by Amy Cross
Manhattan
As soon as the phone is switched on, the signal indicator starts to load and I wait with baited breath. Every day, just after lunch, I come to my bedroom and test to see if either the phone or internet system has managed to get up and running again. I keep thinking that one day, suddenly, out of nowhere, I'll get some bars of signal and I'll be able to communicate with someone. Anyone. But it never happens. For the fourth day running, there's no signal out there. The phone gives up, returning a 'Signal Failed' message before the battery indicator flashes critical and the system shuts down. I guess that's the end of that, then. The phone's out of power and I have no way to charge it up again. It's just a useless piece of plastic.
"Hello?" calls out a voice in the hallway.
My initial instinct is to panic, before I realize after a split second that I recognize the voice. Getting off the bed, I walk over to the door and head into the front room, where Harrison Blake is standing with a small rucksack over his back. He's wearing a thick coat and a hat, and it looks as if he's ready to get going on his journey. He said earlier today that he was planning to leave, but I wasn't sure he'd actually go through with such an insane plan.
"Hi," I say. I've only seen Blake a couple of times, and never one-on-one, so this feels a little awkward.
"I just came to say goodbye," he replies, setting the rucksack down on the chair by the door, "and to give you this. It's some food and stuff that I won't be able to carry, so I figured I should give it to someone who can use it."
"You're giving away food?" I ask.
"I figure it's better for me to be able to move fast, rather than to load myself down with too much stuff." He opens the top of the rucksack, revealing some packets of candy. "It's really not much. Nothing nutritious. But I guess sugar's always useful, right? Suddenly junk food isn't junk anymore." He smiles awkwardly, before closing the bag back up. "Anyway, I wanted to give it straight to you, rather than letting Bob fucking Sullivan get his greedy hands on it. The man's already stashing more food than he'll ever need, and I figured you might need some insurance. You don't want to put your survival in someone else's hands."
"Thanks," I say, finding the whole situation to be a little weird, "but I don't have anything to give you in return."
"That's okay. I wasn't looking for anything. I just thought it might be good for you to not be completely dependent on Bob. There's something about that guy that I really don't trust, and I don't really like the idea of him having control over everything in this building."
"He's definitely a little odd," I reply.
"He's not odd," Blake says. "He's dangerous. I've seen guys like him before. Small-minded people with a deep inferiority complex and a sense of resentment. They watch the world with hatred and they develop complex paranoid fantasies. Usually, they just waste away in their pathetic little lives, but sometimes something changes and they see an opportunity to shine. And then... And then this all happens, and suddenly - completely by accident - people like Bob are actually in a decent position. The guy's been storing ammunition away for years. He's got boxes and boxes of the stuff in his apartment. Doesn't that strike you as odd?"
"It's useful," I point out.
"It's a sign of paranoia," he replies.
"It's kind of useful."
"The guy's borderline mentally ill."
"Maybe," I say, "or maybe he just saw all of this coming a little better than the rest of us." I pause, realizing how crazy it feels to actually be defending Bob. "He's not perfect," I continue eventually, "but then, who is?"
"Listen," he says, "I know this is gonna come totally out of left-field, but I figured I should at least ask. Are you sure you don't want to come with me?"
"With you?"
"Yeah. I mean, I don't really know where I'm going, but I figure the city's a dangerous place to be right now. You're welcome to join me, and your brother too. I guess there's not much chance of him coming, but..." His voice trails off. "Sorry. You're right. This is a crazy idea, isn't it?"
"I have to wait here for my parents," I reply. "There's still a chance that they might make it here from the airport. I have to at least give them a few more days before..." I take a deep breath. The day's coming when I might have to reconsider my belief that they're still alive, but I don't have to face that moment yet. "Thanks for your offer," I say, "but I can't go. Not right now."
"Okay," he says. "Well, I'm just gonna head off. I hope things work out for you, Elizabeth. Stay safe."
"You too," I reply.
He pauses once again, almost as if there's something else he wants to say, and then he smiles and heads out of the apartment. I stand and listen to his footsteps as they get further and further away, and then I go to the rucksack and carry it through to my bedroom. Tipping it out onto my bed, I find that it's basically full of candy and potato chips, although at the very bottom there's a tatty old paperback book. The cover of the book has been ripped away, and the spine has been torn, while it seems that some of the early pages are also missing. After checking for a moment, I realize that there's no way to work out the title of the book, or who wrote it. In fact, with all the front material missing, the very first page is the start of the first chapter:
The creature reached out and felt the confines of its new world. Trapped in a thin, velvety cocoon, the creature struggled and struggled until finally it made a hole in the side of its prison, and it was able to wriggle to freedom. The first thing it saw was a vast and beautiful lake, under a bright, shining sun. Making its way to the edge of the water, the creature looked down and saw, for the first time, its own reflection. Its face had changed so much.
Flicking through the book, I struggle to work out what it's about. My first instinct, when faced with a new book, is always to go online and look it up, and to read all about the person who wrote it and about the different themes and ideas that other people have noticed. This time, though, I've got no such option; sitting on the bed, it's just me and a faded old paperback that has had its title and other details removed. Finally, I turn the book over and see that Blake has taped a key to the back page, next to which he's written a short message:
I've left something for you in my apartment. Something I can't take with me, but which might save your life one day. Keep it to yourself.
Taking a deep breath, I get off the bed and head out into the corridor. With Henry and Bob probably busy downstairs, I guess I have plenty of time to go and find out what Blake's message means. I head down in the stairwell until I reach one of the lower levels, and then I walk along to Blake's front door. The key fits the lock, of course, and I step into his apartment. Since his window isn't broken, Blake's apartment is a little warmer than my parents', and it immediately feels less chaotic. I carefully push the door shut before walking through to his front room.
And that's when I see it.
Or rather, them.
Hundreds and hundreds of them.
All four walls are covered, wherever possible, with bookshelves, and the shelves are absolutely packed with books. Looking at the ones near where I'm standing, I see that he has not only an extensive library of fiction, but also some non-fiction. He has books about history, and about medicine, and about science; he has reference books and maps and guides to nature; he even has recipe books, and books that explain how to build things. It takes me a moment to realize that Blake was right: the books in this place really could save my life one day. With no internet and no TV, the only way to get hold of information is to find old books. And that's what he's given me: a huge repository containing hundreds, possibly even thousands, of books on a wide variety of subjects, not only on bookshelves but also stacked up in the corridors. Hidden from the others. All mine.
Chapter Seven
Oklahoma
We can hear the coughing before we get home. As soon as we reach the edge of the forest, just a couple of hundred meters from the back of the farmhouse, the sound of my mother hocking her guts up is unmistakeable. It sounds ches
ty, as if she's got something in her lungs that she just can't bring to the surface. It's the exact same sound I heard the other day when Lydia was sick.
Glancing over at Joe, I see the look on his face: pure fear, born of the realization that the situation is serious. We make eye contact briefly, and I can tell that he's not ready to face this. I don't know whether it's easier or harder for him; he only saw the aftermath of Lydia's death, whereas I saw pretty much all of it. I guess neither of us is prepared for this moment. Light rain has been falling for the past few minutes, and the dry grass smells strong and sweet; at a time like this, our mother would usually be at the back door, calling for us to get home before we're soaked. But not today.
"I'm going to check the barn," Joe says after a moment, his voice dulled and sullen. He turns and starts stomping across the wet grass.
"Why?" I call after him.
"There might be more guns. We need to keep them safe."
I stand and watch as he disappears through the barn's open entrance. I want to go with him; I want to lose myself for hours and hours in a bunch of trivial jobs, but I know I have to go into the house. Our mother might be dying, and she shouldn't have to do that alone. Reluctantly, I walk over to the back door, before pausing to listen to the sound of her coughing. I guess I'm probably imagining things, but it almost sounds worse than it was a couple of minutes ago.
"Hey," I say as I walk through the door.
Startled, she looks over at me. I guess she didn't hear me coming, not over the sound of her own coughs. She's sitting at the kitchen table, with her notebook in front of her. I can immediately see that she's sick: her skin seems pallid and withdrawn, and her eyes are filled with apprehension. It's as if the sickness has tightened her skin a little, drawing her in so that her bones are more prominent. She smiles, but it's the worst smile ever: false and hopeless. The pages of her notebook are discolored by a faint spray of blood; she quickly turns to a fresh page, but it's too late. I saw.
She knows.
I know.
Whatever this thing is, it's inside her.
"How was the -" she starts to say, before coughing again. It's shocking to hear how much worse she's become in just a few hours. It sounds like she's trying to bring up some huge ball of phlegm that'll never come out.
"We didn't catch anything," I say, walking over to the table. I want to hug her but, at the same time, I'm scared to touch her.
"Don't come too close," she gasps, keeping her hands over her mouth. "I don't want you to -" She starts coughing again, and I see a little more blood dripping down onto her notebook. This is how it was with Lydia; this is exactly how it was with Lydia. She turns the page again, as if she thinks that a fresh, clear page is somehow a sign that she's not sick.
"Does it hurt?" I ask.
"No," she says quickly. "Not at all." She picks up her pen, takes a deep breath and starts writing in the notebook.
"What are you -" I start to ask.
"A story I've had in my head for a while," she says quickly, having anticipated the question. "Actually, I've been thinking about it for years, since before you and your brother were born. I thought I'd better finally get it down." She coughs again. More blood comes out and splatters over the page, and she quickly turns to a fresh sheet of paper and continues to write.
Grabbing a bottle of water from the cupboard, I place it next to her on the table. She pushes it aside.
"You need to drink," I tell her.
She shakes her head. "No point wasting water on me."
"No-one's wasting water," I reply, pushing the bottle back toward her. "It's raining. We'll have more soon."
"Is it?" she asks, turning to look over at the open door. "Oh. I hadn't noticed." She pauses, with tears in her eyes. "You're right. I can smell it. Petrichor."
"Petrichor?"
"The smell of rain after a dry spell. It's called petrichor. I learned that at school. Petrichor."
"I didn't know that," I say.
"Well, now you always will, won't you?" She sniffs back the tears. "Even when you're an old man, you'll still know the word petrichor. Try to remember it. It's one of those words that you can use to impress people." She starts coughing. Again, blood drips down onto the page; again, she turns to a fresh sheet of paper before she starts writing again. I can't help but notice that her handwriting seems sharper suddenly, with narrower angles and fewer loops; I guess she can't hide the tension in her body.
"I've been thinking," she says after a moment, "and I don't think you should stay here. You and your brother should get on out of this place and head to Scottsville."
I shake my head. I know what she's trying to do, but I'm not going to let her push us away.
"Be sensible, Thomas. I raised you to be sensible."
She starts coughing again. This time, when she turns to a fresh page in her notebook, she reaches the end. There are no more pages. "Don't be stupid, son," she says after a moment, staring down at her pen. "Look at me. I've got what that girl had. Whatever it is, there's nothing we can do about it, and I don't want you seeing that kind of thing again. It was quite horrible." She pauses for a moment, and I can tell that she's not going to back down. If there's one thing I know about my mother, it's that she stubbornly puts her family first in every situation, no matter how badly it might affect her. In fact, in all my life, I don't think I've ever known her to back down in an argument. "I've been thinking about it," she continues, her voice wavering slightly, "and I've made my mind up. I want you to go to Scottsville and find your father, and don't any of you come back here until you're absolutely certain that everything's okay. You'll need disinfectant and bleach in order to -"
"We're not leaving," I say firmly, starting to feel angry. Why does she keep talking like this? There's no way Joe and I can just abandon our mother to die slowly and painfully like this. "We'll take you to Scottsville," I say after a moment. "We'll put you in the other truck and we'll drive you there. There's got to be a doctor who can -"
She shakes her head.
"No, we can do it!" I continue. "We'll take you to town, and we'll find someone who knows what to do to help you! The problem with Lydia was that we didn't know what to do. You can't just give up like this! We'll take you with us. It makes sense. It's the best way to help you."
"You're grasping at straws," she replies, before coughing again. "I don't know what's happening, Thomas, but you have to face facts. It's something very, very bad, and it's beyond our control. You saw what happened to Lydia, and I don't... I don't want you to see the same thing happen to me. I've asked God to spare me, but I don't think he's listening. I don't think he's listening to any of us." She takes a deep breath, as tears start to roll down her face. "Or maybe he's listening, and this is his answer, but the only thing that will make this bearable is if I know that you and Joseph are safely on your way. I've sat here for hours and thought about it. Please, Thomas, just for once do what I ask."
"She's right," says a voice over by the door.
Turning, I see Joe staring at us. I don't know how long he's been standing there, but he has a solemn look on his face. For the first time in my life, I can see a real family resemblance between him and our mother.
"Listen to your brother," my mother says, smiling at me through her tears. "He's right, Thomas. This is no time for sentimentality or for stupid gestures. You saw what happened to that poor girl, and it's going to happen to me."
"When Dad comes back -" I start to say.
"He's not coming back," she replies, before pausing for a moment. "If he was coming back, he'd be here by now. I don't know what happened to him. I don't suppose I'll ever know, but he's obviously caught up in all of this. When you go to Scottsville, you have to be careful. Don't take any unnecessary risks."
"We're not leaving yet," I say. "It's too late in the day. We'll wait until morning." Turning to Joe, I can see that he knows I've got a point. "Think about it. We're better off waiting until dawn and leaving then. That way, we can be in Scott
sville in the afternoon. It makes no sense to go off when it's already getting dark."
"I don't want you here," our mother says quietly. "I don't want you getting whatever I've got."
"We'll be careful," I say, "and anyway, if we were going to get it, we'd have it by now. Joe was kissing Lydia before we realized she was sick, and I was standing right next to her when she exploded. For some reason, we're both immune, or at least it's harder for us to get infected. So we can wait until morning."
"I'll sleep in the barn," Joe says. "The house is too dangerous."
"You sleep in the barn too," my mother adds, staring at me. "You know it makes sense, Thomas. In the morning, you can set off and go to Scottsville. I'll be okay here. You know I can always manage. What will happen, will happen, regardless of anything we try to do to stop it."
Sighing, I realize she's saying whatever she thinks she needs to say to get us to leave. She's scared of infecting us, and she's willing to just stay here alone at the farm and wait to die, rather than do anything that might cause us to become sick.
"I'm going to check on you in the morning," I say eventually, fighting back the tears. "Before we leave, I'm going to make sure you're okay."
She smiles sadly. "That'd be nice."
There's an awkward silence for a moment, as if none of us can say what we're thinking. It's pretty clear that, barring miracles, she's going to be dead within a day, yet no-one can quite bring themselves to say goodbye.
"I'm going to bed," I say, walking over to the door. "I'll be in the barn."
"You should eat something," my mother calls after me.
"I'm not hungry," I say, turning back to face her. I know in my heart that this is the last time I'll ever see her, but I'm not ready to face that reality quite yet. "I'll see you tomorrow," I say eventually, as if saying the words will somehow make them come true.
"See you tomorrow," she replies.
I take a deep breath. "I'll see you tomorrow," I say again, before turning and hurrying out of the house and across the yard. By the time I reach the barn, I've managed to force the tears back; I'm not going to cry, not yet. As I clear a space on the cold concrete and sit down, I stare out at the house and think of my mother and Joe still standing in the kitchen, discussing things. For a moment, I'm able to trick myself into thinking that everything's going to be okay, that everything's normal. It doesn't last long, though. There's so much I don't know about what's happening, but there are a few certainties starting to make themselves clear: our father is gone, and our mother isn't going to be around for much longer.