by Amy Cross
"We need to find some cash," I mutter, hurrying past him and heading to my bedroom. "We can't go confronting anyone. We just need to make sure we've got some money." As soon as I'm in my room, I start going through all my drawers, desperate to find some coins and notes.
"You can do what you want," Henry says, standing in the doorway and watching my frantic search. "I'm gonna go and find whoever took our food, and I'm gonna make them give it back. They're probably going door to door, stealing from every apartment."
"Yeah?" I ask, as I start going through the pockets of my old jeans. "You and whose army, Henry?" When he doesn't reply, I look over and see that he's already gone through to another part of the apartment. I hear him in the kitchen, and then finally I hear the front door open. "Henry!" I shout, racing through to the hallway just as he heads out into the corridor. The first thing I see is a large knife in his hand. "What the hell are you doing?" I ask, my heart racing.
"I'm gonna get our food back," he replies.
"What the fuck?" I say, grabbing his arm and pulling him back into the apartment. "Are you serious? You're gonna get yourself killed!"
"No-one steals from us," he says. "They think they can just come into our house and take our food. I'm gonna show them that we're not gonna just roll over and let them do it."
"Excuse me," says a nearby voice.
Turning, I see a man standing in the doorway. He's middle-aged and a little overweight, with a receding hairline and a curious smile on his lips.
"Who are you?" I ask, grabbing the door in case I need to slam it shut.
"Uh, we met yesterday. I'm Bob, from downstairs. It was kind of dark, so I guess you didn't get a look at my face."
I stare at him for a moment. "Hi," I say eventually.
"I couldn't help overhearing you two arguing from downstairs. Thin floors are so thin, you know? Anyway, I think there's been a bit of a mis-understanding regarding the items from your refrigerator. They've been taken to a central hub down in the building supervisor's office." He pauses. "I'm the building supervisor, in case that wasn't entirely clear. Given the circumstances, I used my skeleton key to enter all the apartments and commandeer any food that I could find. Seeing as you weren't here when I came, I kind of assumed you'd gone."
"You took our food?" I say, still finding Bob to be a little creepy.
"Yes, M'am," he replies, "and it's all safe downstairs in the office. Now, I'll gladly bring it back up to you, but what I'm proposing is that, instead, we all pool our resources while we wait for this situation to pass."
"Give us our food back," Henry says.
"I can certainly do that," Bob says, glancing down at the knife in Henry's hand. "I absolutely wouldn't want to cause any trouble. Like I said, I figured you'd left the apartment. Most of the building is empty right now, thanks to whatever it is that's caused all this, so there was just a mis-understanding." He smiles cautiously. "If you're interested, those of us who are still around have decided to have a little meeting down in the office in a while. We figured we might be better off if we have a kind of group approach to things. Pool our resources, you know?"
"Pool our resources?" I reply, a little confused.
"We want our food," Henry says firmly.
"Why don't you just come on down to the office with me?" Bob continues. "You can see what we've got in mind, and if you still don't like it, I'll help you carry your food back up myself."
Henry turns to me.
"Okay," I say, taking a deep breath. I figure we might as well find out what's going on down there. Bob might be right; if this 'situation' is going to last much longer, we need to have a more effective approach. It might be days or even weeks before everything's back to normal.
"Okay?" Henry asks, looking a little surprised.
"Okay," I say. "We'll go and see what they're talking about."
"Like I said," Bob continues, "this has all been a mis-understanding. I hope you'll come down in about half an hour and we can all talk things over. I figure folks have got to stick together when times are rough, huh?"
"Yeah," I say. "We'll be there." As Bob turns and walks away, I shut the door and turn to Henry. "We might as well see what they're talking about," I tell him. "We've got to go down to fetch our food anyway, so we might as well see if we can learn anything. They might know more about this situation."
"I'm not giving up our food," he replies. "It's our food."
"I know," I say. "I just think we need to play things a little smart."
He stares at me for a moment. "I'm taking the knife with me. For protection."
"Henry -" I start to say, but he turns and heads through to the bathroom. I figure there's not much point arguing with him; he'd just become more determined to do things his way. I'm starting to worry about Henry, since his mood seems to be swinging quite dramatically from one extreme to another. I guess he's scared, but things are only going to get worse if he insists on throwing his weight around. I just need to manage him a little, and make sure he stays calm while we wait for things to get better. At least it's starting to look as though there's light at the end of the tunnel; from what Bob said, it sounds as if people are getting organized, which means we're not on our own anymore. Maybe I'm being a little premature, but I think perhaps we've passed the worst point.
Chapter Seven
Oklahoma
I can still hear Lydia coughing as I stand on the porch and watch the truck heading off. I don't like the idea of my father heading to Scottsville, but at the same time I have this calming voice in the back of my head, constantly telling me that it's going to be okay. After all, my father's the kind of man who never gets into too much trouble. Even if there's a problem, he'll find a way to get through it, and I'm fairly confident that he'll be back tomorrow, hopefully with tales of Scottsville being fine and fully populated. Finally, things'll start getting back to normal. He'll have a bunch of stories about all the shit that's been happening, and we'll be able to laugh about how we all started to get worried.
Lydia, though, is another matter.
Looking down at the gas mask in my hand, I realize that I'm going to have to take extra precautions. The mask is an old one, left behind by my grandfather. It's made of thick, dark green rubber, with two large glass eyepieces and a long, snout-like protuberance over the mouth, which I guess is where the filters are located. I remember him explaining that it was from the Second World War or something like that. I'm not entirely certain that it'll protect against infection, but I figure it's worth a try. If nothing else, it's going to be fun to wear it, since the damn thing looks terrifying.
As I head inside, I can hear Lydia's coughs getting worse and worse. I've been around people with bad coughs, but this sounds like something else. It's as if she's convulsed with a need to constantly hack up her guts. I doubt she can keep even a simple meal down, and it's getting to the point where she might even strain her heart. If the internet was working, I'd start looking up her symptoms in an attempt to work out what's wrong; as it is, I have to make do with the meager bookcase in the front room. Unfortunately, my family has never been particularly bookish; I've always kind of stood out in that regard, but we don't have anything that could help diagnose the problems that Lydia's facing.
Heading through to the kitchen, I find my mother ladling some soup into a bowl. I can tell immediately that she's planning to take it upstairs to our guest, and I'm struck by a determination to make sure she doesn't get exposed to the infection.
"I'll take this," I say, quickly placing the bowl onto a tray.
"No," she replies, "it's fine. I can do it."
"Look," I reply, holding up the gas mask for her to see. "I found it in the barn. I'm gonna wear this when I take the tray in."
"Don't be silly," she says, almost smiling. "Isn't that your grandfather's old thing?"
"You'd rather I don't wear it?"
"I don't want you going in there!" she insists.
"It won't fit you," I point out.
; She pauses. "Make sure it's on properly, okay? Even the smallest gap could make the whole thing useless."
"It's okay," I say, turning back to her. "I won't catch whatever she's got. Besides, if one of us has to get sick, it's better if it's me. At least that way, you can make sure everything's okay. If you catch it, Joe and I are gonna end up starving."
She stares at me for a moment. "Wash your hands thoroughly after you've been in there," she says eventually, already starting to wipe down the surfaces. "There's antiseptic cream in the bathroom, so make sure you get every trace of that room off your hands, do you hear me? And try not to be in there for too long. Don't breathe too deep."
"I won't," I say, hurrying out of the kitchen and making my way up the stairs. To be honest, I'm quite surprised that she let me take the tray to Lydia at all. I expected a much tougher fight, but I guess she's being pragmatic: it's true that she's the member of the family who's least dispensable right now, since my father went away, and it's also true that the gas mask might be a little too small for her. When I get to the top of the stairs, I immediately put the tray down and take a moment to fix the mask over my head. It's pretty weird once it's on: I can't see too well, and I can hear my own breathing really loud, and everything smells of dust. Still, it's better than nothing.
I pick up the tray and gently push Lydia's door open. She's rolled over onto her side in bed, facing the window, and at first I can't see her face as I carry the tray over to the bedside table and set it down next to the piles of used paper tissues. She's still coughing, of course, but the bucket looks as if it hasn't been used.
"I brought you some soup," I say, my voice sounding extremely muffled thanks to the gas mask.
Slowly, she rolls over to look at me. It's shocking to see how drained and ill she looks, and her skin has turned almost yellow, while her eyes are bloodshot. She also seems to have lost weight, even though it's been less than a day since I last saw her. All in all, she's doing a damn good impression of someone who's getting dangerously sick, and right now it looks like it might even be touch and go whether she makes it through another night.
"Thank you," she rasps, barely able to get the words out. Her throat sounds so dry, as if she's swallowed razor blades and bramble.
"I'll come up for the tray in about an hour," I tell her. "See if you can eat something. It's probably good for you. It's home-made, so it's fresh and..." My voice trails off as I realize how weird I must sound. It's ridiculous, trying to have a normal conversation from under a gas mask.
"What are you wearing?" she asks weakly, narrowing her eyes as she stares at me. She starts looking around the room, as if panicked by my appearance. "Where the hell am I?"
"You're in our house," I say. "This is just a precaution. I don't want to get whatever you've got."
She stares at me for a moment, before breaking down into another coughing fit. I stand and watch, but eventually I realize that she's probably not going to stop any time soon. Just as I'm about to turn and leave the room, I spot something on her hands, and I see that she's coughing up blood. Not a lot of blood, but definitely a small amount, spraying against her fingers. I walk around the bed and see that there's more blood down on the other side, splattered against the wall and the floor.
"Holy shit," I mutter quietly. My heart starts racing as I realize that this is absolute, final proof that whatever's affecting Lydia, it's far more serious than simply flu. Leaning closer, I see that some of the blood is actually a kind of fleshy material. It's almost as if she's starting to literally cough up part of her lungs or throat.
"I'm okay," she splutters, before starting to cough again. This time, I spot a larger piece of flesh coming out, as if part of the lining of her throat has become detached. She wipes it on the bedsheets, almost as if she's not even aware of its existence. "I'm fine," she says breathlessly.
"You need to see if you can keep the soup down," I say, even though I know it must be a forlorn hope. To be honest, I'm starting to wonder if there's any way she can even survive. Unless she starts improving soon, she's going to end up losing too much blood and too many liquids. "You... You should just try to relax."
"Can you -" she starts to say, before she starts coughing again. "Can you call a doctor? I think I might need to see someone."
"The phones aren't working," I say.
"Still?" I can see the panic in her eyes, as if she's starting to realize that the situation is pretty hopeless. "What the fuck's wrong with this place? Why can't you have fucking phones that work?"
"It's not that," I reply. "It's all over the place. The power's out."
"Fucking hicks," she says, spitting up another blob of blood. "It's like I've wondered into one of those horror films where a bunch of country idiots take someone hostage."
"We're trying to help you," I insist. "All the power's been off for a day now. Someone's gonna fix it, though, and then we'll get someone here straight away." I turn to leave the room, but suddenly she grabs my arm and pulls me back.
"Don't leave me here," she says, staring at me. "Get me outside. I need to be outside."
"No-one's gonna leave you here," I say. For the first time, I get a really good, close-up view of her face. It's shocking to see how far she's deteriorated. Her skin seems to have become slightly yellow, and a little translucent, while her lips are chapped and cracked, and there's dried blood in her nostrils. Her eyes are bloodshot, and she seems to be sweating heavily.
"I don't -" she starts to say, before she suddenly starts coughing again. This time, although she tries to cover her mouth, some of the blood sprays against the gas mask. I pull away and step back toward the door, shocked at the mixture of blood and phlegm that's covering the eyepiece. Instinctively, I try to wipe it away, although then I realize that I'm getting the mess on my bare hands.
"Shit," I mutter.
"I'm sorry -" she says breathlessly.
"It's okay," I say, staring at my hand and imagining the germs spreading like wildfire.
"No," she gasps, trying to get out of bed. "It's not okay."
"Stay there!" I shout. "You can't leave the room!"
"You can't keep me here," she says, stumbling as she tries to reach me. She's clearly pretty weak, and now that she's up, I can see that there's blood on her legs and feet. "It's better if I just leave. I'm only going to make you all worse."
"You can't come out here!" I say, stepping back through the door. "You need to stay in bed!" I wait for a moment, but she's still making her way toward me. Finally, figuring I've got no other options, I pull the door shut and hold the handle tightly as Lydia tries to get out.
"Let me out!" she shouts. "I can't be in here!"
"You have to!" I shout back.
"Let me out right now!" she screams. "I'm not joking! If you don't let me out, I'll have you arrested for imprisonment!" She starts coughing again. "Let me out!" she rasps, and it sounds as if she's sliding down onto the floor.
"I can't," I say quietly, although I doubt she can hear me through the gas mask and the door.
After a moment, I hear her stumbling or crawling away from the door, and finally she seems to have got back onto the bed. She's coughing again, but this time there's another noise mixed in: I think she's sobbing. I keep my hand firmly on the door handle, not even pausing to wipe the mess from my mask. Listening to the sound of the bed creaking as she gets back under the covers, I quickly go to the cabinet at the top of the stairs and sort through the drawers until I find the key-chain. Luckily, the first one I try turns out to be the right one for the door to the guest room, and I take a step back once the door is locked. If I hadn't been wearing the gas mask, I'd have got a full load of blood and snot straight in my face.
"Sorry," I say quietly.
Hurrying through to the bathroom, I remove my shirt and trousers, and finally I slip out of the gas mask and drop it into the bath before I start washing my hands. Unfortunately, after just a few seconds the water flows to a trickle, and I'm forced to grab some anti-bacteri
al gel from the cabinet and slather it all over my hands and arms. It takes about ten minutes before I decide that I might finally be clean, and then I use some more of the gel on the gas mask, trying to make sure it's as clear as possible. By the time I'm done, most of the gel is used up, but I figure I had no choice. At least this way, I know I've managed to get all the germs off my body.
"Is she okay?" my mother asks. I turn to see her standing in the doorway, looking worried. She must have heard Lydia shouting for me to let her out.
"She coughed blood on me," I say. "By accident, but... I managed to get it off, though. I'm clean."
"It sounded like she was trying to get out of the room."
"She was," I say. At that moment, we both hear the sound of Lydia trying to open the door again. "I locked it," I explain. "It seemed like it'd be better to keep it contained in that room, rather than letting her wander through the house."
"That's probably a good idea," she replies. "Where's the key?"
I reach into my pocket and hold it out to her.
"Keep it safe," she replies, before turning and walking away.
Taking a deep breath, I throw my old shirt and trousers into the laundry basket before going through to my room and find something fresh to wear. Once I'm done, I sit on the end of my bed and listen to the sound of Lydia still trying to get the door open. She starts calling out for someone to help her, but I know there's nothing we can do. We just need to wait until things get back to normal, and hope that by then there's still a chance to save her. I look up at the bulb that hangs from the ceiling. Any second now, it could flick back on and this whole nightmare could be over; I continue to stare at the bulb, hoping and praying that things are gonna get back to normal, convinced that the light might come back at any moment.
Chapter Eight
Manhattan
"Let me lay it out straight," Bob says, sitting at his desk in the office while he addresses the five of us who have gathered for this impromptu meeting. "We don't know what's happened. All we know is what we can see when we look out the window, and I think we've all seen the same things. Planes coming down, deserted streets, stationary traffic in the distance. These are not good things. It's very clear that there's been some kind of catastrophic event that has cut power and water to the city. The lack of intervention by any external agencies makes it pretty clear that this catastrophic event is not confined to New York. I think we're talking about something on a national level, possibly even international. Every hour that passes without some kind of sign from the outside world, things look worse and worse." He pauses for a moment. "If nobody's coming to the rescue, that can only mean one thing. There's nobody left to come to the rescue."