Henry walked around the carefully made bed to the stenciled white dresser. He began rummaging around the drawers, pulling out armfuls of women’s clothing this time. A shadow caught his eye and Henry looked up, catching his reflection in the dusty vanity mirror. He stumbled backward and the withered tree snapped underneath him, ornaments shattering with a musical tinkle around him. He got up, brushing himself off and blushing, realizing the reflection was his. His face was almost entirely hidden, dark, matted hair covering all but his eyes and nose. He tried not to look, but he caught a glimpse of himself anyway. His bones seemed to be rising as the rest of his face sunk away. His nose had a crook that he didn’t remember and there were white wriggling maggots in the muck caught in his long beard. Henry shuddered and picked up the clothing. He hurried away from the mirror and down the stairs, away from both his hunger and revulsion, toward the safety of the others.
He carried the large bundle of clothing into the kitchen where the whole group now milled around. The three newly awakened people argued tearfully with Vincent and Molly for food.
One of them, a weaselly looking man, whose hair only remained in patches of long tufts stood very close to Vincent, his eyes squinting and his chest thrown forward. Henry thought there might be a fight and wondered if he had enough energy to stop it. “Look,” said the weaselly man, “how do you know all this stuff? Maybe you just want all the food for yourself. Why should we trust you?”
“What’s your name, son?” Vincent asked calmly.
“Rickey. And I’m not your son.”
“Rickey. I was a missionary before– before this. I worked in places with severe famine. I’ve seen people die because they were allowed to eat too quickly. We need to start with this powdered milk.”
“We’re not starving,” sneered Rickey, “We had that cow just a few days ago, don’t you remember?”
Henry watched Molly put her good hand to her mouth, as if she could stop the vomit that wasn’t going to come. It was a dry heave instead. He tried to block out the image of the rotting cow, but he could feel the slick, spoiled mush of the meat between his teeth even now. One of the women behind Rickey spoke up.
“I don’t think that was a few days ago. I think we’ve been asleep a while. I fell and scraped my hand on the porch when we were chasing those people. It was very bloody and I was so hungry. I– I kept licking my hand until I passed out. And now, the scratch is almost gone.” She held out a small hand where a large scab was flaking off and leaving clean skin behind.
“Even if it was only a few days ago,” said Vincent, “we haven’t been eating properly for a long time. Probably since we got sick. And the little we got from Phil’s men stopped, what? Three months ago now? Our bodies aren’t meant for that. We have to be careful.”
Henry held up the bundle of clothes. “Then let’s get dressed and get that water so we can at least have some of the milk.” He dumped the clothing onto the tiled floor and picked up one of the soup pots. He didn’t want to hear them argue about food any more, it made his whole body ache. He opened the back door and walked carefully onto the cool, overgrown yard. The dead grass was matted down in great silver whorls from where the snow had lain. A few patches of early clover had begun to poke through. Henry trudged slowly down a small slope to the pond. He had to push through thickly clustered reeds and yellowed lily pads to get to the water. He felt the chill of the water on his ankles before he realized he had stepped into the water. He backed up in surprise and looked at his feet. He touched them, poked his heel, pinched his big toe, but he couldn’t feel anything. He wondered when he’d had shoes or even socks on last. It was like trying to remember an endless bad dream, but he thought it must have been at the lodge. Marnie had made sure they had things like that. His feet must have been frostbitten sometime in the last three months. Henry wondered what else he didn’t know about his own body.
He watched his feet carefully as he filled the pot with the gray-green water. He didn’t want to make them worse. He’d have to remember to find some shoes to protect them. He wondered where Marnie was as he struggled back to the house with the heavy pot. She had come to visit him after Dave had stopped. Henry could remember her pushing a plastic plate full of food toward him with the handle of a broom. He had lunged at her, but the little girl hadn’t even flinched. She just looked sad. “I told you I’d take care of you if you got sick, Henry,” she’d said. She was the only one who’d called him Henry after a while. Henry sat down on the back porch, the heavy steel pot between the knobs of his knees. His memories were blurry, angry things, a smear of bloody rage populated by strange voices and faces. He hoped they would stay indistinct, locked away. But Marnie stood out, sharp and vibrant. He remembered every time he’d seen her. Something in his infected brain had built a barrier around her, as something separate, untouched by the madness that swallowed him. He hoped she had escaped the carnage at the lodge. He could still feel the warm pressure of her weight on his back as she unhooked the chains that held him and he could almost feel the warm panic in her breath as she’d said goodbye. He had been gnashing his teeth, roaring, straining to leap at the men beyond his pen. She probably thought he hadn’t heard her, but he had. He had to find her. Had to protect the little girl who’d been abandoned to the world by the people meant to care for her the most.
The back door creaked open behind him. The weaselly man, Rickey, came out holding an empty pot. “You ever going to bring that in, man?” he asked.
“Yeah, sorry, it was just heavier than I expected,” said Henry standing up.
Rickey snorted. “It looks bigger than you are, man. I mean, no offense, but you look like you’re hung together with spit and a prayer.” He glanced down at Henry’s soaked pant cuffs. “And if you’re taking a bath, I think you missed a couple spots.”
Henry laughed. “And you’re such a model of excellent health.”
“You’re okay. I’m Rickey.” He stuck out a thin hand.
Henry shook his hand. It felt good to be doing something human again. Even if he was wary of the man’s intentions. “Henry, nice to meet you.” He bent over and picked up the heavy pot. “Well, I better get this into the house. We’ll have to figure out a way to clean it I think. The pond’s mucky.”
Rickey nodded and headed toward the pond. Henry opened the back door and slid the heavy pot slowly across the kitchen floor. One of the women grabbed it and lifted it onto the stove top with a grunt. Vincent and Molly were portioning scoops of dry milk into empty cups. The other woman was sitting at the table reading the letter that had been left for them.
“How do we clean the water? Is it safe the way it is?” asked Henry.
Vincent shook his head, but it was the woman standing next to him that answered. “This is a gas stove, I think,” she said, “If it’s hooked up and we can find some matches we can boil the water.”
“Good idea Pam. If we can’t get it to work, there’s a fireplace in the living room,” said Vincent.
Henry opened the drawer next to the stove. Fishing around under the dish cloths and pot holders, he found an old box of matches. “Think they still work?” asked Pam.
Henry shrugged. “I’m not even sure how long it’s been since I got sick let alone when these people left.” He handed her the box. She turned the burner dial, but there was no thick hiss and she sniffed close to the range.
“The gas is off, I think.”
Henry remembered the neatly made bedroom. “I think these people evacuated. They must have closed up the house first. I’ll see if I can find the propane tank.” He looked around. “Anyone seen any shoes lying around?”
The woman reading the letter looked up. “There’s a laundry room with coats around the corner. I think I saw some boots in there.”
“Thanks,” said Henry and made his way into the little windowless room, tripping on objects in the dark. After fumbling around for a few minutes he found a mismatched pair of boots that fit him. They were both right feet, but Henry didn’t care
. He just wanted to eat. As he passed the table on his way out, he slid a finger along a small spill. It was stale and musty, but he didn’t think he’d tasted anything so good in a long while. He immediately regretted trying it. It only made him hungrier. He hoped the gas tank’s nozzle hadn’t rusted, he didn’t think any of them had enough strength to fight with it. He found the tall cylinders just around the corner from the back door. The people that had lived there were careful, the hose was disconnected and carefully coiled and covered with a plastic tarp. The propane cannister was turned off and capped with a snug plastic piece. Henry sighed with relief and reconnected the hose and turned the gas on. Rickey was stumbling back toward the house, trying not to spill half of the water. Henry helped him bring the heavy pot back inside. Pam was already heating the water. Henry tried not to watch the stove or the glasses with their drifts of tiny powdery balls. He walked over to the woman who had been reading the letter. It sat in front of her now as she watched Pam at the stove.
“Hi,” said Henry, “Do you mind if I read this?” She shook her head and handed him the paper and went back to staring at the stove top. Henry retreated to the living room.
Thirteen
“I wish I could be here to tell you this instead of leaving a letter, but this is an emergency. I hope you can forgive us for leaving you to recover by yourselves. My name is Nella Rider. I’m a psychologist who worked for a long period in a Cure camp with the Infected– people like you. I’m traveling with Frank Courtlen, the man who administered the Cure to you. He was also Infected once. We’ve both seen what you will be experiencing in the next few weeks and months. And we both regret not being here when you woke up.
I don’t know how much you knew about what was happening before you became infected, or how much you can remember about it. The world has changed since you’ve been ill. There is no easy way to tell you how much it has changed, not even if I were able to speak to you face to face as I would like. The first news of what we call the December Plague came roughly eight years ago now. I know that people who have been cured remember most of what has happened in the intervening time since infection, but those memories can be blurry for the first few weeks. For better or worse, they will return with greater clarity after a while.”
Henry looked away from the letter. He buried a hand in his filthy hair and clenched his jaw. He wasn’t surprised that it had been so long since he had been infected. He’d watched Dave and Marnie grow older and Phil grow meaner without realizing what he saw, but he understood it now that his head was clear. He didn’t want to remember. He wanted it to stay a vague whirlwind, to never resolve itself into definite focus. He heard spoons clattering in the kitchen, but he didn’t go back in. He looked back at the careful words on the page.
“For two years there was terrible violence between the Infected and Immunes. Many, many people died. The federal government is gone. Contact with the world beyond a fifty mile radius around the City is non-existent. At last, only a small immune population was left, kept safe behind the Barrier. But then the Cure was discovered. Six years ago the military began using sleeping darts to administer the Cure to groups of Infected. We tried very hard not to miss anyone, but there are so few of us left. There were bound to be blind spots as we expanded from the City. I’m sorry that we passed you by somehow, until now. It’s been a long crawl back towards normal life, and we are nowhere near finished. The Cure has helped hundreds of people over the past few years, but the military began finding fewer and fewer groups of Infected as more and more succumbed to exposure or starvation. They’ve all but wrapped up their Cure operation now, which is why they didn’t find you.”
The others must have been shocked to realize they had lost six years needlessly. If they’d known how close the early Cure camps had been, they might despair. But Henry knew. It had been Elizabeth who had told him. He wondered if Marnie knew, even now, what had happened to her mother.
Elizabeth had fed him first, so he would listen. Even Marnie hadn’t been able to sneak him food that week. Phil had thrown the corpses of a rival camp over the palings, but he’d allowed none of the Infected to be fed anything else. He’d even threatened to tie those that violated his order to the central pole of the pen and release the Infected from their leashes.
But Elizabeth had walked into the pen at midday, brazenly holding a platter mounded with real, warm food. She’d ignored the howls of the other Infected, just skirting the reach of their leashes. She’d come straight to Henry. She’d put down the food and shoved the platter with her foot into his small, worn, dirt ring so he could reach it. Then she had squatted and watched him while he stuffed himself. This memory was like a clear photograph among hundreds of blurs. He remembered how dark her bruised eye had been compared to the blond hair falling across it, the twisted puff of her split lip in the smooth, drawn lines of her pale face. She’d watched him until his growling and lunging had stopped, until he was full and the mild sedative she’d put into the food took effect. He swayed and looked at her, glassy eyed, like a tired child. And then at last she had spoken to him.
“I should have picked you, Henry, all those years ago. Even knowing what you’ve become. It still would have been the better choice. Instead I’m yoked to a coward.” Elizabeth turned her head and spat. It had been a pink stream in the black dirt of the pen. “I know you can’t answer me. I don’t even know if you can understand what I’m saying. But sometimes I wonder if I still see a flicker of the old Henry. I wonder if you are still trapped in there. So I came to tell you that there’s a Cure.”
She leaned in, close enough for Henry to bite. But he was no longer hungry and the sedative muted his normal aggression. He snarled, but he didn’t move toward her.
“There’s a Cure. And it isn’t far away. But Phil doesn’t want you cured. He wants to keep his guard dogs. He wants to stay king of scenic Cannibal Lodge.” Elizabeth laughed and Henry had backed away. A chill cut through even the confusion of the infection, his sick brain sensing an even sicker one in her.
Elizabeth’s eyes streamed tears even as she continued to smile and speak calmly. “But I’m going to the Cure camp anyway. And when I come back, I’m bringing the army. They’re going to cure you all. And then you and the army, you can give Phil what he deserves.” She covered her breasts with her arms as if she were cold. “Oh yes, Henry. Then you can do what Dave will not and make sure Phil pays for everything he’s done.”
Elizabeth stopped and swiped at some of the tears and her face became threatening. Henry began to pace his dirt circle, the mild sedative overridden by his increasing agitation at her presence. She backed out of his reach.
“Marnie told me you have a deal. Henry, if you can hear any of this– if you understand or remember or even dream any of this, pay attention. I know you have a deal. I know you promised to take care of her if she got sick and she promised to take care of you. I know you didn’t really mean it when you said it. I know you didn’t expect to get sick. But Dave won’t protect her. Doesn’t protect her. And if something happens to me– I’m taking care of you. I’m getting the Cure for you, Henry. So I’m going to hold you to your promise. I’m taking care of you for Marnie. So you need to take care of Marnie when you can. No matter what, Henry. Don’t leave her alone here with these people. Even if Dave stays with them. I’m taking care of you, so you’ll take care of her when I’m gone. Remember Henry.”
He started as Vincent handed him the hot glass of reconstituted milk.
“Drink it slowly. Sips at a time. Or it will hurt,” he said.
Henry nodded and set aside the letter and Elizabeth’s memory. He held the cup with both hands as if it would give him more control of himself. Hunger rumbled through the aching echo chamber of his gut and he raised his cup in front of his face. The steam was a warm, sweet breath on the small patch of his face not buried in hair. The slightly soured smell of the stale milk made Henry salivate. He was relieved that he could still find something besides meat appealing. This is going
to be difficult, he thought, and pulled the cup to his lips. It took a superhuman effort to stop drinking after just a small gulp. His hands were shaking as he lowered the cup to his lap. Most of him wanted to tilt the glass all the way back, fill the cold hollow of his belly with a the warm slosh and gurgle of too much milk. But he knew Vincent was right and forced himself to stop and count slowly to five before the next sip.
Pam crept up to him, holding a small spoon. She held it out to him as if she expected him to slap it from her hand. He took it, confused.
“It will help you not drink it all at once. The priest said just a spoonful at a time. It will stop you from gulping.”
“Thanks,” said Henry. She sat down across from him near the fireplace. The clothes he’d brought down were so large, she almost disappeared into them, a bundle of sticks inside a parachute. He wondered if he looked the same.
“Are you going back for your daughter?” she asked as she lifted her spoon.
The Cured Page 8