by Jodi McIsaac
You okay? I texted her. It was a rhetorical question. Obviously she wasn’t okay; otherwise she never would have gone this long without responding. My mind raced with possibilities: Had her bosses at the NSA found out she’d sent me that document? Was she currently in a cell somewhere, being interrogated?
A horrible possibility occurred to me then. If Latasha had been caught, then Wes and I were no longer being hunted by just Dr. Hansen. The NSA would also be looking for us, and they wouldn’t be so easy to evade.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I dropped my phone as though it were on fire, then picked it up again and held down the power button until it turned off. Shit. Could they still track my cell if it was off? I had no idea how these things worked in real life. I’d left my laptop at Kenneth’s, so I could only hope he had hidden it along with the other things I’d left.
Oh, Latasha, what have I gotten you into?
“Morning,” Wes croaked from beside me.
“Hey.”
“What time is it?”
“About six. The pharmacies should be open in a couple of hours.”
“How long are we going to stay here?”
“Until it’s safe to go back to Kenneth’s . . . or longer. It might be better to stay here until they lift the quarantine—or until they stop searching for you. I wish I knew why they wanted you so much.”
And I hope they find a cure soon. What if they didn’t, and the infection spread to the rest of the world? Were these . . . the end times? I shook my head vigorously to clear that thought. This wasn’t some zombie movie or horror novel. They would find a cure. They had to.
“I told you why, but you refuse to believe me,” he said.
“You’re right; I don’t think it’s because you’re God’s warrior. It probably has something to do with that cerebrospinal test.” I was too worried about Latasha to indulge his delusions. But there was nothing I could do . . . and I might get her into even more trouble if I continued to try and contact her. I had to focus on Wes.
“Want to explore?” I asked, hoping this would distract him. “When was the last time you were in here?”
“I broke in a few years ago,” he said. “Wanted to pay my respects to Tracey, y’know? Must be why they got the new lock.” He snorted. “Like that could stop me.”
“Hey, look at this,” I said, pulling a tarp onto the floor. “Mom and Dad’s old dirt bikes!”
“Cool,” Wes said, coming over to take a look. Dirt bikes in the summer, snowmobiles in the winter; that had been my parents’ motto. I remembered sitting in front of my mom on the bike, putting along in the driveway. Sometimes she would even bring me down the road to the store to get ice cream. In the winter, we would take the snowmobiles out into the “back forty,” as my dad called the nearby woods. I’d loved it—the warm snowmobile beneath me and my mother’s arms around me, stopping to build a fire and melt snow in an old tin can for hot chocolate, roasting hot dogs on a stick before heading back home to a warm bath.
“I thought they sold these years ago,” I said.
“Maybe they still work.”
“Don’t even think about it.” I threw the tarp back on the bikes. Beside them was an old sofa I vaguely remembered from my grandmother’s house. It might make for a more comfortable bed than the car, if I wasn’t so worried about what else might be living in it. There was also an old ride-on lawn mower and a few rusted pieces of farm equipment.
“Do you think our tree fort is still up?” Wes asked.
“Good question. I imagine it’s overgrown by now. Want to see if the elevator still works?” Riding on the elevator had been the highlight of my visits to the hen pen as a child—until Tracey had fallen from it. It was ancient, and I was amazed it hadn’t crashed yet. It was a bit generous to call it an elevator; it was more like a platform, about five feet by five feet. There were no walls, only a pulley system that required a fair amount of manual effort. Now that I’d suggested the idea, I was already having second thoughts. The two of us dead at the bottom of an abandoned elevator shaft would be a fine conclusion to this ordeal. But Wes was already standing on the platform, gripping the rope that would start the pulleys and send us up to the next floor.
“You comin’?” he asked.
Feigning confidence, I stepped onto the platform beside him. “You remember how to work this thing?”
He gave the rope a tug. I didn’t really expect anything to happen, but the elevator jolted to life and began a halting ascent.
“Wheee!” he said, grinning at me. “Want me to make it swing?” He stopped pulling, and the elevator stopped, too. We were hovering several feet off the ground. Wes shifted his weight back and forth to make the platform sway in place.
“Stop it!” I said, grabbing one of the support ropes as my stomach lurched.
“What’s the matter? You used to love this when we were kids.”
“I hated it, but I was too afraid to say so. Seriously, stop.”
He rolled his eyes dramatically, but he stopped. “Party pooper,” he said. I grabbed the rope from him and hauled it down, setting the elevator back in motion. As soon as it met the second floor, I jumped off. This floor was mostly empty, and apparently it had been for a long time. Little puffs of dust rose up behind each of our footsteps. There were a few boxes stacked against the far wall and a random assortment of garden tools. The only thing that looked of interest was an old chest under a heavy orange blanket. I pulled the blanket off, coughing at the dust storm it created. The wooden chest looked handmade—my grandfather had been a master woodworker—but I didn’t recognize it. Maybe it was Rob’s. I ran my hand over the scrollwork that decorated the top.
“It’s my sword,” Wes said from behind me. He was squatted down beside a pile of boxes filled with old photo albums.
“What?” Had he found an old sword in one of the boxes?
“That’s why they’re looking for me. I’m sure of it.”
“I don’t think a sword has anything to do with Gaspereau,” I said testily. “Besides, where did you get a sword?”
“It’s a spiritual sword,” he said, his blue eyes intent on me. “God gave it to me.”
“Mm-hm,” I said, already tuning him out. I lifted the lid on the chest and almost dropped it in surprise. So that’s where Dad’s hunting rifles had gone. I reached to the bottom and found boxes of ammunition. There was also another surprise: a handgun. Well, this might come in handy if the world goes to shit.
“What’s in there?” Wes asked.
“Just old quilts.” I closed the lid and threw the orange blanket back on top. “Sorry, you were saying you have a sword?”
“Yeah. Want to hear how I got it?”
“Sure.” There was little else to do while we waited for the pharmacy to open.
“I was at this party. Everyone was drunk and stoned and stuff. It was pretty wild. I’d had a few drinks, but no drugs—I don’t do that shit anymore. Anyway, I was just hanging out, having a beer, when I looked across the room and saw one of my friends sucking the blood of an angel.”
“I’m sorry, he was what?”
“I know, crazy, right? I could see this angel lying across his lap, and my friend was chewing on the side of its neck. The angel was kind of twitching, and then it turned its head and looked right at me. Right into my fucking eyes! My friend kept feasting, but then he looked up at me, too, and there was blood running all down his mouth and he had little bits of flesh stuck in his teeth.”
“That’s . . . disgusting,” I said.
“No shit! The thing is, I was the only one who could see it. I mean, if anyone else had seen this guy feasting on an angel, they would have freaked out. Everyone would have run out of the house screaming. So I just stood up, acting calm as could be, and walked toward him. I knew I was seeing him in the spiritual realm. I was seeing what no one else could, but it was completely real. And then this sword appeared in my hands, and I knew what I had to do.” He mimed holding a sword out in front of hi
m, then slashed it through the air and screamed, “Raaargh! I cut off my friend’s head. Blood splattered everywhere. It was awesome. Then the angel got up and started healing right in front of me. It kind of nodded at me, y’know? Then it disappeared.”
“Wes . . . please tell me you didn’t really cut off anyone’s head,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“Not in the physical world. This was all in a different realm. But then shit got real in the house and everyone was staring at me like ‘what the fuck is he doing?’ so I thought I should leave. I grabbed my sword and got the hell out of there. And I still have it.”
“Have what?”
“The sword. You can’t see it, but it appears to me whenever I need it.” He snorted. “They probably think they’ll be able to use it.”
“Wes, like I said, I’m not saying I doubt you have this spiritual sword, I’m just saying I doubt the CDC is interested in it.”
“They’re probably a front organization, anyway,” Wes said. “I bet they’re all Masons or something.”
“Let’s go to the next floor,” I said, scrambling to my feet. I took charge of the elevator this time, but the third floor was disappointingly empty, save for an exceptional collection of cobwebs. This was as far as the elevator reached, but there was a small staircase leading to the attic level.
“After you,” Wes said with a gallant bow. There was no handrail, so I placed a hand on the grimy wall to steady myself, mindful of how far I was off the ground and thinking of the rotten wood in the door downstairs. I didn’t completely trust these stairs to hold our weight.
There was a curve in the stairs, then a wooden door at the top. I turned the knob and pushed the door open. My first impression was that this floor was much brighter than the others; a small window at either end let in the morning sun. I stepped inside. Something crunched under my feet. I yelped.
Covering the floor in front of me were dozens and dozens of bird skeletons. All the flesh and feathers were long gone—eaten by the rats, no doubt. Only the inedible parts remained: beaks, skulls, and bones. The light shone in through a broken window panel. Apparently the birds had been able to get in, but not out. My whole body shuddered. I tried to back up, but Wes was behind me.
I was wholly unprepared for what came next. He pushed me aside and rushed into the center of the room, wailing in utter despair. I stared at him, my shock at the grisly sight forgotten. He was picking up the bird skeletons and crushing them against his chest, all the while sobbing, “No, no, no.”
“Wes, put them down. They’re just birds,” I said. I took a few steps toward him, cringing at the crunching beneath my feet.
“What are you talking about?” he wailed. “These are Tracey’s children!”
“Wes, no, please,” I begged. I put my hand on his arm. I needed to tether him to reality. “We need to go downstairs now. They’re just birds. They must have gotten trapped in here, that’s all.” He ignored me, caressing a tiny skull he held in his hands. “Wes!” I raised my voice. “Let’s go.” I tugged on his arm, but he jerked it away violently.
“What’s wrong with you? Look at their faces! They look just like her!” he bellowed. I took a step back. Sad Wes was one thing; angry Wes was an entirely different matter.
“We should just leave them here,” I said, trying another tack. “They’re safe here. But I’m scared, Wes. I want to leave.”
“I bet you do,” he said, all reason gone from his eyes. He picked up another skeleton and cradled it in one of his arms, then advanced on me. “Did you kill them?”
“What? No!” I said, edging toward the door.
“Tell the truth!” His hand flew through the air. The beak still clutched in his fist seared across my cheek.
I cried out and lost my balance, falling with a sickening crunch amidst the skeletons. I scrambled to my feet as fast as I could. My best defense at this point was to run. Eventually, he would calm down, and there would be apologies, as there always were. But he dropped the skull and grabbed my arm before I had fully gotten to my feet.
“Did you kill Mom and Dad, too?” he snarled, giving me a vigorous shake. His eyes were bloodshot. I started to cry now, from a potent mix of pain and fear. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and hold him close until the episode passed, but I knew he would only throw me off. Or worse, think I was attacking him.
“No,” I sobbed. “I swear it. Please, you’re hurting me. Let me go.”
“I don’t believe you!” he raged. “Why else would you have come here? What did you do to them?”
I didn’t know if he was talking about our parents now or the so-called children that littered the floor around us. “I came back for you!” I said. “To keep you safe!”
“You fucking liar! You don’t care about me! You only care about yourself!” He accentuated this last statement with a shove that sent me crashing down the short flight of stairs. Then he hurled bird skeletons at me, all the while ranting about my conspiracy to murder our entire family.
I forced myself to my feet, crying out at the new pain in my tailbone, where I’d landed. I hobbled down the rest of the stairs, moving toward the elevator. He wasn’t following me; perhaps he didn’t want to leave the skeletons behind. I hesitated for only a moment before I pulled the rope.
As the elevator went down, I yelled up, “Stay here, Wes! Don’t leave. I’ll come back, I promise.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I stopped on the second floor and limped to the wooden chest. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it, but I knew I’d feel better with some firepower in my hands. I was shaking so badly I could barely load the handgun. It had been years since I’d fired one. I hoped my father’s lessons would come back to me if I needed them. I could hear Wes keening above, and prayed again that the farmhouse was vacant. But I had to leave and get his medication.
I was about to open the corrugated metal door and take the car, but then I stopped. A set of keys hung on a rusty nail beside the door. I took them off and examined them.
“I hope this works,” I muttered, grabbing my backpack out of Kenneth’s car. I caught a glimpse of myself in the side mirror and winced. There were bits of bone in my hair, and I had a long red gash across one cheek. I pawed around in the glove box for a first-aid kit, but there were only napkins, so I pressed one to my face and mentally added bandages to my list of needed supplies. Then I uncovered the dirt bikes. If I could take one of them, I wouldn’t have to worry about Kenneth’s car being recognized. After the second try, I found the right key, and turned it into the ignition of my mother’s bike.
Nothing. I swore and tried again. Nothing. Then I tried my father’s, with the same result.
“Shit!” I ran back to the pulley and opened the large door. I’d have to risk the car. I backed out and then closed the door again, hoping Wes would stay inside.
From what I could remember, the closest drugstore was in a little strip mall about twenty minutes toward town. If everything went well, I could return to Wes within the hour.
The sun was rising in the sky when I pulled into the strip mall, and my stomach gave a loud growl. There was a Circle K, a pharmacy, a nail salon, a pet store, and a cell-phone shop. Already people were running back and forth between the Circle K, the pharmacy, and their cars, carrying armloads of goods or pushing full carts. But at least there were no riot police—yet. I kept my head down and hoped I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew.
I went to the cell shop first. I made sure my mask was on tight and pushed the door open. The only employee was a young man in his twenties wearing a camouflage mask over his nose and mouth. I kept my distance, and he made no move to come out from behind the counter. His eyes flickered to the gash on my cheek, then away.
“I need a phone,” I said. “A burner, if you’ve got one.”
“’Kay,” he said. He reached behind the counter and pulled out a plain black phone in plastic packaging.
“Can you activate it?”
He grunted a
nd tore open the package. A minute later he slid it toward me. I paid him with Kenneth’s cash and left the store. My shoulders relaxed slightly. The prospect of being disconnected from the world had put me even more on edge.
Back in the car, I plugged the phone into the charger and texted Kenneth, grateful I still had the business card he’d given me at the hospital. New phone. Everything okay? I risked sending the same text to Latasha, so she’d be able to get a hold of me . . . if she could. I wished to God I knew what was going on with her.
I held the phone in my hand, waiting for it to vibrate with a response. People ran through the lot around me, clutching bags of supplies. The fear on their faces was very familiar by now.
You could just drive away . . . find somewhere to hide out until this is over . . . leave Wes to battle his ghosts in the hen pen. The thought only lasted a second, but it was plenty long enough for me to be ashamed of myself. No matter how much I wished it, there was no more running now.
I struggled to remember Amy’s phone number, cursing myself for not writing it down before shutting off my old phone. I dialed what I hoped was her number and held my breath.
“Hello?”
“Amy? It’s Clare.”
“Clare! Thank God. Are you okay? I’ve been watching the news. I can’t believe it.”
“I’m okay, yeah. But do you know where Latasha is? She’s not responding to my texts.”
“That’s odd; mine neither,” Amy said. “We were supposed to meet for lunch, but she didn’t show up. I called her work number and her cell—no answer. So I popped by your place and she wasn’t there either. I was wondering if she was sick or something. Have you been in touch with her?”