“Give it to me,” Lucy cried over her shoulder. “Give me the vaccine.” She screamed and screamed, but her voice sounded foreign and strange.
For a second, she turned her head from Salem and looked around the room, hoping to plead directly to Darla.
Leland had pushed himself backward and stood next to his refrigerator, clutching his tea with white knuckles. His wife had not died of the virus and Lucy realized that perhaps this was the first person he had seen succumb to it firsthand. She was sorry that Salem was in his house, sorry that he would never be able to look at this spot without remembering this moment. Poor, Leland. Then no. Poor, her. Poor, Lucy.
Grant had taken a tentative step forward, but he looked lost and confused and he had started to cry gently. The look on his face made Lucy angry. She read resignation and futility in his eyes; couldn’t they do something?
Astounded by everyone’s inaction, Lucy turned to Darla, tears dripping down on to her borrowed sweatshirt, and she pleaded.
“She needs it now, Darla. I need it quick. Give me the vaccines.”
But when she turned to Salem, her friend’s breathing had already started to slow. Salem fought for breath, her chest rattling with fluid with each attempt to draw air into her lungs.
“Please, please, please, please,” Lucy begged. And then, with a voice that was nearly inhuman, she yelled with rage and fear. “Why won’t you help me? Give me the rest of the vaccines!”
“Even if I had it, Lucy,” Darla said, her voice calm and quiet, hovering at normal volume, “it wouldn’t do her any good. It’s too late. She’s infected.”
“I don’t…believe you,” Lucy replied and she took a shaky breath and then screamed. She stopped when she felt Salem’s hand wrap around her wrist and attempt a squeeze. “I don’t believe you, I don’t believe you!”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Darla continued. “She would’ve needed it hours ago. Before it reached this point. I’m sorry, Lucy.” She slunk back to the rear of the kitchen next to Leland and rested her head against the side of the wall.
Lucy seethed and she watched as her tears dripped on to Salem’s shirt creating a little pattern of slow-spreading circles. She looked straight at Darla, who didn’t even try to break eye contact, and raised a shaky finger.
“You wasted them.”
“Lula, he…saved me,” Salem mumbled, drawing Lucy’s attention back down toward her friend. Turning back to Salem, she slipped her clammy hands into her own and held on to them tightly. Salem stared straight at her, begging for her attention.
“I don’t understand,” Lucy sniffed. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“That summer. At the beach.”
Summer. Beach. Who saved her? Lucy remembered. She knew what Salem was trying to say.
She remembered the story perfectly.
Her parents had always instilled a healthy fear of the ocean into their children—the Oregon coast riptides were not trivial and insignificant. A King family friend lost his son to a sneaker wave the same summer Salem now remembered—it was a long Indian summer and they all loaded up the car for a day trip to the beach on Labor Day when the weather hit close to one-hundred degrees in Portland.
They were bodysurfing, pushing past the coldness of the water with the sun beating down on them; their bodies shivered, while their hair absorbed the heat from the sun. Her father yelled that they were going too far out, and Lucy dutifully obeyed his command by spinning around, treading water back until her feet could touch, and finding safety on the sand. It was Salem who pushed out further and ignored Lucy’s and the King’s pleas to paddle back.
“He saved you,” Lucy said now, finishing the story, even as her shoulders heaved. “You were drowning. And he saved you.”
Salem had slipped below the surface and Lucy was terrified. Screams and shouting filled the beach and she remembered the alarm in her own voice, her fear of losing her friend. And Lucy’s father had sprinted from the blanket, waded into the ocean fully dressed and pulled her up, paddling back to shore with a gasping Salem in his arms. He had lost one shoe in the sand; it was absorbed into the muck.
Maybe it resurfaced later and was discovered by an early morning jogger. One lone shoe without a partner, bobbing in the surf, resting in the foam, or tangled with seaweed.
“I can’t save you.” Lucy dropped her head on to Salem’s chest. Her forehead dug into the sharp edges of Salem’s gold crucifix. “I’ve never been able to save you. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”
“But he saved me,” Salem said again. “El me salvo. Your Papa.”
And Lucy curled up beside her best friend, their bodies touching. She kept her hand placed squarely on her heart until the distressed breathing stopped and the rise and fall of her chest slowed to a stop.
Salem was gone.
The room didn’t move.
No one breathed until Grant took a tentative step toward them and Lucy, sensing his approach, lifted her head.
“No. Stay back.”
“Lucy—”
“I said stay back,” Lucy cried out.
A great and terrible fury passed through her. In an instant she was on her feet, scrambling across the kitchen to Darla. Her foot slipped in blood that had seeped beneath Salem’s body and she lost her balance, tripping into the table. Her body knocked around the plates and glasses as they clinked together. She ran her hand over the table and threw the items to the floor, where they shattered or bounced. Gripping the sides, she flung herself forward, pressing her weight against Darla’s body and pushing her to the floor.
Darla darted out from under her and rolled to safety and then she lifted herself up and held her hands up in defense. She had the poise of someone who knew how to fight, but Lucy—who had only engaged in mock wrestling matches with her brothers—fought with blind rage. When she lifted a hand to scratch at Darla’s tan face, she felt a firm grip around her wrist, digging into the same spot where she had been handcuffed. And Lucy crumpled to the floor, allowing Darla to stand up straight and catch her breath.
“She let her die,” Lucy gasped. “She let her die! We had everything we needed to save them and you just let Spencer have it. How could you let me believe I was safe?”
“You are safe,” Darla said again. “You are safe. Ethan told me—” she stopped, sighed. “I didn’t know there were other people. I had one task.”
“It’s fine to be angry. It is normal for grief to look like anger,” Leland’s voice said near Lucy’s ear. “But you should not fight with your friends in a time like this,” he elucidated in a parental tone.
“She’s not my friend,” Lucy responded quickly and she yanked her hand away from his grasp. But she did not move from her place in the ground.
No one spoke. Grant wandered over to Salem’s body and stood looking at her—a sliver of sun filtered through the window fell over Salem’s legs. Then he turned back to the group, his skin red and blotchy and his eyes puffy.
“What vaccine?” he asked.
Lucy stood by the window and looked out on the street. The boy had gone, run off somewhere, so the girl’s body was alone on the wet concrete. The rain had not lifted and the water ran off her body like tiny streams.
Grant sat at the piano. He ran his fingers over the fake ivory keys, stretching them out, and then settled them into position. He hit a chord and another, running them together into a melody that Lucy had never heard before, even though it had the quality of something familiar, something memorable. Grant finished the song, sustaining the last note throughout the house until he lifted his foot off the pedal suddenly and he spun on the bench and stared at Lucy.
“A Grant Trotter original,” he said in a half-whisper.
“You made that up?” Lucy asked, too tired and sad to even muster an impressed smile. “I didn’t know you could play.”
“I’m full of surprises.”
“I should’ve said something.” Lucy turned back to the window. “I should’
ve put it all together and realized. I should’ve warned you both.”
Grant stood up and stretched. “No,” he said. “In some ways, it’s better not to know. But I want it stated for the record. I was right. That first morning when I predicted that we were just taking longer to die? I don’t know why I didn’t take bets.”
Lucy began to cry.
He walked over and put a comforting arm around her shoulder. “I feel like you should be consoling me right now. I am the one that just learned I’m going to die sometime today.”
Lucy leaned into his arm.
“I’m not afraid to die,” Grant said.
Pulling back, Lucy looked at him and wiped her tears on her sleeve. “I don’t understand. We’ve been fighting so hard to stay safe and alive…for almost a week…”
“You misunderstood.” He took a step back and placed his hands on Lucy’s shoulders. He was taller than her by almost a whole foot and he had to stoop his shoulders to look in her eyes. “I want to live. But I’m not afraid to die. This new world is much scarier than death, Lucy.”
“It’s not fair.”
“Amen.”
“We have to go back to the school and get one of the vials back from Spencer,” she said in a rush of importance, begging him to agree. She had been thinking about the trip back and how they could pull it off. She had a plan. The vaccine in Spencer’s possession was a travesty, especially since Grant was just playing a waiting game. If she couldn’t save Salem, she could save him.
“No,” was Grant’s swift reply.
“Yes,” Lucy replied. “Yes. We can do this. And if Darla won’t help…I’ll go alone.”
“Lucy—” he shook his head. “I’m not letting you go. I’m not letting you or anyone else risk your life for me. There’s no guarantee that it would work or that…in the time that it took…” he trailed off and she knew what he was going to say. She cringed.
“Please.” She cried harder.
Grant shook his head and squeezed her shoulders tightly. “We’re not talking about it. And you won’t change my mind.”
“What do you want to do then?” Lucy asked and she tried to harden herself, stop the blubbering, and regain control.
Grant laughed. His genuine amusement shocked her and he put a thoughtful finger to his lips. “You mean…on your last day to live? What do you want to do?”
“No,” Lucy stammered. Then, “Maybe.”
Without missing a beat, he replied. “I want to bury Salem. Give her what no one else in our school or our lives got when they died. Something proper.” He then looked at her with a sad smile. “Then I want to see you get home.”
Abigail Pine’s body had already started to decay. Not the rapid decomposition the virus caused but the normal human rate of putrefaction. In an attempt to mask the smell, Leland had dumped two entire boxes of baking soda over her. Everywhere, except her face. And despite her whiteness and bloat, she still looked peaceful as she lay on top of their floral comforter.
With Leland watching, twisting his hand in his robe nervously, Darla wrapped her in a white flat sheet; her body was stiff, but still moveable. They rolled her onto the sheet in stages and then secured it at the ends. Grant grabbed her upper body, lifting her with a mixture of tenderness and sheer strength, while the girls congregated at her legs and feet.
Then they shimmied and shifted, maneuvered and backed their way down the stairs, through the family room, out the kitchen, and into the garden—where Leland met them holding two shovels.
They dug two holes. The rain made them a muddy mess and the further down they got, the harder the earth was, slowing down their digging process. After fifty minutes, they had created large and deep enough holes to fit Leland’s departed wife and Salem.
Grant bent down and picked Salem off the floor on his own and laid her to rest in the earth. Mud splattered on her cheeks and clothes and the sides of the grave started caving in almost immediately. Salem’s golden crucifix peaked out of the earth and, spotting it, Lucy dropped to her knees. She reached down into the grave and she dug her hands under the mud until she was able unclasp the necklace from around Salem’s neck. She held it tightly in her hands, the sharp edges of the cross digging into her palms.
Grant covered the bodies as quickly as he could. With Darla’s help, they slung the thick sludge until nothing remained visible.
“I’ll say some words for my wife,” Leland said and gathered them together, where they huddled and listened to his praises, his prayers.
“My wife was a giving soul. And she had a spirit of fire and passion. And love. She loved. With everything she had. This is not how we imagined our end. But here we are. Here will she rest…with me by her side as long as I am able,” he stopped. He turned to the group, “You go,” he instructed and he pointed to Lucy.
Rain dripped on her head and she shivered, her teeth chattered.
“Salem was my best friend. She…” Lucy stopped and took a second to compose herself, “gave everything she had to me. She was fun and loving. For many years, she was my sister…my only sister. I feel like I’ve lost my heart, my other half. I can’t imagine a world without her.”
Grant walked over to a rosebush and looked to Leland, “May I?” he asked and Leland nodded.
He broke a single red rose off of the vine, between the thorns. It snapped easily in between his fingers. Tossing the rose on to Salem’s grave, Grant cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and said, “God our Father, your power brings us to birth, your providence guides our lives, and by your command we return to dust. Lord, those who die still love in your presence, their lives change, but do not end. I pray in hope for my family and friends and for all the dead known to you alone. Wipe away all our tears. Unite us together. And all God’s people said, amen.”
Lucy stammered out a belated amen. And then she looked slowly over to Grant, her eyebrows questioning.
He shrugged. “I’m Catholic.”
“Full of surprises,” she said.
Chapter Eighteen
After they left Leland’s house, it took one hour to reach Lucy’s street.
Loaded down with bags of canned peaches, pickled green beans, baby corn, and strawberry jelly—something the old man insisted upon, despite their numerous objections—they wound their way through empty houses, a looted coffee house, a smoldering police station, until they reached Lucy’s neighborhood. Passing by familiar cars and facades, they trekked down the road in the open, their heads panning from side-to-side in an effort to catch movement.
It didn’t surprise anyone the street was silent.
When Lucy’s house came into view, she tossed her bag with Leland’s food to Grant, who caught with a clumsy grasp.
“Take this,” she said and then bolted. She ran, full speed, down the street.
It pained her how much she needed to see Ethan and how many questions she needed to ask him. Lucy tried to pry details out of Darla, but she had remained focused during their journey, trading only barbs and not information.
Lucy ran past the front door and straight to the side-door to the left of the carport and crashed her way through into their laundry room, pushing off the washing machine, and then she took the steps into her house two at a time. She ran across the family room, past the stairs, calling his name loudly and without reservation.
“Ethan! Ethan!”
“Here Lucy! I’m in here!” came the reply and Lucy followed his call into the den. Ethan rested on their father’s leather couch, the giant throw blanket from their mother’s alma mater tucked up around his legs. He looked at her bleary-eyed and then broke into a giant smile and threw his arms up in response. She rushed into the embrace, crouching down near the edge of the couch to get the best grip and Ethan held his hands tightly across her back and squeezed.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” he said and Lucy was too overcome to respond, so she just tried to melt her body into his.
From the back part of the house, she could hear Darla an
d Grant enter from the carport and then slam the door. The house was alive with footsteps and muffled conversation.
“Who is with her?” Ethan asked and he dropped his arms, raised himself up on his elbows and craned his neck.
“Grant Trotter. A friend. But Ethan…” Lucy’s chin trembled and she bit her lip.
Ethan interrupted, “Wait…there’s someone else alive? Did you bring anyone else?”
Lucy shook her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she wiped them away. She wasn’t ready to talk about Salem yet, the death was too recent, too fresh and too painful to mention.
Ethan blew air out his nose, muttered an expletive, and went back to lying down, crossing his hands over his chest and staring at the ceiling. “This is a mess.” He reached a hand out and locked hands with his sister.
“Ethan—”
“We do have much to talk about little sister. So much.” His tone implied disagreement, exhaustion and, Lucy thought, fear. But Darla swung into the room with Grant following behind. He slipped into the matching leather chair in the corner, and she walked right over to Ethan, ignoring Lucy’s presence on the ground beneath him. Without a word, she reached behind his head and grabbed a prescription bottle of pills from a side table and shook the orange container, counting them audibly as they rolled around.
“There are extra. You haven’t been taking them.” She dropped the bottle on Ethan’s chest and it started to roll, he caught it with his left hand and tossed it back up in the air. Swooping in, she caught it on its way back down. “I told you. No skipping.”
“We will run out of the supply,” Ethan groaned and sat up. He cracked his neck one way and then the other. “I’ll make them last.”
“No one likes a martyr,” Darla sighed and opened the bottle. She rattled it until two oblong white pills tumbled into her hand and she thrust them toward Ethan. He didn’t take them at first and then she moved her hand in closer, her body an inch from Lucy’s. He grabbed the pills, popped them in his mouth and swallowed them dry—opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue for effect, like a petulant teenager.
The Virulent Chronicles Box Set Page 20