When she’s finished, Aaronovich steps back and considers the girl, as though she’s an artist evaluating her canvas. Naked, skinny, and bald, the girl looks less human than when Aaronovich first saw her; she seems, in fact, quite alien. Satisfied that she’s done all she can to manage the risk of infection – all she can humanely do – Aaronovich drapes a blanket over the girl. She’ll have to ask Doyle or Foster to have an expedition bring back some children’s clothing. In the meantime, she settles for shortening and adjusting one of the small stock of smocks she keeps. She’s never had much interest in sewing, and the result is more like a sack than the dress she’d intended. She succeeds with difficulty in getting it onto the girl. Then Aaronovich carries her upstairs and tucks her into her own bed.
It only occurs to Aaronovich as she sits, for what seems the first time in an age, and lets the tension start to ebb out of her, that she can’t keep referring to the girl as the girl. She’s going to have to come up with a name.
* * *
Ben’s hands are shaking. Something has allowed him to drive back here, something sustained him through all those long hours. He can’t say now what it was. His hands are shaking, but he can no more control them than he could control any of these grim-faced men gathered about the truck. Ben knows that soon the shaking will get worse, perhaps much worse, but he feels no accountability.
However, he has to make use of his body before it fails him. Ben works the handle, shoves the door, and climbs out. He knows what he has to do, what he needs if he’s going to survive this. He knows exactly what he’s looking for, and thanks to that insight, the shaking is gone and his body is his own again, muscles working in happy unity to fulfill this most crucial of tasks. Ben reaches into the back of the truck, finds what he seeks, and slips it within the inside pocket of his jacket.
Then the truck is a dizzying blur and pain explodes in his nose. Tumbling, he’s kept from the ground by hard hands and his torso being slapped across the hood. By the time Ben has rationalized what’s happened and got around to wondering who, fingers are pinning his shoulder, an elbow is driving into his ribs.
“So what the fuck happened, Silensky? You feeble little shit? Where’s Landser, man?”
Curtis Colton: six-three and most of that polished slabs of muscle, rarely less than angry and now full-blown enraged. He and Landser had hung together, a friendship that seemed to predate Funland. Colton has Ben pinned effortlessly to the hood of the truck, just as he effortlessly bounced his face off its roof, just as he will effortlessly tear Ben’s arms off if he feels that needs to happen. And all Ben can think of is the object in his pocket and whether it remains in one piece.
“Jumped,” he manages. “We got jumped.”
“What?” Colton slaps the back of Ben’s head, rebounding his jaw from the still-warm hood. “You what?”
“He’s dead,” Ben mumbles.
“What? What?”
“He’s dead.”
Then Colton has his arm, his bad arm, has dragged it free of the sling, and Ben knows that in a moment he’ll start to twist, contorting the already damaged muscle, and he won’t stop. “You’re fucking dead.”
“Get off him, Colton.”
Colton doesn’t release Ben’s arm, but the pressure relaxes, ever so slightly.
“Seriously. Back down.” It’s Foster. Hardly the savior Ben might have hoped for, had he dared to hope.
Yet Colton lets go, taking care to do so with one last wrench, which sends pulses of pain deep into Ben’s shoulder. “If he got Landser killed—”
“I get it,” Foster says. “But there’s a time and a place.”
“You just better—”
“Hey!” Foster snaps. “Don’t push your luck. Go on, get out of here.”
Ben, half expecting the sound of Colton’s fist connecting with Foster’s jaw, is dimly taken aback to hear the scuff of his retreating footsteps instead. What is it with people listening to Foster these days, Foster who no one likes or respects? But then, obedience has nothing to do with that. Currently the population of Funland is glad for anyone to tell them what to do. And though Colton might be dumb, he isn’t so dumb that he doesn’t know that there’ll be other, better opportunities, if revenge turns out to be called for.
Feeling Foster’s eyes on him, Ben flops over onto his back. Finding that his legs won’t keep him up, he slides until he’s propped against the nearest wheel. He gulps dusty evening air and tries not to throw up.
Foster is regarding him with steady contempt. “So, I just heard what happened. Landser and Houseman dead, you here and very much alive. Not a great trade, is it? But oh, it gets better. Because you brought us a pet…a little murderous pet to keep us company. That about the size of it, Silensky? Or you got more surprises hidden up your sleeve?”
Massaging his bad arm, Ben succeeds only in spreading the pain. “No,” he says, “that’s all of it.”
“Jesus.” Fleetingly, Foster’s contempt almost strays to pity. “Get your shit together, Silensky. Tomorrow, you and me are going to have a talk. Since you’re the one that came back, you’re the one who gets to be responsible.”
Ben nods. Yes, he’s responsible. He made a call, a bad call. And somehow he’s going to have to deal with that, but not right now. Right now he’s not sure he can deal with standing up.
“Tomorrow,” Foster repeats. He starts to walk away. Then he hesitates to call back at the gathered cons, “And someone get this fucking truck unloaded, will you? Jesus.”
Ben crawls to his feet. He had forgotten about the others, those who crowded round when he first returned. They’re still standing there, bored, riled, some of them smiling without humor, but all watching him. Ben Silensky. Silensky, with two more corpses to his tally.
He turns and stumbles off. He thinks someone will shout after him or follow. None of them do. Only when he nears the spot where the southern edge of the administrative wing runs close to the wall does he dare reach inside his coat. Ben feels warily for the bottle, ready to flinch from shards of glass and the antiseptic stink of whiskey.
It’s in one piece. Oh god, it’s in one piece.
And despite everything, despite Colton and Foster and Houseman and Landser and the memories threatening at every moment to crash in like a wave and scour his mind red, Ben breathes a sigh of relief.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Doyle gives Aaronovich an hour, conscious that the time is more for his benefit than hers. His thoughts are like clouds scudding ahead of a gale, and he needs them to settle at least fractionally before he confronts the doctor again. Rationally, he knows he should be there, that someone should be. How far have they fallen that anybody would consider leaving her alone with a Sicker, even if that Sicker is also a child?
Yet Doyle saw how that small creature went to Aaronovich, and how she followed her. Maybe his presence will do more harm than good. Doyle tries to convince himself of that as he sits on his bed, watching the far wall turn through deepening shades of gray.
Finally, he shakes himself. He thinks about checking in with Carlita before he sets out. Shouldn’t she know what’s happened? No, he’s making excuses, and this needs to be dealt with. He’s already left it too long. Doyle forces himself up and out the door before the lethargy can retake its hold on him.
The yard is empty now. The truck is gone. The sky is black and starless.
Doyle finds Aaronovich in her outer office, sitting in one of the shapeless plastic chairs. She looks up when he enters.
“Doctor,” he says.
“She’s in my apartment,” Aaronovich responds. “Sedated.”
Straight to the point, then. “Good. Make sure she stays that way.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snaps, abruptly angry. “I’ve told you. That’s a little girl in there.”
“And I told you. Whatever else she might be, she’s dangerously
sick.”
“Sick?” Aaronovich says. “That’s undeniable. But dangerous? There’s no evidence of that, and until Abigail—”
He doesn’t let her get any further. “Doctor, what the hell?”
“She has to have a name,” Aaronovich replies sullenly.
“It doesn’t have to have anything. It is at best an infectious carrier of a disease, at worst a crazed monster that will turn on you the first time its rabid brain decides you’re looking at it wrong. Every minute you treat it like a human being is another minute you put yourself and everyone here at risk.”
But Doyle isn’t used to making speeches. He’s surprised by how quickly he’s burned through his stock of anger. He takes a deep breath, which immediately dissolves into a groan. He won’t be able to hold his own in an argument with Aaronovich. That leaves him two options: act now and do what he originally intended to do, or give in.
“Why Abigail?” Doyle asks.
Aaronovich scrutinizes him, no doubt measuring whether the question is genuine or only a fresh line of attack. “Before Micha – before my son got sick, Daniel and I were talking about trying for a second child. We both wanted a daughter. It’s just one of the names we discussed. I suppose the one I liked the most.”
On some level, it’s the answer Doyle had been expecting. “Doctor—”
“Johnson,” she says, “I’m not a fool. I’m not delusional. I’m not imagining that little girl is the daughter I never had. But she is a little girl. You saw what she was like out there. She was scared, but she wasn’t aggressive. Maybe it’s different in children, who knows? And that’s another thing, mightn’t our chances be better if we had the slightest comprehension of what’s happening outside our walls? These people have been infected for months and clearly they’re not dying. If the girl isn’t violent, don’t you think this is an opportunity to learn something? Or—”
Doyle holds up his hands, as if her stream of arguments is some physical current he can hope to dam. “Calm down,” he says.
Aaronovich takes a deep, fluttering breath. “I’m perfectly calm.”
“You’re telling me you’re going to study her.”
“I’m not telling you anything.”
“You should be,” Doyle says.
“What? Telling you or studying a sick child? What exactly—” Then she catches hold of herself. “Yes, if that’s the price. Or even if it isn’t. I’m a doctor, and I’m tired of living in the dark.” Her eyes flicker about the candlelit office, as though her double meaning has only now occurred to her. “Yes, I’ll study her, and if we’re all so ready to cast our humanity aside, that alone should be reason enough to keep her alive.”
“It’s not my decision,” Doyle says. “It will be up to Foster. Or else he’ll want to have some kind of a vote.”
“Foster’s an idiot,” Aaronovich notes tiredly.
There’s an implication to her words beyond the obvious. “He’s been here,” Doyle realizes aloud.
She nods. “He left just before you arrived.”
“And he says…?”
“I wouldn’t give him the key. I told him I’d hidden it. He said, You’ve got until tomorrow to make the right decision. The right decision! That presumptuous—” Aaronovich sighs. “I’m a doctor. I took an oath. More than ever, that seems to mean something.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Doyle assures her. In truth, he has no idea what he can do. Foster, perhaps, can be talked round, especially if the result can be made to look like his decision. But how much authority does Foster really have?
“Thank you.” Aaronovich’s gratitude appears to be earnest.
“I can’t make guarantees. You know what this place is, Doctor. They may come here after her. We lost two men today to Sickers, and at least one of them had friends.”
“I hate that word,” she says.
“What?”
“Sickers. So stupid. Why do we have to pin a label on everything that isn’t exactly like us?”
“They’re nothing like us,” Doyle says. His mind has returned, without his control, to the night Carlita and Silensky arrived, to the death of that cop, Fernando, and how his body looked afterward. “Whatever’s happened to them, there’s no good thinking of them as people anymore.”
“Maybe that’s it,” Aaronovich says. “Maybe that’s exactly it. Maybe we’ll only ever understand if we start thinking of them as people.”
Doyle considers that. It’s true they’ve all been quick to accept the Sickers as less than human. Then again, did the word determine that choice or was it simply the extremity of their behavior? A greater leap of imagination is required to believe that the sick are still people than that they aren’t.
The train of thought reminds Doyle of the other reason he came here. He reaches into his back pocket and draws out the gun, which was once Plan John’s gun. Aaronovich flinches and her eyes darken with suspicion.
“Do you know how to use this?” Doyle asks.
“Why would I want to?”
“In case.” He proffers the weapon. “Can you use it?”
“Yes.” Aaronovich checks the safety and then flips out the cylinder. Having established that it’s fully loaded, she closes it and places the revolver on the chair beside her.
“This is the only way,” Doyle says. “I’ll talk to Foster. I’ll back you. But only if I’m sure you’re not putting Funland and yourself in danger.”
Except it’s not Funland you’re trying to keep safe. But for once Doyle finds it easy to push the thought aside. In this instance, Funland and Carlita are one and the same.
“Fine,” Aaronovich agrees. She retrieves the revolver and cradles it carefully, barrel aiming at the floor. “I know I’m right.”
“If you’re right then it won’t be an issue. And if you’re not….”
He doesn’t press the point. For beneath her unshakeable confidence, Doyle can see that she understands, every bit as well as he does and maybe even better.
* * *
Whatever has been going on in the yard, whatever the distant noise of raised voices was about, Kyle has ignored it. Raised voices never mean anything good in Funland, and he feels like he has enough to deal with, enough thoughts clamoring across the space within his skull. He’s gone back to Plan John’s logbook instead, though he’s increasingly aware that he’s no longer making any real effort to translate it. Rather, Kyle stares at the tight handwritten rows while letting his mind wander.
He’s jolted by the door opening, the more so when he sees who’s there. If life has all but erased the old distinctions between Kyle and those older than him, there remains something about Doctor Aaronovich that marks her definitely as adult. Perhaps it’s just that she’s the only one who still recognizes his youth and adjusts her expectations accordingly.
Of everyone in Funland, he likes her more than most. At the same time, there’s a remoteness about the doctor that has always seemed to curtail any chance of friendship between them. Certainly Kyle wouldn’t have predicted her coming to his room, and she looks entirely uncomfortable to be here.
“Hello, Kyle,” she says. “What’s that?”
Kyle flips the book so that she can read the neat bars of text. “Plan John’s logbook. It’s in code.”
“And you’re trying to make sense of it?”
Kyle nods.
“Interesting.” Yet she doesn’t sound interested. “Kyle,” she says, “I was hoping I might ask you a favor.”
He closes the logbook. “Sure.”
Again the doctor looks discomforted, as though she hasn’t planned this far into the conversation. Eventually she announces, “Your father brought back a little girl today.”
For a moment, Kyle imagines she’s referring to someone his own age, in the way older people will lump all younger people into a single category. But the doctor isn’t
like that. She says exactly what she intends.
“I think she’s six or seven,” Aaronovich clarifies.
“Oh.” Kyle does his best to hide his disappointment.
“I’m going to look after her,” she explains. “But I’m not sure I can do it on my own. I’ve been pondering who might be able to help, and who’d be willing to. And in the end I came to you.”
She wants him to babysit? Strange how that prospect, which not long ago would have filled him with disgust, now seems so appealing. Yet there’s something else: the request hardly warrants the somberness, almost dread, with which she’s made it. Kyle waits, assuming she’ll tell him in her own time.
“The thing is,” Aaronovich says, “she’s sick. Infected.”
“What?” He can scarcely believe it. He’s seen the sick. To be in the same room with one would be suicide. What is she asking of him? Anger rises at the thought, as though the doctor is deliberately seeking to harm him.
“I don’t think she’s dangerous,” Aaronovich says. “I have reason to suppose she isn’t. What I mean is, she hasn’t shown signs so far of being aggressive. But yes, there’s a risk, absolutely there is. I don’t want to mislead you, Kyle.”
He sits, struggling to comprehend what she’s said, while Aaronovich stands in silence. Her proposal raises so many questions, all at once, and it’s hard to know where to begin. Why should Kyle put his life in jeopardy? Why would she come to him? Shouldn’t he simply say no? However, the very fact that it’s him she’s approached is appealing. At the farm, he’s just a pair of hands, given neither responsibility nor credit. If he should vanish one day, then he doubts they would care, except that there’d be more work to go around.
A Savage Generation Page 19