Grants Pass

by Cherie Priest

  “That print-out on top there,” Aldo coached. “If you’d be so kind as to bring that over to the table…” He spooned dark, aromatic powder into a pot, not even looking up at me. “That’s the one. Now have yourself a seat and read what it says.”

  I scooted back into the dining nook and smoothed the paper out on the table. Diane shuffled in closer to me. Her leg pressed against mine as she scanned the words.

  It was from a website, the top of the sheet dominated by a map and two words in a bold font.

  “Grants Pass,” Diane murmured.

  Aldo set a tray of steaming mugs down in front of us and grinned. “Grants Pass.”

  It was maybe three months after she’d rescued me from the marina when it all came out.

  We were sitting together in front of the fire, Diane working her way through a chardonnay that would have been way out of her price range before the plague, me just trying not to drop off. I suddenly noticed she was staring at me from her beanbag. Even with her glass to her lips I could see that smile of hers, tickling the edge of her mouth.

  “Will?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Why haven’t you tried to sleep with me?” She took a sip of pale liquid, allowing me time to answer. After a few seconds of silence, she took pity on me. “It’s just funny, that’s all. I always assumed that the last man on earth would try to jump me sooner rather than later.” Her eyes twinkled. “You know, that whole ‘It’s up to us to repopulate the human race’ thing.”

  “I—”

  “You’re gay, aren’t you?” she posited. “God, how funny’s that — we could be the last couple alive and you don’t like girls!”

  “No,” I jumped in. “I’m not gay. I just…I can’t.”

  “You can’t?” Diane’s smile was fading. This wasn’t funny anymore.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  I sat, mouth guppying. At last, failed by words, I rolled up my sleeve.

  For a moment Diane simply stared at the marks.

  Then she hit me.

  “You really think there’s a community of survivors out there?”

  Aldo shrugged. “It’s a risk, sure, but hell, what do I got to lose? Course, it’d be less of a risk with a couple of extra pairs of hands aboard.”

  Diane gripped my leg under the table. “You want us to come with you? Just like that?”

  “Way I see it, I can sail this tub on my own, but it’s a long haul to be doing it solo.” He stared at us, intense. “And neither of you two can steer a ship to save yourselves or you’d have found something seaworthy and been off looking for survivors already. You’re stuck here, I could sure use the help…it’s win-win.”

  “Why not just use the engines?” I asked. “Got to be easier.”

  “Hell, boy,” Aldo smirked, “I got just enough juice to get me in and out of harbor. I could maybe manage sailing in a dead straight line for a couple of hours, all assuming the weather’s good, then the tanks’d be dry.” He looked steadily at Diane — obviously he’d decided she was the one who called the shots — and cranked up his grin another 100 watts. “So what do you say? Are you in?”

  “Are you insane?” She looked at me with wild, disbelieving eyes. “Everything we’ve survived, all those people who died and you’re pissing your life away with drugs?”

  “I’m not—”

  She hit me again, raging, tears running down her face as she landed blow after blow on my head and chest. I was too run-down, too weak to stop her. All I could do was wait for her to run out of steam.

  When at last she subsided, sobbing, I flopped back to the sofa. “I’m not doing drugs. I’m sick.”

  She raised her wet face, the anger melting into shock. Shame.

  “There’s too much iron in my blood. It’s rare for someone as young as me to get it, but it’s not like we haven’t seen any weird illnesses lately, right?” I smiled weakly, hoping it’d catch, like a yawn. It didn’t.

  “It makes me tired. Weak.” I snorted bitterly. “No sex drive, amongst other things. When you found me, I’d let it get on top of me, let it build up…”

  The silence made the air in the room seem heavier. Diane sat, perfectly still, digesting the information.

  “And you inject drugs to treat it?”

  “No, I have to draw blood. Drain it off.”

  “How much? I mean, how often—?”

  “More often when there’s more build-up. About the same as you’d take for a blood donation, except I can’t handle drawing that much by myself. I can only do a couple of syringes at a time.”

  “That’s it? That’s the treatment?”

  “Like I said, it’s a rare type. The doctors were looking into other options, but — you know. Drawing blood will slow it down, but not stop it.”

  “What happens if you don’t stop it?”

  “Eventually? Organ failure. Liver. Heart.”

  She looked at me with eyes that barely masked her emotion. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I sighed. “Before the plague, everyone treated me like I needed wrapping in cotton wool, or like I was a freak. As long as you didn’t know, I was…normal. A person, not a patient. I didn’t want to swap your friendship for your sympathy.”

  She slapped me. Hard.

  “You fucking child! What did you think I was going to do when it got serious? When you died? Didn’t you think I deserved to know about that? Asshole!”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  “Next time you draw blood, you tell me. I can help you take the extra if you need me to. But you fucking tell me.”

  And she took me in her arms and held me tightly. “I can’t lose you, you dickhead. You’re all I’ve got.”

  “God, Will, there’s hope. If we get to this place and there are doctors — you could live.”

  Aldo had gone up on deck for a smoke, to give us a chance to talk things through. I already knew Diane’s answer. The chance of a few years more life for me was important to her. More so than the idea of a community full of new people? I pushed the thought away, disgusted with myself. “It’s not a guarantee, you know.”

  “But it’s better than sitting here trying to keep you alive one syringe at a time.” She squeezed my hand. “We’re going, right?”

  “Right.”

  “God, I can’t believe it. We’re going to America.” She slumped back in the seat, as if just thinking about it had exhausted her.

  “So you’re with me then?”

  I turned quickly. Aldo was propping up the wall at the rear of the cabin. We’d been so wrapped up in our discussion I hadn’t heard him come down from the deck. That or he moved like a ninja.

  “Yes,” Diane responded. “We’re with you.”

  “Great!” He clapped his hands together with a sound like a cannon shot. “If we load up now we can be off at dawn.”

  “We need to pack,” I said.

  “Well, I could use some help with these boxes…”

  Diane looked at me. I knew she’d want to pack her own clothes and keepsakes. I also knew she’d have no trouble with mine…

  “I’ll stay,” I said. “But I’m not that great with heavy lifting.”

  Aldo stepped forward and punched me on the arm, good old boys together. “Damn it, son! A couple of weeks on board with me you won’t need your mama around so much! I’ll soon get you into shape!”

  “Oh, he’s not—” Diane piped up. I shot her a glance and she fell silent.

  “I’ll be fine,” I reassured her. “You go. Pack for both of us.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  ****

  We stood on the jetty and she hugged me warmly. “Don’t overdo it.”

  “No problem. I’ll be as quick as I can, and see you back at the house.”

  “It’s a date. I’ll open some wine.”

  “That’d be different.”

  “Git.” She trotted off down the walkway, stopped and turne
d back. “Think you can change his mind; get him to come back to the house with you when you’re all done?”

  I shook my head. Aldo had decided that if we weren’t sailing until dawn, he’d remain with the boat while Diane and I gathered our belongings. “No, he’s pretty sure he wants to stay here tonight. Keep an eye on the boat.”

  “From who?”

  I laughed. “I’ll be back by dark. Get packing.”

  ****

  “Thanks, boy.” Aldo dumped another box on the deck. The trolley was almost empty now, and we’d restocked the ship with everything from fresh water to antibiotics. “You ain’t as runty as you look.”

  I ignored him and lugged a pallet of tinned sausages and beans down through the hatch to the kitchen area. From the moment Diane had left, he’d started sniping at me and I was losing patience. As it was, we’d been hefting boxes for hours and I was starting to wane. I’d need to rest soon. Sleep.

  “Getting dark,” I called up the steps. “I’ll have to get back to Diane.”

  Aldo clumped down into the cabin. “Got to say, you surprised me there, sonny.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Woman like that with a boy like you…Guess the plague wasn’t a disaster for everyone now, was it?” He flashed a mouthful of perfect white teeth at me, luminescent against in his tanned skin. “You are hitting that, aren’t you?”

  “It’s not like that. We’re — you know.”

  He furrowed his brow at me. “You some kind of faggot?”

  I gritted my teeth and tore open a cardboard carton of first aid supplies.

  “Been a long time since I seen a woman, never mind one as good-looking as her.” He licked his lips. “I’d be all over her in a second.”

  I popped open the chart cabinet, and reached for the first aid kit. Keeping my back to him so he couldn’t see my anger, I started replenishing the tin’s bandages.

  “You want to get your shit together there, boy. Where we’re going there’ll be plenty who’ll get on her if you don’t.” I could see him behind me, reflected in the cabin window. He was brushing at his sleeve with one hand, dusting himself off. Preening. “Hell, it’s going to be a long trip, I might just get some myself. A girl’s got to pay her way!”

  I replaced the tin and started to close the cabinet door…hesitated. Aldo had wandered into the kitchenette and was stacking tins under the work surface. His head ducked out of sight, and the decision made itself. I shut the cabinet loudly. Aldo looked up from his work and winked at me broadly. “You done, boy?” I nodded. “You best get back to her then. Spend some time together before we go. Cast off time’s six in the ay-em.”

  “See you then,” I muttered, and plodded up the steps.

  I couldn’t see him, but as I trudged off into the twilight, I could feel Aldo’s eyes, burning into me. Zipping my jacket against the cold, I told myself I hadn’t made my mind up about anything, not yet.

  The new heaviness in my pocket called me liar.

  ****

  Diane pulled the stops out for our last night in the house. We gorged on what perishables we had left in the pantry, while she put most of a bottle of wine away. As ever, I had to limit my alcohol, so only needed one drink to get a buzz on.

  “Can’t let it go to waste!” she proclaimed, glugging herself another glassful. She ended the night dancing to her favorite CD, an 80s compilation I’d found for her in the bargain bin of an abandoned music store. She bounced around in a blur of hair and limbs, laughing and spinning until the room started to spin for her too, at which point she collapsed heavily onto the couch.

  I was still too drained from heaving boxes around to help her to bed. Instead, I fetched a duvet and covered her. As I tucked her in, she reached up a hand, slowly, like she was moving through water, and touched my cheek.

  “Thanks, Will.” She smiled crookedly.

  And she was asleep.

  ****

  It wasn’t so easy for me. Despite my fatigue, my mind was still whirring a couple of hours later. I sat in the window, watching the stars and listening to Diane snoring lightly from her feather cocoon. She always slept heavily after a drink. Most people do.

  I pulled on my jacket, padded across to the front door and quietly snicked open the latch. I paused, just for a second, to listen to Diane’s rasping breath. Then, my fingers drifting to the cool metal in my pocket, I slipped out.

  ****

  “Wake up.” I shook Diane’s shoulder gently. She moaned, squinting at the brightness pouring through the window.

  “Sleeping. G’way,” she grunted, her stale breath catching me square in the face.

  “Di. Wake up. It’s Aldo. He’s gone.”

  In an instant she was upright, red-rimmed eyes boring into mine. “He’s what?”

  ****

  “Bastard!”

  Diane screamed out to sea as we stood on the promenade and watched the yacht grow smaller. “Prick! Bastard!” She jumped down onto the beach, seized a pebble and flung it as far as she could into the waves, so angry that the futility of it didn’t even occur to her.

  “How could he?” she asked me, tears running down her cheeks. “How could he just steal our supplies and dump us?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he thought extra supplies were more valuable than extra hands.”

  She came to me, threw her arms around me. “We’ll find a way,” she said. “We’ll get you help somehow. I won’t let you—”

  Suddenly she couldn’t look at me. Disengaging from the hug she worked her hand into mine, lacing our fingers together. “I won’t leave you like that,” she promised, staring out to sea. “However long you’ve got, I won’t ever leave you.”

  “I know,” I said, squeezing her hand and watching the boat chug over the horizon in a dead straight line.

  “I know.”

  Biography

  Pete Kempshall

  Pete Kempshall lives in Perth, Western Australia, a city that often seems so far away from anywhere else he’d be surprised if a humanity-destroying disease could even find it. Rights of Passage is his second story for Morrigan Books after Just Us in the anthology Voices. He has also written a novella and several short stories for Big Finish’s Bernice Summerfield and Doctor Who ranges.

  Like most writers, he has a blog: http://www.tyrannyoftheblankpage.blogspot.com. Feel free to pop along and double the readership.

  Afterword

  I’m one of those people who can’t just sit down and write. I need the security of having plotted each scene from beginning to end before I’ll even type word one. It’s like a map, and without one I’m not confident enough to start. But now and again, in spite of my carefully planned itinerary, I find a character seizes the wheel and veers off in new and darker directions. And of course, that’s where the fun starts.

  When I was plotting Rights of Passage, the central question was simple: would Will sacrifice the chance to cure his illness if finding that cure meant Diane would suffer? As I wrote the story, however, the focus began to shift. I always knew the decision Will would make. The question now became why was he making it?

  In my mind, there’s no doubt Diane loves Will. There’s a spark there that says if Will were only up to the job, Diane would happily take things further. In Will’s mind, however…well, given his past experiences with women, you can forgive him some insecurity. And as the story took shape, that insecurity suggested to me that his final decision might not be entirely altruistic.

  Does Will kill Aldo to stop him raping Diane? Absolutely. Does he also kill Aldo to stop Diane getting to Grants Pass? That’d be telling...

  One other quick note: as far Will’s illness is concerned, I needed to find something that, without proper treatment, would slowly and inevitably kill him. It couldn’t be something you could treat simply by popping pills because there’d be no shortage of empty pharmacies where he could find medicine. Nothing quite worked, until a couple of doctor friends suggested a blood disorder. It wasn’t perfect, but it wa
s close enough for me to be able to ‘tweak’ something to fit. Any factual errors, therefore, are for dramatic purposes. They’re my own doing and are quite intentional.

  A Perfect Night to Watch Detroit Burn

  Ed Greenwood

  The sky was clear, only the gentlest of breezes blowing, and the night was warm enough to ward off the shivers.

  It was a perfect night to watch Detroit burn.

  Motor City had been on fire — the downtown, that is, all those newer towers that soared into the sky around the old Penobscot Building — for three days and nights, now. Ever since the lightning storm.

  A good, solid pounding of a storm, cloudburst after roaring sheets of rain after bolt after bolt of lightning stabbing down blinding-bright, from sunset until darned near sunrise. A fist of a storm, the sort that came a dozen times a year or so. Loud and hard, but nothing apocalyptic.

  With no firemen, though, and nothing much roaming the streets but hungry dogs, a few slinking coyotes, and a patient pack of wolves that had been howling up Grosse Pointe way for a week or so, it only took one bolt in the wrong spot to breach some rusty tanker in the dark and silent maze of downtown factories, to start flames whooshing into the sky, and — from weeds to timbers to blowing newspapers and all the usual trash — a fire was underway.

  It would have been the sort of fire the talking heads on nightly television and the Net would have called “stubborn,” if there’d been any news networks nattering about anything, anymore, and any sweating firemen left to stare into a camera and grimly tell the watching world what a “tough one” this fire was — but all the firemen, it seemed, were dead, and there wasn’t much left hereabouts of a watching world, either.

  There were just a few scattered and wary handfuls of men and women who had come down out of the great silent expanse of Ontario farms and along the St. Clair shore, seeking gasoline, tools and the canned food that they could scrounge out of the reeking, rat-scurrying labyrinths most supermarkets had become in Windsor. Which should hold tools and fuel in plenty. Even with most of the car plants shut down these last few decades, Windsor had boasted, if that was the word, an airport and rail tunnels and the bridge, too.