She didn’t know why she said that—maybe because she wanted to hear Lucy say that she understood, and that she felt the same way. But Lucy didn’t reply. She had read the message, Salem could see that. But she didn’t write back. One minute passed. Two. Then five minutes later, Salem felt a buzz and looked at the next message.
Lucy: Good evening, Salem. It’s Maxine. Lucy needs to go to bed. We have a long day of travel ahead of us, and as you know, things are a bit crazy now. I’m sorry for your loss. What a horrific day. Best thing to do right now, for all parties, is to sleep.
Salem: Thank you, Mrs. King.
She looked at her formal reply and thought it seemed so shallow in the scheme of the day’s dramatic turn. Salem had never felt more grateful for her mother’s tenderness and compassion. But it was Maxine who was strong, fearless. Brash, perhaps, but she was a problem-solver. She needed her mother’s soft words, and she needed Maxine’s advice.
Salem: I guess I’m really scared.
Her thumb hovered over the send button, second-guessing the plea for extended conversation, but she knew she had to send it. She needed to say it. She let it fly out into the ether. Delivered. Read. Mama Maxine typed back. Salem waited for her words of comfort. Or the words of distanced indifference—she never quite knew what she was going to get.
Lucy: The world is scary, and right now it feels unsafe, but I promise you, Salem, that everything will feel better by the light of morning. There are amazing people working hard to keep us safe. I believe this. Good night. Sleep and rest. A remedy that beats any other.
With that, her connection to Lucy was whisked away, and Maxine’s words gave her little comfort. If sleep was a remedy, she’d have to prepare to suffer at the hands of her wakefulness. Salem crawled into bed without changing into her pajamas, tucked her phone into her pocket, and stared at the popcorn ceiling. She examined the dots and the mounds and looked for patterns, she prayed to God, and she read from her worn-out Bible. When she tired of that, she tried to distract herself with a People magazine, but that was futile as well. At midnight, she slipped out of bed and found her parents wide-awake in their room. Without a word, she climbed between them and grabbed her mother’s hand. Safe between the people who loved her and who would protect her from the awfulness of the world, Salem’s eyes grew heavy. As she drifted, she heard her mother’s voice whisper to her father.
“Sólo quiero protegerla. My little Salem.”
“Can’t protect her from everything,” her dad replied. “But with the Lord’s help, we can try.”
He kissed her on the head and turned off his bedside lamp. She let herself sleep between their warm bodies.
Salem awoke in her parents’ bed, but she was alone. She had always been a sweaty sleeper, and she was soaked through from a night in jeans under her parents’ downy comforter. Running a hand over her forehead, she felt her bangs matted to her skin. Downstairs, she could hear the sounds of breakfast: something sizzling on a skillet. A TV hummed in the background—the household media blackout lifted. She listened to these familiar noises and was comforted by their normalcy. It was easy to think that this was a new day, a better day. Everything about yesterday seemed like a dream, and maybe it had been.
But just as Salem convinced herself that Maxine’s advice had proven to be correct, she heard a noise—a sudden thud, glass crashing to the floor, and her father’s voice crying out.
Salem didn’t hesitate. Throwing the covers to the side, she took off running, slipping down the steps and rounding the corner into the kitchen. She assessed the milieu quickly. The sun filtered through the windows like it did every morning, and the room smelled like sausage. But it was easy to see what was out of place. Mimi was on the floor, still, and her father was bent over her, stroking her hair. He called his wife’s name and placed one hand over her blouse. Frantically, he felt around her neck with shaking hands. He was sobbing.
“Papá?” Salem’s voice cracked.
“Stay back!” he yelled, in a voice so full of anger and fear that Salem began to tremble. Her teeth chattered against each other, her hands flopping against her sides. The room went small and her vision tunneled.
“Papá?” she asked again. “Papá? Papá…” She could not even form a question.
“Stay… back…” he seethed. He removed his hand from Mimi’s neck, and he placed his head on her chest. Then he hit the floor with a fist. “No, no. No. No. No.” The television played in the background, and Salem noticed the chaos of its images. People in the streets. People in cars. Yelling. Bodies. Panic.
“What’s happening, Papá?”
“Call 911,” he said. Putting his hands on Mimi’s body, he shifted her to her back. Salem cringed and screamed—at least, she thought she screamed—she couldn’t tell if her voice was real or imagined. Her mother’s face was pure white, her eyes still open and cloudy; blood ran down her cheeks like tears; her lips turned lavender. She convulsed once, a deep twitch that shook her torso, and then her head rolled to the side.
Salem grabbed her cell phone from her pocket and pushed the emergency services button. Her phone beeped. All lines busy. It kicked her off. She tried again. All lines busy. Her third time, she got through. A woman’s soft voice hummed in her ear, mechanized, unfeeling. “Thank you for calling Multnomah County 9-1-1. We apologize for the delay. There is currently a one-hour wait to speak to a dispatcher. If this is a non-emergency, please hang up and dial our non-emergency number. Otherwise, stay on the line.”
“Well?” her dad shouted, and Salem shook her head.
“No one’s coming, Papá,” Salem whispered. “Talk to me…” She took a step forward, the phone still on hold. “Talk to me—”
Salem felt a compulsion to hold her mother and run her fingers through her hair. Just like she had with Bogart. Mimi’s hair was dark and disheveled against the kitchen floor, and Salem wanted to make it look nicer for the paramedics. Mimi would’ve been embarrassed for someone to see her like that, and Salem wanted to help. The stovetop popped and spat as the sausages burned and adhered to the pan. Thick, sweet-smelling smoke spiraled up until it reached the smoke detector, which beeped at them in short, shrill bursts.
Luis scrambled to his feet and stepped over his wife’s dead body. He grabbed the pan and threw it out over the kitchen island where it landed on the carpet. Sausage, grease, and fat flew everywhere. Then he sunk back down to the floor next to his wife and sobbed. Salem stood transfixed; she could not stop staring at her mother. How could it be real? How could any of this be real?
“You have to tell me what’s going on. You have to!” Salem’s voice trembled. “What’s wrong with Mom? Did she catch what Bogart had? Is she going to be okay?” The whole room began to smell like burned sausage. Salem slammed her phone on the counter and took bold steps forward, but her father was faster. He shot up from the floor and grabbed Salem by the arm. She squealed and kicked. “I want to see her. Let me see her!” Salem hit her father back, landing a balled-up fist against his back, but it did not deter him.
He raised his hand. It landed against her collarbone, and he shoved her back into the wall. It was the first time he had ever put his hands on her, the first time she had ever felt him use force, and she struggled against his grip, her back against the wall. This was not her father; this was not the man who comforted her last night with soft lullabies in the dark. This was a monster.
She thought of spitting in his face or kicking him in the groin, but then, through her tears, she looked at her dad. He was petrified. His skin was ashen, and his lips trembled. But he didn’t remove his hands from her.
“You can’t go near her. Something is taking people. Something is making them sick… and you can’t go near her.”
“I won’t catch it. I’ll be careful,” Salem said, and all the fight left her. “I need to help her. Let me help her.” She stopped pushing and let herself slump against the wall.
“Salem…” His voice was a whisper. “You cannot help her. Don’t
you see? We cannot help her.” Her father wrapped his arms around her and cried into her hair. She didn’t know if she wanted to pull away or let him stay like that forever.
“Will we get sick? Will you get sick?”
Salem didn’t feel sick. She felt broken, but not sick.
“I don’t know, sweetie. I was just watching the news… It’s everywhere. Everywhere.”
“I don’t want to die.” Salem knew it was true, she didn’t want to die, but she felt guilty for saying it out loud. What kind of life could she have without her mother? Was it unfair to want to live when she was gone? Was she really gone? Yes. Mimi was dead. She couldn’t say those words aloud, but she knew it was true. She didn’t want to spend any time on her own fear because she wanted to give herself over to the grief.
But no matter how hard Salem tried to bring herself back to the facts of the morning, she felt nothing but worry for her own well-being. She was going to die. Like Bogart and her mother and the countless other people in the world. She was going to die. And she suddenly felt selfish and evil.
“You listen,” Luis said, his voice firm. “If… if…”
“No, Papá.” Salem knew what he was going to say. She put her hands over her ears. “No, Papá.”
“You are the only thing I have left, Salem. And I won’t lose you. You listen. If anything happens to me… don’t leave this house. You wait for help. And you don’t come near your mom or me. Stay away. Go upstairs. Hide. Here, we should take things up there—make you a bunker. Food, flashlights.”
“What’s going to happen? Who’s coming?”
“The news. They don’t know. Those drones? They think drones—”
“Papá—”
“But if you stay away… stay safe…”
“Who am I staying safe from? We should leave. We should leave before it gets—”
“It’s already here,” Luis interrupted. He cupped Salem’s face and then dropped his hands, thinking better of it. “Lo siento, my daughter. She’s gone. She was here, and she’s gone. It’s already here. Don’t you see? It’s already here.”
They put a sheet over Mimi’s body. Salem took the one off her own bed; it was covered in pink and purple flowers, and she remembered buying the sheet set with her mom when she was twelve. Her mother loved it. Salem had wanted something more grown-up, but she lost the argument.
Luis asked her to read a prayer, and so she did. This time, she didn’t even try to balk at the request; her mother would’ve wanted her to read, and it was the least that she could do. He said she was still with them; that her spirit was still living, that they’d see each other again.
It was unbelievable. It wasn’t real. Her body trembled with shock, and when her mind drifted to the flowered sheet and the body under there, she didn’t know if she should scream or drop to her knees and wail. Instead, she turned to the wall and placed her forehead against the textured paint; she liked the way the tiny, pointed edges of the spackle poked into her skin and dotted her face. The pain felt good, so she pushed harder. Eventually, her father pulled her back and ran his hand over the indents. He didn’t admonish or say a word. Instead, he ran his own hand over the wall and let out a hum on the register of understanding.
She wondered if they would have to bury her mother next to Bogart under the cherry tree—they would have to move her—she couldn’t stay on the kitchen floor forever. Unless they’d all be dead soon, and then it wouldn’t matter. Something deep inside Salem wondered if that was easier. She didn’t want to die, that was true, but it was easier to imagine nothingness than it was to imagine living in the world without her mother.
Salem cried against her father’s shoulder, and he cried against hers. Together, they sat like that on the tiled floor until Luis stood up and pulled Salem with him. They walked to the couch, and he turned on the TV. They watched it on mute—the grisly images running without a filter—the warning on the top part of the screen didn’t seem to matter: Beware. Some images are graphic and disturbing. Viewer discretion advised.
Protect the children from the images on the news, but there was no way to protect the children from the horror in their own homes. Salem felt a pang of impenetrable sadness when her mind went to kids who’d been orphaned in a moment and left to navigate what was happening on their own. She wanted to jump up and run from house to house to save them all.
Luis trembled beside his daughter.
At first, Salem just thought he was crying, but when she turned, she realized that his body was shaking from head to foot as if seizing. His eyes were wide with fear.
His hands shook in jerky spasms, and the color drained from his face. He scrambled away from Salem and put his hands up to cover his mouth. A second later, he began to vomit. Luis collapsed to his knees and heaved up the remainder of last night’s Bogart-tribute dinner.
“No!” Salem screamed. She wanted to reach out to him, but she stayed rooted against the floor. Burying her head against the carpet, she tried to ignore the choking sounds, the coughing and sputtering. “No, God. Please. You can’t take them both. You can’t leave me alone like this. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. Don’t you dare take him. Don’t.”
But it was fast. Too fast for bargaining. Too fast to save him.
Her father crashed backward at an awkward angle against an ottoman, his mouth flopped open, and a stream of blood pooled out of his mouth. He coughed once, his eyes rolled back, then his body shuddered and went still, even as he gurgled in the back of his throat. Salem thrashed wildly against the living room floor—she kicked and screamed. She sobbed and cried out.
Her heart thumped so wildly that she was sure it would stop altogether, and her body ached as though each bone and fiber screamed out with her.
“Don’t go!” she said. “Don’t go!”
Salem repeated those two words and prayed as intensely and ferociously as she could. Don’t go. Don’t take him. Don’t do this to me. Don’t. Don’t. You can’t. No. No. Don’t go. Don’t.
Salem’s whole body hurt. Her bones felt brittle and broken. She stood to her feet and walked over to her father’s body. She wished her parents had a gun because she would take her own life swiftly; she wouldn’t even hesitate. Salem shared the house with the dead bodies of both of her parents. Outside, the world stumbled, fell, and extinguished itself. The dog was distant pain. She let out a strangled sob, and behind her, the TV ran on. Her eyes panned the room, and she saw the discarded remote. Walking over to it, she stepped on the unmute button with her toe and sank to the floor as noises filled the room. There were no more tears because Salem felt empty. She looked over at her dad, still slumped, the blood soaked into his shirt. And she prepared to die.
Nothing had been more certain. She was going to die.
“We are advising all people to stay inside. Stay inside your homes. Do not make an attempt to leave. There are limited emergency personnel. Wait, wait, I’m getting word… if you are already out and about, or if you feel your home is no longer safe, you are instructed to go to the nearest community safe spot. Those are usually schools or churches in your neighborhood designated as a central gathering point for rescue. This is only for people who find they cannot get back home. If you are home, do not leave. Stay in your homes. Stay inside.”
The lights flickered. Something outside crashed with such force that it shook the foundation—it sounded like a car drove into the side of their neighbor’s home. Salem couldn’t stay in the house; not with her mother and her father lifeless on the floor.
The news showed images of more bodies. Planes crashing.
Planes crashing.
Salem thought of Lucy and she rushed back to the counter where her phone lay unattended, still connected to the futile 911 call. The phone timer ticked away the seconds. Salem shook her head. Twenty-five minutes. That was when she had called 911; twenty-five minutes ago. She had thrown a sheet over her mom, prayed for her, and lost her father in less than it took to watch a stupid sitcom on television. Salem hung
up the call and pulled up her messages.
“Work, work, work,” she willed. She tried to text Lucy, but the tips of her fingers felt numb. Her legs wobbled, so she sat on the ground.
Salem: My family is dead. They’re all dead. It’s the end of the world.
Send.
It fluttered away.
Delivered.
“Read it. Read it,” Salem said, tapping her phone with her fingertip. It remained unread, unopened. And she couldn’t help but stare at the unread message with dread and hopelessness. If there was nothing on the other end—no Lucy—then there was no hope. She put the phone back in her pocket.
Mindlessly, Salem watched TV. The anchor that was there earlier in the morning had been replaced by a flush-faced girl in a ponytail. She was decidedly not camera ready, and her eyes darted across the teleprompter. Her lips moved, but no words came out. The set was quiet and Salem watched, transfixed.
“Hello… ummmm….” the girl said.
“Hello,” Salem answered, her voice flat.
“I don’t know… I can’t do this. It’s a madhouse out there… and…” The girl scanned what Salem could only imagine was an empty studio. “Mom, Dad, if you can see me, I’m okay. And—” Someone shouted something to her off-camera. She lowered her head. “We have reports that some countries are retaliating against the bio-terrorism with attacks of their own. While the known perpetrators of the airborne virus have not come forward, the virus is very much a bio-weapon… seeing as how…” She shrugged. “We don’t know anything. Go be with your families.” The girl then sat and sobbed. Her ponytail bobbed as she cried. She motioned for someone to cut the camera, but nobody obliged—or maybe nobody was there to listen to her. So, everyone still watching was witness to her collapse.
Her face contorted, and Salem thought it looked like she was melting. As the tears flooded her cheeks, thick lines of foundation washed away, leaving behind a trail of chalky white. Salem listened to her cry. It was deep like a seal bark and with sporadic, noisy inhales. The poor girl couldn’t catch her breath.
The Virulent Chronicles Box Set Page 28