“Mr. Fowler, you have ten minutes,” a voice yells. “Understand?” The soldiers had given me half an hour to administer the test inside the box, which means I’ve been standing here for twenty minutes already. That doesn’t make sense.
“Sir?”
“Yes, yes!” I yell back angrily.
The red box isn’t heavy, barely a pound in weight. I grab a knife, cut down the adhesive strip, and yank open the flaps.
A booklet with a calm-looking family huddled around the dinner table greets me.
How to Prepare Yourself: A Guide to the Memo Virus.
There’s a map—the red blotches show where the virus has spread to. America is being swallowed up. So is Canada. It’s finally reached my town. It’s in me.
A small, rectangular plastic container labelled ‘testing kit’—Well, duh, I think to myself—has another sticker on it that says ‘Open me’. I pull out a strange tube. The instructions show me how to take a sample of blood by pushing it against my skin. I remember the mouse. Animals and humans produce different types of blood and therefore different types of antibodies. Whatever the test was, if I used it on the mouse, it wouldn’t show I was sick.
I run to the back door—being sure to grab rubber gloves on the way—undo the many locks, and enter the backyard. Gloves are now on. I check for soldiers. It’s empty. I creep forward in search of the dead mouse.
It’s sitting right where I threw it, and it’s dead, but when I prod it with my finger, I find it still soft. Even though I stomped on it, it must have survived the night and only died recently. Luck is on my side. I push the tube against the rodent’s body, steering clear of its mouth, click the button on the device, and watch as an extraction of red fills a side pocket inside the plastic tubing.
Adrenaline is rushing through my arms, feet, ears. The whooshing of my blood is deafening. I drop the tubing with the mouse blood into the box and run back inside to the front door.
“I’m bringing the box out now.”
“Did you follow the instructions?” the captain asks.
“Yes. Shall I keep the booklet?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, I’m pushing the door open now.”
I twist the knob, keeping crouched, and slide the box out onto the porch. After shutting the door, I lean my back against it and close my eyes, waiting for them to discover my trick.
“Duck,” one of them says. There’s a bunch of fuzzy radio talk followed by a clear, “Okay, bring them in, over.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fowler,” says the captain. “Do you need anything, sir?”
Bring who in? What did they mean by ‘duck’?
“Am I sick?” I ask.
“Sir, the tests need to go to a lab. I’ll ask again, do you need anything, sir?”
“Prescriptions, er, medications.”
“We have your doctor’s records. We’ll deliver three months’ supply of everything in a few days.”
A few days. They are waiting for my results first. Why do they have my doctor’s notes? Why are they focused on me at all?
“Okay,” I say compliantly. Then I rush upstairs, reach into my closet, and pull out my binoculars. I run to my window and watch the men escorting people from their homes. There’s a truck with a red stripe down the side. My neighbors are being loaded onto the truck. Few struggle. They’re sheep being herded.
The red stripe. The red on my booklet. They’re infected. Maybe the mouse’s blood created an error on the test. They didn’t ask me to retake it. A sickening, bitter acid brews inside me when I realize they’re not sheep, but cattle…cattle that are being taken to the slaughter. The rat wasn’t infected, I’m not infected.
But wait, maybe the red stripe is a good sign. They’re leaving me behind because I’m sick. It makes more sense. Quarantine the healthy from the infected.
I’m still in my pajamas—NO, YOU ARE NOT—and decide to change. There are jeans in my closet. Do I usually wear jeans? They look comfortable, and I can get them dirty because they’re old. It’s going to take a lot of bleaching to disinfect the outside of the front door where the soldiers spread their filth. Another routine morning ruined.
I switch on the radio.
The usual show isn’t being played. Instead, the presenter has a grave voice, and says, “Here’s what a news reporter said yesterday.”
Reporter: We’re here in Nebraska state, the only place still untouched by this devastating virus. There is nothing we could have done, or can do, to prevent its spread.
“Except wash your fucking hands!” I shout.
Authorities are trying to isolate communities of the unaffected by administering testing kits. So far, those efforts have failed. Reports of suicides are increasing. And who can blame them—?
Alarmed by the mere mention of suicide, I switch off the radio. You can do that, my mind whispers to me. You’re strong enough.
I’m staring blankly at the wall, thinking that Nebraska is the only state untouched. Authorities haven’t isolated the communities it intended to, which means I am infected. In fact, everyone is.
Deep within the house, something crashes. It’s coming from the basement. I poisoned and locked the basement three weeks ago just after I killed Garfield.
There’s the distinct sound of shattering glass. It’s the old mirror my mother left me in her will. It must be the soldiers sneaking into my house to kill me. It makes sense, my corpse will be far less likely to spread the virus. I grab a pair of disposable gloves, shove them in my pocket, and move towards the basement door.
* * *
I’m holding a shotgun, and a flashlight is tucked between my chin and my shoulder as I walk down the creaky basement steps. “I know you’re there. Come out or I’ll start shooting.”
There are short gasps. No, sobs. Someone is in my basement, crying, so it’s probably not a soldier. I swing the gun and light in the direction of the noise, and behind the huddled silhouette of a little girl is the open basement window and, as I guessed, a smashed mirror. I lower my weapon.
“Who are you?”
The girl wipes her eyes, sniffing. “Madeline. I live across the road.”
“Don’t come any closer, okay, Madeline?”
She nods.
I take the shells out of my gun and put them on the old, dusty dresser. I’m not an idiot. Murphy’s Law states that in a situation where we’re both going to die from a virus, the gun will accidentally go off and kill us both.
“Why did you break into my house, Madeline?”
“Do you know my dad?”
“What’s his name?”
“Preston.”
That’s the name of my neighbor across the street. When they were being loaded onto the slaughter truck, I thought they looked one kid short.
“Dad said hide, and I heard you shouting and saw the soldiers going away, so I came here. Where are they taking everyone?”
“I don’t know.”
The girl coughs, and I know that spewing out of her mouth are tiny water vapor particles that could be carrying the infestation. At the same time, I could be infecting her. We might kill each other.
“Are you sick?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Dad didn’t have time to warn Sammy.”
“Your sister?”
She nodded.
If Preston had risked leaving his girl behind, then he knew they weren’t being taken to safety. The truck was exactly what I thought. That means Madeline isn’t infected, or maybe her dad just didn’t want her to be separated from her home. Something isn’t right.
“Can’t you go home?” I ask. If she is sick, and they find her here, they’ll take us both.
“I don’t want to. I’m scared.” She sobs louder, and the noise wrenches my heart. I’ve never liked kids, never wanted them, and hated the way they made me care.
“I’m going upstairs now, and I’m going to lock the door.”
“Why?” Tears continue their heavy flow down her cheeks.
“I might be sick, or you might be sick, but if we stay separate, at least one of us might survive. I’ll bring you food each day. If I stop, then you can come upstairs and get some. There’s a toilet down here. Flush it twice for number twos.” I grab a stored old mattress and fling it onto the floor next to her. “You’ve got to be brave, Madeline. I’ll be right back.”
I go to the second floor of the house and fetch pillows and linen and a few of Hannah’s old shirts. As I carry them, I can smell my wife. She was so perfect. In the living room, I put the items on the couch and look at the smashed-up television.
What was I doing? I strain my brain looking at the bedding and try to work it out. They must need washing. I proceed to the laundry and notice the basement door open.
Shit. I close it and lock it.
“Hello?” I hear a distant voice cry. Hannah is back! No, Hannah is dead. I open the door again. Standing on the steps is a young girl…a familiar girl that I just met, but now I can’t remember her name.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “Can you make me a sandwich? I’m really hungry.”
“Of course,” I say. “I’ll be right back, Hannah.”
“Madeline,” she says.
“That’s right, Madeline.”
I go into the kitchen and gather the ingredients for a peanut butter sandwich, and once it’s made, I eat a few bites.
“That’s supposed to be mine,” the little girl says, standing in the doorway. She makes her way to me and takes the sandwich off the plate, then returns to the basement. I remember I was gathering clothes and linen for her. I go back into the living room and notice there’s already a stack waiting for me on the coffee table.
Strange.
I take them to the little girl. She thanks me and starts to make her bed, for which I’m grateful, because the last thing I want is an annoying kid to take care of. I’ve got my own problems.
“What’s that?” she asks, pointing at a camera.
“Hannah used it to make home movies,” I say, remembering fondly us watching her finished home movie productions on our analog television in the 80s. Those were the days.
The little girl—I can’t remember her name again—goes over to the camera, which is digital—Hannah upgraded some time ago—picks it up, and pushes the on button and smiles. “It’s half full.”
It gives me an idea. I know I’m already becoming forgetful; I’ve had some confusion, and a fever, and if I really have the virus then maybe making movies will help me to remember. I put on my disposable gloves, snatch the camera from the girl, and point it at her.
“Say your name,” I instruct.
“Madeline.”
“Who am I?”
“Mr. Fowler.”
I push the off button and say to her, “Madeline, I want you to do me a favor.”
“Okay.” She’s listening keenly.
“I’m forgetting things a lot, like dates, names. Could you help me make a movie to help me remember?”
She stares at me warily. “Are you sick?”
“I might be. That’s why I need a movie to remind me. And that’s why you need to stay away from me.”
“Okay.”
She puts out her hands, and I look at them, thinking of the possible virus living on her skin. “Do you have gloves?” I ask.
She nods, reaches into her pocket and pulls them out. “I don’t like wearing them.”
“You must, all the time, understand?”
She sighs and puts them on. I give her back the camera, which she points at me. “What’s your favorite food?”
“Spaghetti and meatballs.”
“Ew,” she says. “Mines ice cream. Okay, umm, what’s your name?”
“Bill Fowler,” I say. “Ask me about my favorite food.”
She frowns. “I already did.”
“Oh…what did I say?”
“Spaghetti and meatballs.”
“Really? Bolognaise is my favourite.”
She nods and says, “Tell me more.”
And I do. I tell her everything I can imagine is important to me and hope it’s enough for the coming days.
Day 3 Day 4
Saturday, April...?
It’s morning. I take my watch and look up the date: 30th of April, Saturday. I frown, what happened yesterday? No, the watch must be wrong, it’s a Friday. It’s time for work. I fix the date on the watch and look at the time: 10:00 a.m.
Crap, I’m late for work! Hannah isn’t beside me, she must have gone already. Why didn’t she wake me up?
I jump out of bed and throw on my pants and notice the room has been rearranged. There’s a phone on the nightstand and I pick it up and go to dial my work number, but there’s no dial tone. Where’s my cell phone…? Do I have a cell phone?
The walls are bare. Hannah’s paintings have been taken down and sit facing against the far wall. Where are the screws? The drill holes are painted over.
Hannah’s clothes are gone. Is she on holiday? Why can’t I remember? I bet this is one of her silly projects. They’re probably all downstairs where she’s rearranging them all by size, type, and color.
“Good morning, Bill,” says a little girl at my doorway. Where the hell did she come from?
I stare at her in confusion.
“Who are you?” I yell louder than I intended to, which makes me sound like a grumpy old man. “Did you do this?” I say, pointing at the bare walls. The walls as bare as my heart, which is sad, heavy. Someone close to me died. My eyes are stinging with the threat of tears but I don’t understand why I’m so upset.
The girl is staring at me, her lip quivering, bits of honey blonde hair sticking to her tear-stained cheek. “We did it yesterday, it was all your idea.”
“Nonsense,” I say with a huff. “Where do you live?”
She turns her head towards the window before lowering her eyes to the floor. “My parents are gone.”
I stare at her doubtfully. “Gone where?”
“The soldiers took them, remember?” Then I wondered if she was some kind of spy for the soldiers, since they took some of my blood and pointed a rifle at me, but when was that? Two days ago? Five?
I’m wearing jeans, which means I wore them to bed. There are no shirts laid out for me to wear, and I always do that the night before.
I sniff the sheets. They’re clean. The smell, the smell is gone. I grab the material in my fists and feel a rush of dark emotion. Tears stream down my face and my mouth is wedged open as I howl with pain.
“Hannah! Hannah!”
I don’t know why I’m sad. Hannah won’t be back, but she will be, won’t she?
The little girl takes a step forward and I raise my hands. “Back off.” I compose myself. “I’m sick. You’ll get sick. You can’t stay here.” I unclench my fists, get up slowly, wipe the tears from my face and walk past her. She doesn’t follow, so I click at her as if she’s a dog. Kids aren’t my specialty. They’re time wasters.
At the bottom of those stairs, I stop. The windows are covered by wooden boards and I’m angry at the damage to the paintwork and doorway. “Who did this?” I glare at the girl, sizing her up and wondering if she was capable of it.
“You were fired,” Hannah says. No, she’s not Hannah, what am I thinking? “And I can’t go home, the soldiers already took Mom and Dad.”
I put my hands on my hips. “How did you get in here?”
“Basement,” she says, laughing. “You really don’t remember?” She runs to the kitchen table, takes a video camera off of it, then runs back.
“That’s mine!” I say, snatching it from her.
“Hannah said I could,” the girl says to me, and I watch her carefully, seeing if she’s lying. Little children always lie. They should be seen and not heard. “It’s for a school project.”
The little girl reaches out and takes the camera from my hands just as my stomach rumbles. I look at my watch. It’s 10:30 a.m.
“Are you hungry?” I ask her.
&nbs
p; She nods and smiles. “Grilled cheese.”
That did sound good.
“Okay…”
“Madeline,” she says. “I’ve got an idea.” She goes to the kitchen table, where a box of pens stands, and takes a black marker. She’s wearing a light pink top. She takes it off, revealing a crop top, places it on the kitchen table, and writes her name in big bold letters. Then she puts it back on again.
As she comes back, I read the name out. “Madeline.”
“I’ll make breakfast now.” She starts off for the kitchen.
“It’s my house. I’ll do it.”
“Are you sure? I’ll just have toast.”
“We’re having grilled cheese,” I say, feeling annoyed. That’s what I want, and as an adult, that’s what I would have.
“Why not cereal?”
“I don’t want cereal!” But wait, routine is important. Wake up,…wait, wake up, and then…it’s not there. If it’s not there then did it ever exist? I’m hungry, though, and it’s 10:00 in the morning and I should be at work and where is Hannah? I close my eyes and try to breathe normally.
“Are you okay?”
She touches my arm, but I knock her hand away, shouting, “Stop your fussing. I’m fine.”
Madeline backs off and sits down at the dining table.
Grilled cheese, that’s what I want. I go to the pantry and retrieve the bread, then grab the butter and cheese out the fridge. Each item is neatly laid out in order of use…and I know that butter goes on the bread, but first, or after? How can this be a puzzle?
The knobs on the oven have too many uses that I can’t figure out. I know 9 must be higher than 1.
There’s a coffee espresso machine, but its buttons aren’t right to me. There’s a kettle, that’s easy to work. The button says on/off. From the corner of my eye, the little girl watches me.
“You need a frying pan,” she says.
“Can you make coffee?” I ask her.
“Can I have a coffee?”
I shrugged. “You can drink my finest whisky, for all I care. I’ve just got to get to work.”
The Doomsday Chronicles (The Future Chronicles) Page 22