“I want to,” Salem replied.
“It feels different. I don’t feel right. I’d be crying right now if I could wrap my head around it. I can’t even do that.”
She nodded.
Her father was a truthful man. Some of her friends had these macho dads who refused to talk about their feelings or answer the big questions about life with any sort of honesty and transparency. That was not her father. He was quick to admit fault or confusion and always eager to share his heart.
“The world,” he added, his eyes glazed as though he was only thinking out loud, unaware that Salem was hanging on to every word. “The whole world grieves tonight.”
Salem stared at him, and she felt her courage and pain mix together and seep through all the empty places in her body. She could see her father’s crow’s-feet against his dark skin, and the clumpy places where he’d applied hair gel in the morning. He had a mole, smallish, on his neck, and she stared at it like an anchor. When she was a child, she had been irrationally afraid of body snatchers—a childish obsession that seemed bigger than any fear she would ever encounter. But she knew that if her father ever lost that mole, he would be a replacement. Its grotesqueness, protruding from his neck like a tag, didn’t bother her as much when she focused on it as a source of comfort and not embarrassment.
“Mom wouldn’t let me watch the television…”
“Good for her. No one on television knows anything,” he spat and returned to shoveling. “Speculation.”
Her parents had named her Salem out of reverence for the first home they bought outside of Mexico. They’d met in high school in Southern California, each of them brought to America by their parents for opportunities, college, and citizenship. It was a long road, but together, they traversed a childhood of labels and discrimination, and fell in love. They moved to Oregon. Salem was born ten months after they married.
Shortly after the doctor placed her in her mother’s arms, Mimi started to bleed, and she nearly died; she lost her uterus and her chance at more children. Their dreams of a large, Catholic brood—a dozen little Aguilars and rowdy, messy dinners, siblings traipsing off together to school—disappeared in an instant. It was a devastating failure of anatomy, and Salem knew early on she wasn’t enough for them.
“The Kings,” her mother would say with disdain about Lucy and her five brothers and sister, “just have baby after baby. For no reason… just because they can. And here God only gives me one. It’s unfair.”
“Maybe you can ask for their next one,” Salem had once said out of frustration.
“Maybe I will,” Mimi replied, her mouth tight. “A cute, little blond baby. Maybe two. I’ll tell everyone they belong to the mailman.”
Salem shifted on the ground, and her foot brushed up against the tarp. In the distance, she heard sirens and the long wail of an air horn. The evening was full of sounds, tinny and sharp, deep and long, strange and familiar. But there was no sound of barking; you didn’t miss it unless you were listening for it.
The hole was complete.
“Tarp and all,” her father said. He left the shovel on the ground and walked over to Bogart’s body. Putting his hands on his hips, he paused. His shoulders shook with a deep sigh.
“I want to see him,” Salem said.
Her father shook his head. “No. Remember him for how he was.”
“Don’t tell me that… don’t tell me that like you heard it somewhere… I have to see him.” Salem’s hands began to shake.
He lifted the edge of the tarp and clicked his tongue. Salem saw something dark pass over his face. Then he flicked his wrist and whipped the tarp off Bogart’s body. “Don’t pet him,” he commanded sharply. “Don’t touch his fur. We still—”
“I could catch it?”
It. It had no name.
It—the thing that killed her dog. The thing that killed the spaniel down the street, the Labrador at the corner house, her classmate Kate’s prized Goldendoodle.
Salem realized it was an honest question, and for the first time since she heard the news, she felt pure panic. Bogart could not even be cradled from this life into the next one, and she had been robbed of feeling the coarse hair run through her hands one last time, or kissing his cool nose, closing his eyes. He was stiff already, his mouth agape, tongue protruding outward, thick and white. It. It. It. It had stolen from her a sibling, a confidant. She didn’t know where to put her anger, so she hit the ground with a balled-up fist and bit back her tears.
“That’s enough,” her dad said, and he spread the blue plastic over Bogart’s body once more. Salem closed her eyes, but all she could see was the image of her dead dog seared into brain. She’d remember it as long as she lived, and it would haunt her.
“Maybe it’s the end,” Salem said as she wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Maybe this is how it starts.”
“A plague,” her father replied. “Instead of sending locusts or flooding the earth, God just takes the dogs—”
“As a warning,” Salem continued. “God took the firstborn sons once. Maybe this is His doing.”
“No.” Her dad leaned in and kissed the top of her forehead. He put a hand on her shoulder, but then moved it, shoved it in his pockets; his mind thinking, spinning, and plotting. “This is man’s doing. Even the sparrow, dear girl, right? This is man, not God. That much I know… and the judgment will be steep. You understand? This won’t go unpunished.”
“Who would do this?” Salem cried out.
“Monsters,” her father replied as he bent down, picked Bogart up, and placed him the hole as tenderly as he could. But Bogey’s body tumbled loose at the last second and fell into the earth with a thud. Salem cringed. Mimi appeared on the porch. She wiped her eyes with a lace handkerchief and ambled down to them, a prayer book in her hand.
“You read,” she said to Salem, and she thrust the book into her daughter’s hands. Mimi pointed to a marked page. Salem flipped it open, scanned the words, and sighed. The prayer book’s leather was worn from overuse, and it felt like satin in her hands. Her mother had dotted the book with Post-it notes and scribbled prayers in the margins in Spanish.
“This one isn’t for a pet that’s dead, Mom,” Salem said.
“It’s a blessing,” Mimi stated and crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s a good one.”
“But this won’t help him… he’s already gone, don’t you see?” Salem felt her voice carry further than she had hoped it would. Could her neighbors hear her? Were other people out burying the dead? “This is so stupid. I can’t even stand here—” She tried to shove the book outward and back into her mother’s hands.
“You do it,” her mother said again, calmly, and pointed down to the prayer book with such force that she almost hit it out of her hands—her words and her actions incongruous.
Salem shuddered and her hands trembled as she opened the book back up to the page her mother had earmarked.
“Hear our humble prayer, O God, for our friends, the animals, who are suffering,” Salem read. She kept her voice steady and without emotion, the only way she knew how to rebel. “We entreat for them all, thy mercy and pity, and for those who deal with them, a heart of compassion. Make ourselves true friends to animals and to share our blessings. Amen.” Salem tossed the book to the ground and sunk to her knees besides Bogart’s grave. Her mother put her hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off. With one hand, she felt the crucifix around her neck, and with her index finger, she traced the small icon of Jesus. She was always the one who had to pray, always the one who had to take the prayer book and read all the words. It was as though praying was her single most important duty as a daughter.
Someday, she would not read. Someday, she’d make someone else read it. It shouldn’t always have to be her duty, and she was eager to pass it off.
Tears welled, and Salem cried. She cried for Bogart, for not getting to say goodbye, for the worry she saw in her parent’s eyes, and for all the unanswered questions. She cried because she
couldn’t listen to the radio, and she cried because of her mother’s demands.
“I’m sorry, little one,” her father said. His voice wavered, and he let his own tears fall, unashamed. After a moment, he began to shovel the dirt over the tarp. The blue slowly disappeared, eclipsed by brown.
Salem’s phone buzzed again, and she pulled it out of her pocket. This time, she looked at the message. She read it and texted back.
Lucy: I’m thinking about you. I’m so sorry. This is so scary. What can I do? Tell me what you need. I’ll do anything.
Salem: There’s nothing to do.
Lucy: Are you watching the news?
Salem: My mom won’t let me. Whatever. Can’t even handle Bogart.
Lucy: Let me come over.
Salem: That’s crazy. Mama Maxine will let you come over? When you have a plane to catch in the morning?
Lucy: She’ll understand. I’ll go ask.
Salem: Mimi cooked. Worth it for dinner alone. If you can swing it.
But Salem knew that Lucy wouldn’t come. Her family had a trip planned in the morning—to some island where it was sunny, and Lucy could snorkel, sunbathe, and meet hot island boys. Plus, her mother was a type-A control freak. Like: printed family calendars and color-coded them on clipboards type of controlling. Like: You have to chart your screen-time, controlling. Like: you’ll be in bed at a reasonable time because we have a plane to catch, controlling. Like: No, Salem, you can’t come over, and no, Salem, Lucy is eating dinner, she can’t text you right now, controlling.
Lucy was stuck. Salem was stuck. If she thought it would do any good, she would’ve sent her request straight to the top, but Salem didn’t know if she had the energy to deal with the Kings.
They were weird.
She didn’t think she’d go to school tomorrow. The thought of navigating the halls of Pacific Lake High School without Lucy, while dealing with the onslaught of other people’s drama, was too much to think about. In a moment of weakness, she had checked her media feed, and she was suffocated by the outpouring of grief. Even teens without dogs, who didn’t have the image of their dead pet in their mind, who didn’t have fresh graves under cherry trees, posted inane lamentations. It was unlike her not to comment, post, engage, and troll. But Salem left her phone on the desk in her room and slipped downstairs—sometimes even she couldn’t handle all the drama.
The talking heads argued. A ticker on the bottom of the screen flooded their home with more information than they could process. Salem tucked her legs up under her body, her mother snuggled on her left, her father on her right. Bogart’s bed, still covered in pet hair, was glaringly empty. They were a united trio, and they followed the unraveling with unease, but they were together. At least they were together.
The TV flashed—the newscasters yelled, spun, and accelerated the fear. Salem watched, her heart in her throat, and hung on to each image, each word. She knew she’d tell her kids about the day the dogs died. She’d remember that the news lady was wearing a green brooch and a tan jacket. She knew she’d remember how her father sat hunched over like The Thinker, lost, but engaged.
Salem’s mother picked at a blanket, hands shaking; she made small, clucking noises in the back of her throat like she was choking. These were the little sounds of grief.
A woman on the news show yelled at the other panel guests. She had a hair-sprayed bob and false eyelashes, thick, red lipstick, and a southern drawl. Images of people with their dogs, dead, buried, in the streets, played in a slideshow behind them. Submitted photos, all of them, and not a single repeat in the hour since they’d started watching the newscast.
No commercial breaks. That was how Salem knew it was serious. No one paused. Ever.
The lady raised her voice. “And where is our government? We get one measly statement from the President of the United States, and then it’s back to the grind, am I right, Senator? Am I right? We are dealing with terrorism and—”
A man in a bowtie sighed. “Fay, Fay… I caution you not to use that word. No, we cannot say that this is an act of terrorism, and it is reckless to use that word—”
“Reckless? Senator Jones, you ran on a platform of protecting American families and restoring our country to a time of peace and prosperity. It would suit your agenda to chalk this up to some glitch… but early tests reveal that these dogs all died of some fast-moving synthetic virus. How did that virus affect them all? Aliens?”
“Aliens is not that big of a stretch, Fay,” a third person said. The camera cut to him. Wide-eyed and wild-haired.
“Oh, right, our resident conspiracy theorist. Aliens killed our pets, and they’re coming for us next. Is that what you want to say, Arnold?” Fay rolled her eyes.
Salem hoped they let the alien man talk.
“Did you all read the reports about the drone sightings?” the wild-haired man continued, unperturbed by the co-host’s condescending tone. “Thousands of people have called in tips saying they saw drone-like aircraft in the sky today. Our government may have the technology to send in a virus via drone… but on a worldwide scale? No. No single entity on earth could launch a global attack. This is clearly a work of superior beings with access to greater technology—”
Senator Jones interrupted; the camera went to him. “If I may…that’s an equally dangerous allegation. There is still a possibility that there is an environmental cause.”
“Is there worry for Americans?” Fay asked. “Should we be concerned for our own safety?”
“No,” the senator said in a heartbeat. “Our own president has asked we exercise great caution in jumping to conclusions…”
“Does our own president want us to die?” the wild-haired man shouted. “Don’t talk about the irresponsibility of jumping to conclusions without talking about the irresponsibility of not preparing for a greater attack.” He looked directly into the camera. “If you have the means and the ability, I wouldn’t leave your house tomorrow.” The camera cut away from him quickly. His microphone silenced.
Salem resisted the urge to yell at the TV. She wanted to hear what he was going to say.
“Ludicrous,” the senator said. “Next, you’ll be saying this was a false flag, unleashed by our own government—”
The men and women went back and forth, lobbing up insults instead of sending out facts. Their voices rose. Finally the wild-haired man spoke again, his microphone back, and his voice hovered above panic. “Mark my words, world, whatever came for the dogs is coming for us next.”
Salem jumped at the statement. It was an involuntary twitch. She pinched back tears and turned to her parents. All the color had drained from her mother’s face, and she held her blanket balled into her fist.
“I don’t want to watch this,” Mimi said. “Turn it off.”
“Terrorism,” Salem’s dad mumbled. “Aliens. They don’t know. They don’t know.”
“Apagalo!” her mother demanded again. “You listen to me—”
“Are we next?” Salem asked.
“No, sweetie,” Mimi replied, but Salem didn’t think she sounded very confident. “Turn it off, Luis.” She pointed to the remote, and her dad reached down and hit the power button. The noise and the intensity disappeared in a flash.
The entire house was quiet—not a drip, a creak, or a hum—and they stared at the blank screen as though it might turn itself back on. Everyone in every house all over Portland was watching TV. They were gathered around as families, and they listened to the possibilities of a larger attack with growing anxiety. But the Aguilar house was quiet.
Luis put a hand on his daughter’s knee. Salem let her whole body collapse against her father. She wished she were little again so she could pull herself into his lap.
“Daddy,” she said. She would not cry. With a shaky breath, she bit back the pain and pressure and swallowed her tears. “I’m so scared.”
“It’s okay, little one,” he replied. “It’s okay to be scared.”
“Pray,” Mimi suggested. “That�
��s all we can do. Pray.”
So, they prayed. Salem let her parents start.
Salem couldn’t sleep. After a long, internal debate, she slinked out of her bedroom and sat on the top step of the staircase, her knees tucked up to her chin. She heard her parents’ muffled voices from the floor below, intense and furtive. They spoke to each other in hurried Spanish, too fast and too difficult to understand, but she knew the broad strokes of their exchange. They were worried and afraid, and above all, they were trying to be brave for her—they didn’t want her to panic. But it was too late; panic bubbled, and Salem’s heart hurt every time she thought of Bogart and the uncertainty of tomorrow.
Even though it was late, she crawled back into her room and sat among the laundry, the band posters, and the pink Christmas lights that ran along her bedroom wall. She texted Lucy.
Salem: I’m lost.
Lucy: I can’t imagine. I love you. I’m sorry. Can I help?
Salem: Text me to sleep.
Lucy: Like I could sleep.
Salem: Maybe I can call and we just stay on the phone without talking.
Lucy: I wish. I can’t even believe we’re actually leaving tomorrow.
Salem: What did your dad say? The germaphobe. Doesn’t he want to cancel? Isn’t everyone worried?
Lucy: Sure. It’s ridiculous. He’s all uptight, and my mom is responding with her usualness.
She inserted a picture of a devil with horns.
Salem smiled. She wondered if she had smiled since that afternoon—the smile felt weird and foreign—and she stopped the upward twitch as fast as it had started. Somehow, it felt wrong to find anything funny. She pondered the implications of a humorless world, and she wondered if her body was hollow, empty, and void of cognitive ability. It was true that her mind was fuzzy and her body operated without her, but would she ever feel normal again? Could she?
Salem: I’m different. Things are different.
The Virulent Chronicles Box Set Page 27