The Silent Years [The Complete Collection]

by Jennifer R. Povey

  Sure.

  Dorothy watched the boys as Thomas vanished into the shower. Having children was a recipe for fear. What if they had got too close to the fire? The what-ifs flowed through her as she regarded her sons. Not yet men. Still fragile, uncertain beings, not yet aware of who they were. Dependent on her to teach them what they needed to know and be, but struggling towards independence.

  Her clothes still smelled a little, but there was not much she could do about that. She had not thought that she would need to change. She'd brought a change for the boys, but not for herself.

  Well, there was nothing she could do about that now. The Mitchells would manage and she would manage and life would go on, as it always did.

  Chapter Three

  Dorothy's hands moved quickly but carefully. The wire she was drawing was warm and smooth, holding her attention.

  Yet, her thoughts were not quite focused enough. The world was heading for a very hot place in something woven. Perhaps the world always seemed that way. The wire, then, extending outwards. It would make what she wanted to make. She envisioned a necklace, delicately encircling a woman's throat. What would she place on it? Five thin flanges of metal, expanding outwards. The image was as clear in her mind as if the object already existed, but she still needed a little more wire before she could make it real. Cursing the delay and holding firm to the inspiration before it escaped her, she kept drawing the wire, winding it carefully onto a holder. She had to finish before she could start the fun part of the work, and she did.

  Her studio was behind the garage, where she had envisioned an office for Thomas, if he ever stopped insisting on commuting into town. She doubted he ever would. Maybe his employer would insist for him. More and more were doing that, saving on space, heat, and power. He was so stubborn.

  Everyone was out: Thomas at work, and the boys at school. Nobody should be knocking on the door, yet somebody was. With a sigh, she finished off the end of the wire and walked over to the entrance.

  The person outside was about the last individual she wanted to see. A heavyset woman with the unlikely name of Galatea Crow. Dorothy suspected that was not her real name - she was one of those hippy artists that formed such a large part of the community. Said artists were constantly trying to recruit her with organic coffee beans and goddess spirituality. Galatea Crow always made her want to hide in the nearest church. She never felt safe with her around, but she forced a smile on her face. "Hello, Galatea."

  "Dorothy!" The woman breezed in. "What are you working on?"

  The image of the completed piece had completely fled her head. She sighed inwardly. "Wire," she said, then immediately regretted it. She should have told Galatea she was in the middle of some hugely complicated project and could not be interrupted further, but it was already too late.

  "Ah, nothing you can't set aside for a few minutes. I need your help with something." Shamelessly she fluttered her eyelashes. Sheesh.

  Dorothy had wondered if Galatea was a lesbian before, had seen hints of it and, although she could not admit it, perhaps felt a little bit of something with her around. Now she was sure of it and wanted to be rid of the other woman. "Actually, I do have quite..."

  But Galatea was breezing past her. "I'm doing a work on the fallibility of technology. Given your liking for using the...debris...left by such..."

  Oh Christ, she would never get rid of her. Mentally, she reminded herself not to take the name of the Lord in vain, but Galatea always had that effect. "Any particular reason?"

  "Nothing new. Well, except for what's happening in Washington State."

  Washington State. The engineered virus. "I thought that was just a rumor."

  "Well, the rumor now is that they've closed Seattle airport. Bird flu. Full contamination alert."

  "Knew it would happen sooner or later." Dorothy turned to pick up the new spool of wire.

  "Except the darker rumor is it's some kind of... They were experimenting with flu and it got out."

  Dorothy shook her head. "And if that's true, should we be turning it into art?"

  "All art is about suffering," Galatea announced. "That is what art is. It acknowledges suffering, embraces it. Makes it easier to bear."

  Dorothy had never wanted to hit the other woman quite so hard. Right now she wanted to punch her lights out. "I make pretty jewelry. I'm not turning something that might kill thousands of people into art." Galatea's work was always tortured, screaming statues, pain. Maybe it said something about her past. Fallibility of technology, carved into stone. There was irony.

  "You need to grow up, Dorothy."

  "You need to leave. Come back and I'll call the cops for trespassing." The threat felt good, like something she could do, should do. She should have done it years ago. Galatea arched an eyebrow and flounced — no other word for it — from the studio.

  Dorothy let out a breath she had not known she was holding. Thank goodness she was gone. Bird flu in Seattle, though...

  Galatea had successfully wrecked her concentration. Going into town was out of the question, but so was trying to work. She made her way into the house and over to their one computer. Thomas, who sat at one all day, seldom cared to use it. The boys were not allowed to touch it. They had their gaming consoles, which were not connected to the net. So, most of the time, it was all Dorothy's. She turned on the monitor and started pulling up news sites. Less reliable than the paper, of that she was sure. She seldom trusted the internet. But going into town right now would not happen.

  It was as Galatea had said. Bird flu, or something they were calling bird flu, had caused government officials to shut down the airport in Seattle and quarantine the area. There were no reported deaths. They claimed the quarantine was a simple precaution.

  From the sound of it, it was a pandemic that just made people very sick. Potentially fatal, in the case of the infirm and the very young and old, but something the majority of the population would pass through unscathed. If they were lucky, there would continue to be no deaths. She hoped that was all it was. It was a long way away and at the same time very, very close. Were there any direct flights from Seattle to Raleigh? Should she take the boys out of school, just in case? Or should she ignore it? How much would people be panicking? No deaths reported. Could they even assume that was true? The crazy survivalists would be buying extra cases of ammo right about now.

  She frowned and stepped back out into the studio. Yes, if they needed them, they had bullets and cartridges. Could she shoot a man? The virus would probably not come here, but she was as prepared as she was able to be.

  If it was just nasty flu that put people in bed, weak, struggling to do anything but feed themselves, there was no need to worry anyway. No need to panic. Then why did she feel panic rising? Because she had kids. The flu could kill kids even if it didn't finish off adults. Yeah. Maybe she should take them out of school. Maybe the government would close the schools, but if they hadn't given any kind of warning here, they must think it was contained.

  She stood there staring at the guns. The government had to think it was contained...but was it?

  She had no clue.

  -#-

  The next day dawned drizzly and miserable. Reluctantly, she sent the boys to school. The morning paper held no indication that the virus had made its way to the Carolinas. The authorities claimed it was contained in Seattle.

  Dorothy was not sure she believed the authorities. She was not sure what she believed any more. She had spent the morning cleaning, pulling out the first aid kit. Masks. If it came here, they would need masks. Food. Canned food, enough for a few weeks, in case they decided to just stay at home. And, just in case, ammunition. She presumed Thomas' gun was in the car. Maybe he was keeping it on him.

  She was not sure what to do. Sit quiet, ride it out: that was how one always dealt with such emergencies. They passed, like storms. The gas riots two years ago had been like that. Los Angeles had burned, so much damage, some people killed, but mostly just damage, houses an
d offices turned into shells that were now being rebuilt.

  Working in the studio was out of the question - she was too worried about the kids. Dorothy remembered how afraid she had been on both of their first days. She had been afraid that she would lose some part of them. Afraid that they would be bullied, or taught things she had to later unteach.

  Recently she had relaxed; nothing bad had happened. School shootings simply did not happen anymore, since administrators had changed how they did things. Counselors had targeted the unhappy, given those kids an outlet other than violence, and it had worked. It had taken years to come up with the right course of action, but it had worked. All the high school kids seemed happier now. Her kids enjoyed school, looked forward to it more than she remembered doing so herself.

  She made sure her kids played with their friends, too, after school. The boys were not going to turn into video game couch potatoes. Mothers had to be strict on such things, especially if she baked them cookies and made all the nice things her mother had made for her. Mothers were supposed to bake cookies, not work.

  She glanced towards the studio. No, that was not work, it was what she did to fill the hours when the children were at school. Right now, she couldn’t even concentrate on that, not when she kept envisioning sickness and violence and people in hospital, lying on lines and lines of beds. That was what the word quarantine meant to her. It meant lines of beds. It meant isolation, imprisonment.

  She shivered, remembering when she had come down with mono and had to be so careful not to give it to anyone else. This would be worse. She should not have sent the boys to school. Yet, there was no evidence of danger. "You worry too much," she told herself out loud.

  Through the window, she saw Galatea Crow knocking on the studio door. She stepped back, out of the woman's line of sight. Let Galatea think she was not home so she would take her gossip somewhere else. Dorothy did not want the gossip, nor did she want what she still suspected the other woman really wanted — some sweaty coupling, a Sapphist kiss. Dorothy wasn't interested in an affair with a man, let alone another woman.

  Ignore Galatea. Ignore her and she will go away.

  Galatea, though, was getting more and more frantic. Did she need actual help? The woman's bicycle (she cycled everywhere) leaned against the front fence. Maybe it had a flat?

  With a sigh, Dorothy realized she could not ignore her. She braved the door, stepping out into the grey rain. "Over here. What's wrong? Got a flat?"

  "No. I think I sprained my ankle. It hurts too much to ride."

  "Okay. I'll give you a lift." Dorothy was not going to leave anyone, no matter how annoying, to limp home in the rain. The weather had turned from a faint drizzle to actual rain.

  "Thanks. I know..."

  "Look. I just don't want to be disturbed when I'm working. You chased a perfectly good idea right out of my head. I'm also not interested."

  Galatea arched an eyebrow. "But perceptive."

  "Perceptive but straight and married. Go find some college student to seduce." Which was probably unfair, but it was better than her father, who would have left Galatea to limp in the rain, had he known what she knew. As it was, she did not want to touch her.

  "I prefer…" Galatea laughed a bit, "some maturity."

  "If I give you a lift, will you leave me alone?" Dorothy knew she was pressuring Galatea. She also knew Galatea would likely say yes then go right back to flirting with her.

  "I'll try. Your husband is very lucky, though."

  Dorothy, who did not think of herself as that attractive, shook her head. "Come on. We'll strap your bike to the roof."

  Silence flowed between them, awkward. The road moved past under the wheels, and Dorothy concentrated entirely on driving.

  Galatea broke into the quiet with, "Any more news on the latest disaster to befall mankind?"

  "They claim it's contained."

  She snorted. "I'll bet you a piece of work it's not."

  "Done," Dorothy said. Despite not wanting Galatea sexually, she had a piece that would look very good on her. If Dorothy lost, it would still be good advertising.

  "I doubt they got the door closed in time." Galatea shook her head. "Quarantine has to be quick."

  "They're saying no deaths, at least."

  "Yet. Of course, we'd probably be able to treat the Spanish flu better these days. We know a lot more than we used to." Galatea sounded more hopeful than Dorothy felt.

  "I don't know much about that one."

  "Just a horrible, horrible strain of flu. Killed off a lot of guys who came through World War I unscathed. Liked to kill healthy adults and leave the kids fine. Weird one." Galatea shook her head.

  "But still flu." It did sound like a good comparison, though.

  "Flu sucks," Galatea said, her tone quiet. "Assuming it is flu."

  "SARS?" Dorothy suggested, shivering.

  "SARS isn't that bad. It's not as contagious as influenza."

  "You are a fount of knowledge." Now things were out in the open between them, Dorothy felt more relaxed. Galatea knew she was not at all interested and could therefore be trusted to treat her as just another woman, not a potential conquest…she hoped.

  "I've been reading up on it, just to work out whether I should stay put or go hide on a commune somewhere." The admission was quiet, Galatea now staring out of the window.

  "I have a bolt hole," Dorothy admitted.

  "Your brother, right? That might be enough. Depends on how contagious this thing really is."

  "It hasn't killed anyone yet." That thought made her feel better, but not much.

  "Yet. The biggest risk with flu is secondaries. If people die, it'll probably be from pneumonia."

  "Cheery thought."

  She drove Galatea home, and helped her wrap her ankle, no longer afraid to touch her or be touched by her. It occurred to her that peace was a good thing. Peace with one's friends, with the world.

  Even if it was going to hell.

  -#-

  Some people called Los Angeles a suburb of hell. The government closed down that city, too. And Portland. As if the contagion was being blown down the coast.

  Perhaps the Rockies were a barrier. Perhaps this “flu” would stay that side and burn itself out.

  The TV blared with some preacher's take on the virus: "This is what happens to the nest of iniquity. The actors! The homosexuals!" His voice was gravel.

  Dorothy changed the channel. She did not want to listen to a preacher rant right now. It was not the gays’ fault that there was flu in Los Angeles.

  The news channels weren’t showing any images from the west coast, official or otherwise.

  The boys were playing with their consoles. Thomas was wrapped in a book, his nose buried in physical pages. They were distracting themselves, she knew, just as she needed to.

  She slipped out of the room to check the computer. No matter what the quarantine, somebody would have smuggled images out. She had a sudden urge to see what was going on, to know a little more.

  She found images that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

  Image: a hospital ward full of people chained to their beds.

  Image: a riot at the foot of Seattle's Space Needle, with the police firing tear gas into an oncoming crowd. The faces in the crowd were oddly blank.

  Image: a man in a street that could be almost any American city. He had a gun in his hand and was looking down at a body with a look of utter sorrow on his face.

  Image: a child, looking at the camera. With this one, there was sound. She babbled nonsense, a serious look on her twelve-year-old face.

  Dorothy’s head sank into her hands, unable to look further.

  It was not the flu. It was something else, something new. Something that turned people violent. It was sweeping the country. A blaze. A fire.

  Maybe they needed a fire, a cleansing, but... she was haunted by the face of that child who spoke nonsense but expected to be understood. Haunted by the blank faces of the crowd.
>
  There were rumors now that the plague slowly destroyed one's ability to speak. First victims used the wrong words, and then they lost the ability to speak. Finally, their reason fled.

  Somebody, she was not sure who, had given it a name, a name that propagated through the net's underground and then popped up here and there. The name spread like the plague itself.

  They were calling it the Silence.

  That was the effect it had on Dorothy, momentarily stealing her speech. It was spreading. God, it was spreading like fire in a California valley in the dry season.

  In Dorothy’s mind, the face of the child morphed into Junior’s face. That image lingered in the shadows behind her eyes.

  The Silence would not come here; it could not. They...

  ...did not have it contained.

  Image: Japanese women surrounding the cameraman. There was no audio, only the frustration and despair in their eyes, the fear of what might come or what might already have happened.

  This virus could...could what? Maybe these people would recover in a few weeks and be fine. Or maybe everyone was going to die.

  Dorothy could not believe it would be so simple in light of the images she viewed. Fear for her children choked her, nothing else on her mind right now. She decided that the boys were not going to school again until this “Silence” was all over and someone had found a cure for this…whatever it was.

  -#-

  Dorothy was not the first woman to take her children out of school. The boys were full of stories about how half of their classmates were missing when she showed up.

  "But I like school," Junior complained.

  His brother was as silent as ever. Jace did not like to fill silence with unnecessary speech. She recalled how his kindergarten teacher had thought there was something wrong with him because he didn't talk. It had taken time to convince the teacher that it was a case of would-not, not could-not.

  "No. You're staying home." Dorothy thought she might ask Jason if she could take her family to the farm. He had enough food and ammunition stockpiled to last a good while. They could move the entire family there and sit this one out.