman or some shit.”
“Wayne Manor,” I comment absently, opening the envelope and pulling out the cash.
Wright scowls. “Huh?”
“Batman lives in Wayne Manor. Technically everyone knows where Batman lives, they just don’t know that they know.”
“Oh, yeah,” he drawls thoughtfully. Then he slaps the back of his hand against my shoulder. “Hey, what about Spiderman?”
“No one gives a shit about Spiderman.” I slide the money across the table before folding my cut neatly into my pocket. “Do you want to count it?”
“Nah, you’re good. I’m not worried.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you next week.”
“Later, Mr. Wayne!”
I don’t live in Wayne Manor. Hell, I don’t even live in anything as nice as a cave, let alone one with electricity and a car on a spinning pedestal. I’m more of a squatter than a liver. I rarely stay in the same place for too long and when I do I never have power or running water. I’ve learned to live off dry goods and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Cans of tuna fish. Cheap fruit, raw vegetables, and jugs of water. All of my spare cash goes toward my clothes. My appearance.
My hair is always cut and clean, my teeth sparkling white, and my clothes are expensive and spotless. People looking at me walking down the street right now, they’d never imagine me in these designer jeans and forty dollar t-shirt slipping through the gap in the chained door of the abandoned office building up the street, but that’s where I’m going. That’s where I live.
For now.
I make it into my building without anyone seeing me and head up the stairs. I unlock the deadbolt I installed on the door, then lock it behind me before doing a quick sweep of the place. Not because I’m paranoid but because I’m careful. In everything I do. I look both ways before crossing the street, I wrap my dick no matter who I’m banging, and I’ve slept with a knife under my pillow every night of my life since I was eleven because I don’t like surprises and life is always trying to slip you one.
I peel off my soaked jacket and hang it by the door, kick off my wet shoes, and collapse on my air mattress on the floor. I don’t bother pulling the blanket up over myself. I can sleep through the cold. I can sleep through hunger, fighting, shouting, gunshots, police sirens. I can easily ignore the sounds of the street outside my window. The pelt of the rain against the walls.
***
When I wake up my hand is already under my pillow. My fingers already wrapped around my knife. My body stays perfectly still but I open one eye, scanning the room. It’s light outside. The rain is still pouring from the sky and against the window pane. Otherwise the building is silent.
So what woke me?
I sit up slowly, dragging my knife out from under my pillow and rolling onto my knees. I listen again.
Rain. Muffled shouts from outside. Cars roaring by. A motorcycle winds its engine before racing away down the street. A low hum to my right.
I groan and stow my knife back under my pillow, then reach for my phone. I put it on silent when I went to sleep and it’s vibrating on the floor by my right knee. I miss the call but it doesn’t matter. It’s Sienna – a girl I make regular deliveries to at her dad’s place out by the water. She’s rich and bored and always looking for a good time, and lately I’m her favorite entertainment. I’m not complaining. The girl is hot and when she’s up on E she’s so fuckin’ freaky it’s unbelievable, but I’m not in the mood right now.
Apparently she’s not in the mood to wait because immediately after the call goes to voicemail, it blows up in my hand again with her number.
I sigh and hit ANSWER grudgingly. “What?” I croak.
“Vin?!”
“Yeah. What’s up, Sin? What do you need?”
“I need you to come here!” she shouts frantically.
I pull the phone farther from my ear. “Stop shouting.”
“Vin, please,” she whimpers.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m scared. Haven’t you seen the news?”
“No. Wait, yeah. Maybe.”
“Are you drunk?”
“No. I’m tired. What news? What are you talking about?”
“The Fever!”
“Yeah. The cure didn’t work. Huge surprise.”
“No! The cure messed with it, it mutated
it or something. It made it slower. The Fever is in Tacoma!”
“Shouting,” I groan, getting annoyed. She’s riled up, probably high and misunderstanding everything she hears on TV. No way is the Fever out. It’s been contained for almost a year now.
“They’re saying one of the Army guys had it. They didn’t know!” she exclaims. “They sent him back to his base and he brought it with him. It’s all over the news. They think it even got on a plane to Montana or Denver, I don’t remember which.”
“Montana’s not a city, you know that, right?”
“Shut up, dick,” she spits angrily. “I’m freaked out. I can’t remember everything.”
I lay back down, throwing my arm over my eyes. “It’s just another scare, Sin. Chill out.”
“It’s not a scare. It’s spreading everywhere and they can’t contain it. Tacoma is filled with Fever victims and Seattle is next. People are rioting and looting and leaving town. They’re freaking out! It’s all over the news!”
The last of her words are swallowed up by the unmistakable thwump! of a helicopter flying overhead. It’s close, the rhythmic spin of the blades rattling the windows and walls.
I stand up quickly and head for the window, peeling away the tattered curtains. I wince as harsh daylight slices across my vision.
It’s chaos outside. People in the streets, cars taking up both lanes, all of them pointed toward the freeway. They’re backed up as far as I can see in either direction, and the pound of the helicopter keeps on going.
It’s so loud I barely hear my phone when it beeps in my ear. I pull it away to find Marlow’s name flashing on the screen. “Sin, I gotta call you back.”
“No, don’t hang up!”
I hang up on her, taking the call from Marlow.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“Can you get to the bar?”
“No,” I lie.
He pauses. “What’s that sound?”
I press my face to the glass and look up at the sky, watching as the large black chopper heads north over the city. “Helicopter. Military I think. Not news.”
“Heading north?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m on the roof of the bar. Just saw it too. You must be close by.”