The Silent Years [The Complete Collection]

by Jennifer R. Povey

  Abruptly, she hugged both of the girls. Not her boys, who were 'big boys' now and did not want to be hugged by mommy. She knew she was embracing them as much for her comfort as theirs. Perhaps they found comfort in it too, for they did not pull away.

  The practical part of her tallied up the survivors even as she fought back tears. They were down to three adults and four children. How could that ever be enough?

  -#-

  Those dark thoughts did lighten a little, even though her fear about the kids being the only ones immune had returned. Could they survive?

  Theresa was turning into a miniature her. Maybe the children could survive. Perhaps believing that a miniature her would increase the children’s survival was arrogance, but Dorothy was alive when so many were not. Alive when Janine was not.

  Perhaps part of Dorothy had known the other woman was doomed. Janine was simply not cut out for what was going on. It was so hard to think of Jason and Janine as part of the past, to accept that they were gone. The reality of so much loss came crashing down on her.

  They were gone, and she had to carry on. Dorothy would have to do Janine's share of the work. With as much work as they had done, losing them had had not lessened the burden so much as increased it..

  Who would be next? She could hope nobody would be next, but that was not realistic.

  Jason had been her brother and gone first. That put her as a good candidate for next. It depended on things that she did not understand; biology had never been her strong point.

  Dorothy finished cleaning the dishes. Running water was gone, but they had a well. The electric pump was useless, the solar panels producing only enough for lighting. Forced to pull up the water they needed was making them all leaner and stronger. She supposed it was better. Civilization made people weak, maybe not mentally, but most definitely physically. She thought of all the hours people had once spent in gyms trying to achieve what could have been gained by a little bit of honest labor.

  The last dishes were stacked. They had to be careful with the dishes; if they broke any, they could not get more. It was a shame she had been a jeweler and not a potter. She was neither now - there was no time for the luxury.

  Maybe she could do some trading once they were sure the plague had blown itself out. Barter would become the way of commerce now — money required infrastructure. She could trade earrings for pots if anyone else was left alive and sane.

  Sometimes, she felt as if they were the last people on earth. As if human extinction was a wave crashing towards her. She tried to tell herself how unlikely that really was. If the plague had not turned its victims violent, they might even have been fine. No. The population drop would have wrecked things anyway, not to mention the fear.

  Laura came into the room, frowning, her face pale.

  "Laura? What is it?"

  Her sister said nothing, one hand dropped to her belly.

  Oh no. She could not be.

  "Blood," she said. "Maybe I've been working too hard."

  "I doubt it. Plenty of women have worked harder than that while pregnant." If Laura was losing the child, it was sheer ill luck. "It's not your fault."

  She sank into a chair. "It has to be something I've done."

  "It's not your fault." Dorothy wished for a doctor, for an ultrasound, for certainty. She wished for knowledge, so that Laura would not be in limbo. "It'll be okay."

  "I'm not one of the kids, Dorothy, to be put off by that. It's not okay and it's not going to be okay."

  "Yeah, but we have to fake it, otherwise we're going to end up like Janine." That was all she could offer, the only way she could reach into the woman's despair.

  "I know. I wish I could have talked to her, something. I can't believe she did that."

  "I can." Dorothy looked past Laura for a moment. "Okay. You go get rest. Get to bed, stay there, see if there's any more bleeding."

  That was all she could think of to do. If Laura had lost the baby, she could try again. It was a painful equation, but the children were the future, the only chance they had. Without them, humanity was a dead end.

  Laura started to slowly make her way upstairs. Started to. And then, she collapsed at the bottom step. Dorothy tried to tell herself that the stress was simply too much for Laura.

  She ran over, checking Laura's pulse. Weak, erratic. There was nothing she could do except move her sister to a more comfortable position. A recovery position — that was what it was called. She remembered that from Girl Scouts, several lifetimes ago. There was nothing more she could do.

  The next morning, Laura was spouting nonsense.

  -#-

  Leroy took care of Laura himself. The reality that their unborn child was probably already dead did not make it easier, just possible. They buried her next to Jason and Janine.

  Dorothy knew now that she would be next, but she could not leave. How could they manage without her? The worst part was that Janine would have had a far greater chance of survival, had she been stronger. But Dorothy knew enough to know that related people had similar immune systems, which meant all of the children were probably doomed too.

  Her confidence in her own reserves was gone, and even faking it proved impossible for a moment, at least faking it to herself. Black despair descended over her. Unable to shake it, Dorothy went through the motions of her tasks. She moved more slowly than she had before, but even in her despair she was still competent. They would not be an island of survival after all. She knew that now.

  Yet, part of her kept going. That part prevented her from taking Janine's way out. It was not courage but loyalty. She would not willingly leave the menfolk and children.

  Roles had broken down. Leroy turned out to be a quite competent cook. The boys would not learn to be “manly men” after all. She cared only that they survived, but her belief in that was gone.

  "Dammit, Dorothy."

  That was Thomas. She turned.

  "You're acting like Janine."

  "I'm still here."

  "Physically, maybe. You can't just give up. It'll get you if you do."

  "Jason didn't give up." She wasn't so sure about Laura, but she knew that Jason would have fought to the end.

  "Then why are you?"

  "Because I'm not stupid. My chances of being immune are minimal. The only reason I haven't left is because I know it's too late for that."

  "You...." He sighed. "We don't know. We don't know enough to assume anything."

  "I'm not assuming. I know just enough to know that I'm doomed and the kids are probably doomed too."

  "God, don't even say that."

  "There's nothing especially protecting children." She wondered how many babies had died...or did those stricken still have the instinct to care for their young? It was possible. That instinct was so basic. Then again, the blind violence spoke of something that lurked at an even deeper level than the instinct to nurture.

  "I know. Just give me the illusion of being able to protect them."

  "Except that's exactly what it is. An illusion." Dorothy walked away. Far from making her feel better, the conversation was making her spin further down into darkness. She finally understood those women who went insane and killed their children, then themselves. She had exhausted hope and forgotten joy.

  The children were not playing. They were working, feeding the animals, and doing their chores. If they did survive, then her grandchildren might not be able to read - or, more precisely, might have no need for the skill. They would be peasants, but that would be better than the future she kept envisioning.

  Could she kill the children to spare them the madness? No. She could not. Thomas, she could 'do,' but the kids? She wasn't capable. She was not that kind of insane woman. She knew, though, some women might snap, might commit that most terrible of acts. In this darkness, she even understood it.

  How many people were left now? Then she saw the figures amongst the trees. They did not emerge or attack, but rather turned and fled when they saw her eyes on them.
But the next day some of their food was missing.

  Chapter Seven

  "They were kids," she told Leroy. "Orphans probably. They showed too much sense to be plagued."

  "I'd say invite them in, but..."

  "They'd be in more danger from us than the other way around."

  Bang.

  "That was a shot." Leroy's statement was unnecessary, redundant. She counted children, out the window. Four. That was fine.

  Then she followed Leroy to the front porch. Thomas lay in a pool of blood. The shooter was maybe fourteen.

  Leroy grabbed the shotgun and pointed it at the child.

  "He had it," the kid said, laconically. "We should band together."

  Fourteen, and acting like an adult. Well, there had been times when that had been the age of a man, not a boy.

  Leroy fired over the kid's head. "Go. Get out of here."

  For a moment, she thought the boy was going to shoot back. Then he faded into the trees. He took with her her desire for revenge, leaving only an emptiness. The plague had killed Thomas, not that boy, not that child who was having to do terrible things. As her sons might, her sons who didn't have a father. Her sons...

  "We don't stand a chance against an entire pack of kids with guns." That was what she managed to get out...but it was the virus, the disease she wanted to hunt down and kill.

  "No, we don't. But I'm not joining them yet."

  On the other hand, a pack like that would be a good chance for the kids if they survived. It might be the only way if none of the adults made it. "I don't like the idea of gangs, but at least they've found a way to survive."

  "By stealing."

  "Do you entirely blame them? They need to find a place to settle down, though." Leroy glanced after them.

  Ironic, she thought, the two who hated each other were the only ones left. And the kids.

  She counted heads again. They were chattering away, all sounded normal. She was painfully aware that it might be the last time that happened. Why was she still okay? She shouldn’t be. Survivor's guilt flowed over her, through her, and she fled upstairs to the room where Janine had died. She just stood there, staring at nothing.

  Dorothy cared that the kids survived, but she had stopped caring about herself. And now Thomas was gone. She understood why Janine had killed herself, but she was better than that. She would live and stay as long as she could.

  She felt fine. Yet she started to suspect that she might not know she was sick until somebody pointed a gun at her. Jason had, but Laura had seemed oblivious, she had tried to get through to her husband until the end.

  Dorothy took the pistol she had out of its holster. It felt very cold. If she did realize she was sick, she would use it. She would not ask Leroy to do it for her.

  When she went back downstairs, the girls were missing. She couldn’t find them anywhere. They were not in the house, not in the barn, not outside. Perhaps they had gone with the wild children. Would they be better off? Would she ever know?

  Leroy grabbed two shotguns and vanished off into the woods. She waited, knowing that if she went with him, she risked losing the boys the same way. If she left them unattended, without any parent. Or maybe she should encourage them to go.

  Her sons were chattering away again, but it was worried talk now, worried and painful and as much distraction as reality. Nobody mentioned Thomas. He was nothing more than a hole, a Thomas-shaped gap. How could they have a funeral? They could not. They could only grieve and move on and survive.

  Leroy did not return. She waited until nightfall, then herded the children inside. The gang might have killed him, abducted him, anything. Now she feared for the safety of herself and her boys.

  In the morning, a bedraggled Leroy returned. It was very clear the gang had led him a true song and dance. "I lost them."

  "We can't force them to come back."

  "It's going to be Lord of the Flies," he predicted. "Those kids need adult guidance. Maybe we should have joined them after all."

  She thought of that hard-faced fourteen year old. "I think we would have been labor, not guidance. That boy wouldn't stand down for anyone."

  Leroy sighed. "At least..."

  "Maybe they'll be better off. Those kids are tough. They have a good chance of survival. Probably better than ours."

  "Maybe." He sighed. "The boys..."

  The boys were in their bedroom arguing. At least it sounded like an argument at first. She heard Junior's raised voice. Then Jace's...spouting nonsense.

  No. No. No. She could no longer face it, could not deal with this loss. She passed out, crumpled in the corridor, almost falling back down the stairs. Her last thought was that it should have been her. It should have been.

  Slowly, she stirred, wondering where she was, what had happened, how long it had been, and then realization hit her.

  Her boys. Her sons. At least one of them was dead.

  -#-

  Her mind was in a fog as she assessed the damage. Jace was dead at the bottom of the stairs. Had his brother pushed him? There was no mark on Jace, but his neck was broken.

  Junior was sitting on the bed, not responding to her. He seemed to be in a catatonic state. She did what you did in such situations. She slapped him. Hard.

  The boy blinked several times. "Mom?"

  "I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere." It was a promise she had to make, yet she was not sure she could keep it.

  "Everyone else has."

  "Where's Leroy?"

  "I don't know."

  So, she would have to find Leroy. Get him to help with... Jace was gone. What lay at the bottom of the stairs was not her son, but debris. She was empty. What cruelty of God had decreed that she should be the last to succumb?

  Maybe. "I'm going to find Leroy. Stay put. Please."

  She no longer made it an order. The wild children were at the edge of her mind. Maybe he should go with them. It might not be so bad an idea for him to walk away after all. But he was not likely to be immune.

  Leroy was not in the house. He was not in the garden. She found him, in the end, leading a horse she did not recognize.

  "Leroy..."

  "The owner had no more need of him."

  It was a yearling colt, she realized. "He might not be too much use to us, either. Jace is gone."

  Leroy's shoulders slumped. "Junior?"

  "Needs a shrink. Won't be getting one."

  The black man moved to tether the colt. It did not protest, perhaps aware that it was better off in human hands than not.

  "Help me out?"

  Wordlessly, he followed her into the house, lifting Jace's body into his gentle arms. She thought, at least none of us ended up being killed by the mad. Except maybe the girls. She would never know.

  "I..."

  "Don't give up."

  "If Junior goes too, then what's the point? I probably can't have any more..." She didn't voice that her brother in law was the only readily available male. If she was younger, she realized, she'd do it. Miscegenation be damned. Being human was all that mattered now. "I'm probably not immune. The only reason I'm still here is that I'm more stubborn than Janine was."

  Leroy nodded, slightly. "I know it seems bleak, but...while there's life..."

  "That doesn't even work anymore. How many people have we killed because they're better off dead than like that?"

  He did not answer her.

  "How many people are going to be left?"

  "Ten per..."

  "Bull. Ten percent minus those who get killed by the Silents. Minus diabetics and the like who die because they can't get their meds. Minus young kids who starve when their parents go nuts. More like five percent, tops. Probably less. Maybe nobody. "

  No, if all else failed, there would be people in Africa and India who had not forgotten how to live without technology. Native Americans. Eskimos who still had their dogs when the fuel ran out. It was the white people who would fail, and maybe, she thought, they deserved to. Maybe this was t
he price of arrogance and bigotry, not excluding her own.

  "You're right. But there will be survivors. Those kids have a damn good chance."

  "Of surviving, yes, but turning into what? Lord of the Flies, remember."

  "I don't think that matters anymore." Leroy frowned. "I mean, if you were a few years younger."

  "I had the same thought. And it's not like there is anyone to conduct weddings." Maybe they'd find out, now, if monogamy really was the best way to handle things.

  "Do it the old fashioned way. Two witnesses. If you can't scrape that up, just screw it and have the kids anyway," Leroy said, practically. "If you call yourself married, I say you are."

  He made far too much sense. "But it's too risky for me to have another kid at my age with no help." She glanced towards the house.

  Would Junior make it? If not, then the girls had to... She could not complete the thought, yet she felt that need to know her own bloodline survived, a need that was so unlikely to be fulfilled that the pain became too much. She wept.

  Chapter Eight

  For a little while, it seemed as if things were over, as if the three of them might make it, untouched by the plague that seemed so arbitrary. It wasn’t like some Passover where blood on a lintel might cause a family to be spared. No, it was determined to tear everyone apart.

  The peace was not to last. Three days later, Junior woke up unable to ask for breakfast.

  She could not do it. Instead, she watched her son flee into the woods. The wildlings would take him out. She knew that, but she could not face the guilt herself.

  Maybe she should take the risk. Sleep with Leroy, try to get pregnant. Another voice told her there was no point. Laura miscarried right before she got sick. Coincidence? Dorothy thought not.

  She would not conceive a child that was likely to die. Which meant...she knew what she had to do. Leroy was young, strong. He could father a child on a younger woman who was known to be immune. She would find him one.

  The question was, of course, where to start looking. She was afraid to leave the farm. She also knew if she asked him, he would beg her not to go. She had to go without asking. For transportation, she took one of the mares. The stolen colt was too young to ride, even though he was as quiet as they came.