Aaronovich stands then, placing hands on hips in a stubborn gesture that seems wholly unconscious.
“I told you I didn’t stand the faintest chance of finding a cure,” she says. “That’s true. Frankly, I don’t think the greatest medical minds in the world could have managed it. The sick are irreversibly damaged, and that damage must happen rapidly, within a few hours. They aren’t going to get better, and they aren’t going to go away. We all know that, deep down. They’re the new status quo.”
“All right.” Doyle feels tired and hollow. He’s more than ready for this conversation to be done with, though less certain than ever of what he thinks. In that, he supposes, Aaronovich has achieved her intention. “I’m not saying I necessarily agree with you, but all right. I can see you’ve given this plenty of thought. So where does your theory leave us?”
“It’s simple, Johnson. That is my answer.” Aaronovich lets her arms drop to her sides, as if she too is afflicted by his lethargy, or as if this has been a physical conflict and not two people civilly discussing difficult notions. “If you want to know why it’s useful having Abigail here, why it’s worth taking such a risk, then there it is. If we can’t beat them, we have only one rational choice left. We’re going to have to learn to live alongside them.”
* * *
Aaronovich can’t judge if she’s getting through to Johnson. Or, no, she’s sure she’s getting through to him, for there’s agitation in that stony face of his, a degree of intensity in his eyes that she’s rarely seen there. The question is whether she’s convincing him. But she has one more argument to try, and she isn’t about to let him leave until she’s done all she can.
“I want to show you something,” she tells him. “Come on.”
She leads the way back into her apartment, and when Abigail looks up inquiringly, says, “Just a minute, Abigail,” and carries on to her tiny kitchen, closing the door once Johnson has pressed in behind her. She goes to the refrigerator and takes out the plate she prepared before. On it is an anonymous, pink-white slab of flesh somewhat larger than her hand. They cannot, of course, chill food, though the refrigerator remains a useful storage space; meat has become a rarity, and this, from its odor, is already close to spoiling.
“What the hell is that?” Doyle asks, the query pitched between disgust and frank curiosity.
“I’ve been snaring rabbits,” Aaronovich answers, feigning nonchalance. “They get in under the wall. I don’t know what they expect to find.”
“That’s stupid. And dangerous.”
“What am I supposed to do? The food Contreras gives me is barely enough for me alone.”
“You get as much as anyone,” Johnson says.
“Exactly. As any one person. You want me to keep her placid? Starving her won’t do that.”
“Okay. Point taken.”
Aaronovich wonders again if Johnson is being congenial because she’s persuaded him, or if his mind is made up and he’s only humoring her. She rapidly cubes the meat, talking as she does so: “Like I said, Abigail is extremely quiet, but I’m still optimistic that she might be persuaded to speak. However, she’s very resistant to teaching.” She holds up the plate to Johnson, who shrinks back at the smell. “This,” Aaronovich says, “is one way to overcome that resistance.”
She opens the door into her bedroom. Abigail has clambered onto the bed and is squatting on her haunches. As before, she gives Aaronovich her full attention – and now, scenting the raw meat, her jaw hangs open and she makes small panting sounds.
Aaronovich sits close to her. She’s hoping against hope that, today of all days, Abigail will remember what she’s been taught. Not prepared to risk putting her fingers anywhere near those small, chipped teeth, Aaronovich has had to devise an alternative. She places the plate behind her and considers Abigail sternly. Abigail holds her gaze, and Aaronovich is half-convinced that she’s forgotten all she’s learned when suddenly the child flings both hands out and cups them together. Then, a perfect dramatic flourish, she smiles beatifically. Smiling is something Abigail almost never does; Aaronovich could weep for joy that she’s chosen this occasion, with Johnson as witness, to do so.
Still, she makes certain her voice is suitably severe as she insists, “Say please, Abigail.”
Abigail’s brow creases in obvious frustration. The smile falls away, and a thread of drool works its way down her chin.
“Abigail. Say please.”
Again, Aaronovich is ready to lose hope when Abigail makes a noise, deep in her throat. It begins as a low throb, utterly inappropriate to the waifish creature making it, and only slowly takes on form: a single choked syllable. It doesn’t sound that much like please, more puz, but it will suffice.
Aaronovich scoops up scraps of rabbit meat and tips them into Abigail’s outstretched palms. In a flash, they’re gone, her jaw shuttling back and forth, slap, slap, slap, and then the hands are out again.
“Now, Abigail…say thank you.”
Once more, Abigail smiles, somewhat shyly this time. “Thaoo.”
“Thank you…?”
Visibly, Abigail concentrates with all her might. “Thaoo Kathin.”
Aaronovich thinks that her heart will melt. Two clear, whole words.
“What did she say?”
Aaronovich starts at Johnson’s intrusion. “Thank you, of course.”
“I mean, after that.”
It takes her a moment to comprehend. To him she has only ever been Doctor Aaronovich. “She said, ‘Thank you, Katherine.’”
“That’s…?”
“My name, yes.”
She deposits the plate in front of Abigail, and tries not to feel disappointed when the very human expression of a second ago is replaced by raw greed, even cunning. Aaronovich stands, looks away before Abigail can resume cramming wet blobs of flesh into her maw, and leads Johnson out to her office, locking the door behind them.
“You wanted to know if they’re capable of behavior as elaborate as an ambush,” Aaronovich says, not looking at Johnson either. “Evidently they are. They may not be entirely people anymore, as we understand that concept, but they’re not animals.”
“Could they attack us here? Could they coordinate something like that?”
“I doubt it. Moreover, I doubt they’d want to. Maybe during the winter, when other game is scarce, they might begin to reevaluate. What happened with Houseman and Landser suggests they’re already working in packs, perhaps based around family units. I thought for a while that Abigail must be related to the ones who attacked them, but from Silensky’s account, she was equally as afraid as he was. That’s interesting in itself. Anyway, my point is that there’s a great distance between what happened then and the possibility of a sustained siege.”
“So we’re safe in here, but out there we’re done for,” Johnson summarizes. “We’re trapped.”
“No more than we’ve always been,” Aaronovich observes. “And I have one last thing for you to consider, Johnson, now that you’ve seen Abigail, seen that she’s not a rabid dog that someone needs to put down. Ask yourself: what if, in most cases, the extreme, unfocused aggression is just a phase? An initial reaction, like shock, to the physical symptoms and brain damage the infected are experiencing?”
“Then how do you explain everything that’s happened since?” Johnson says. “The Sickers have never done anything but attack us on sight.”
Rather than answer, Aaronovich gives him a moment to appreciate for himself the falsity of what he’s said. From what Kyle has overheard and passed on to her, Aaronovich knows that in fact there have been no shortage of encounters with infected who’ve avoided conflict. The general assumption seems to be that they’re too crafty to attack without numerical advantage, that they have sense enough to recognize guns, that they’re scared. Apparently only Aaronovich herself has thought to propose the obvious. What if they�
�ve simply chosen not to?
“Think of it like this,” she says. “Neanderthal man and Homo sapiens coexisted once. Oh, that didn’t end well for the Neanderthals, but nor were they wiped out in a day. It’s perfectly viable for two similar, intelligent species to coexist, at least for a while.”
“Now we’re cavemen?” There’s irritation, and more, in Johnson’s voice.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” she says, “or quite absorbed what I’ve been explaining…we’re the freaks now. The infected are the majority, and we can’t hide in here forever. If I can find a reliable way to communicate with Abigail, then maybe I’ll be able to communicate with them too. If the day comes when coexistence is our sole remaining option, you may be glad of what I’m trying to do. If you need to tell Foster something, tell him that.”
Aaronovich leans back, exhausted. A part of her has been formulating these words for such a long time, and she feels as though unleashing them has left a hollow inside her. She regards Johnson with distant curiosity, unable to rationalize to herself why he’s still here. She had thought this would be the end; he’s clearly been wanting the conversation to be over every bit as much as she has.
Finally, as the silence starts to grow tense, Aaronovich prompts, “So you’ll tell him what I’ve said?”
For a moment, Johnson seems confused by the question. Then he says, “Yes, I’ll tell him.”
“Thank you. Well, if there’s nothing else—”
Johnson stirs. “There is,” he says. “I’ve been getting these headaches. I’ve been having them for a few months, but lately they’re getting more regular.”
“Headaches?” Aaronovich asks. He’s caught her off guard. It’s so long since anyone has approached her in the capacity of patient. “There are plenty of factors that could be causing them. I’d say stress is the most likely. I can run some basic tests if you’d like.”
“Tests?”
“Yes. It will take a little while to get the things I’d need together. Can you come back tomorrow?”
“Of course,” Johnson agrees. He sounds relieved. “Thank you for your time, Doctor.”
And with that, he pushes through the door and is gone.
Doctor, she thinks, still Doctor. How long have they known each other? Can there really be only one person in this place who both knows her name and is prepared to use it, and that person a sick child who perhaps doesn’t even understand the utterances she’s making?
Aaronovich wonders then if she truly believes all she’s told Johnson, all the talk of what the sick are, of what they can be. Does she believe a single word? She honestly can’t say. But if it was nothing except lies, and if lying is what’s required to protect Abigail, she’ll do so without hesitation. She’ll lie, and if they force her hand, she’ll do much more.
Chapter Thirty-One
They’ve driven all day and into the night. That’s what it takes now to reach anywhere they haven’t already stripped bare. And what they’re bringing back isn’t worth it: not worth the fuel, not worth the risk they’ve taken. Not worth facing down five Sickers with one shotgun.
They don’t talk about what happened. At first, Ben thinks it’s because the other two are as shaken as he is. Then he begins to doubt. Could it be that, for Oxendine, the encounter simply wasn’t a big deal? Maybe confronting them, to him, was like driving away a pack of wild dogs. Oxendine wasn’t there that day at the farm. He hasn’t seen what Ben has seen.
They spy more Sickers on the way, two groups of similar size to the one outside the warehouse and, as they drive through a small town they exhausted weeks ago, a pair that scurry off at the mere sight of the truck. In each case, the infected are at a distance, nothing threatening about them. Yet spotting them sets Ben’s teeth on edge. Are there more around, or are they growing in confidence? Or is he just noticing them to an extent that he didn’t before the incident at the farm?
At any rate, each sighting draws his nerves tighter. The spells in between he spends in a fugue, hardly hearing. Ben feels that there’s something inside him and that it’s gnawing toward the surface. Only silence, numbness, blankness can hope to keep it in place.
By the time they get back to Funland, he’s barely thinking. He fails to register the clatter of the gate or the sudden stillness of the engine. It takes Oxendine elbowing him in the ribs and growling, “Move it, Silensky,” for Ben to comprehend where they are.
He opens the passenger door and stumbles out, legs reduced to jelly by the unremitting hours of immobility. There are figures gathered, out there in the darkness. For one instant, Ben is sure they’re sick, until he realizes it’s only a few of the cons, come to inspect and unload their meager haul.
With that understanding, a plan of action forms in Ben’s mind, a series of steps he can make no sense of but which his subconscious promises will provide what he needs. He hurries around the truck, forcing the flaccid elastic in his legs to comply, lets down the tailgate, and clasps a carton. Then, before anyone can interfere or comment, he hastens across the yard – its surface black and faintly glistening in the starlight, like still water – and past the corner of the Big House, toward the entrance near the stores.
Rather than go inside, however, Ben retreats into the shadows, hunting a spot where he can see the door but not be seen. He drags his jacket tighter about him, huddling in the deep darkness.
Soon others start arriving, bearing sacks and boxes, the gathered spoils of their expedition: canned and dried food, flour, salt, sugar, biscuits, a couple of sacks of rice, and gasoline, though not nearly enough. None of it, really, is enough. Their supplies are running low, each trip providing a little less, and soon winter will be upon them.
As such, not long passes before the last trailing figure drifts into the gloom. Ben waits five more minutes, just in case. Then, satisfied that the ant train between truck and stores has done its work, he gets to his feet and reclaims his carton. Now that his eyes have adjusted, he can make out stacked cans inside, their labels rotted and peeling. Who knows if their contents will still be good? As they’ve all begun to learn the hard way in these few months, nothing endures forever.
Outside the door to the stores, Ben tucks the carton under one arm and knocks. “One more box,” he says, trying his best to make his voice normal, while at the same time unsure of what that might mean.
From the far side comes the sound of something being knocked over, followed by a muffled curse in Spanish. Seconds pass, and then Contreras opens the door a crack. Recognizing Ben, he says, “Hell, Silensky.”
“One more box,” Ben repeats, proffering the carton in both hands. He feels like a bad actor, playing at being a person – playing at being Ben Silensky.
“Sí, sí.” Contreras unlatches the heavy chain that holds the door closed.
The moment the gap is sufficiently wide, Ben puts his shoulder to it, shoving past Contreras. “Hey, listen,” he says. “I need a drink, Contreras.” He drops the carton beside a pile of similar-looking boxes. “I know you’ve got a stash. Come on, man, just one bottle. I’ve fucking earned it.”
“Foster says, not without his permission,” Contreras insists. “No trouble, Silensky.”
“What? I’m not causing trouble. Christ, Contreras! Don’t make this difficult.”
“You’ve got to get out of here.”
“Screw you,” Ben mutters, not knowing if Contreras will hear, not caring. His eyes rove the shelves. There isn’t much left: a few dozen cans, some large sacks, bottles of plastic and glass that clearly aren’t the sort he’s looking for. As he’s near to despair, he spies the box stashed carefully in a corner, almost buried beneath bags of rice and flour.
Contreras has followed his gaze, and as Ben paces toward the disguised box, attempts to block his path. Ben places a palm on the older man’s chest and shoves, with strength that an instant before he wouldn’t have guessed he had. Contre
ras makes a choking sound, perhaps of pain but more likely of surprise, and stumbles hard against the shelves behind. Cans and packets rain around his feet. By then, Ben is dragging bags aside, tearing leaves of cardboard, clutching the stem of a bottle. For a moment he’s entranced by the slosh of gold within. Then he’s slipped the bottle inside his coat and is dashing for the door, ignoring Contreras’s feeble efforts to regain his feet.
As soon as he feels the cold night air on his face, Ben is dizzied by relief. He’s done it. He has the means to get through one more night. He pauses to choose a course – and even that’s too long. As he glances in the direction of the administrative wing, he makes out a figure approaching, hunched close to the Big House wall. Ben’s first instinct is to run, but what if they should give chase? Probably they’d catch him and he’d lose his prize, which he’s gone to such effort for. So instead, he stands his ground, trying to dredge an explanation of his presence from the mire of his thoughts.
Just as he’s fathomed that there’s something wrong with the figure, that they’re not tall enough to be one of the cons, a thin voice rises from the darkness. “Dad?”
“Kyle,” Ben says. He should be relieved, but all he wants, badly, is to get away.
“Are you all right?”
“Sure. Only, there’s somewhere I’ve got to be.”
“Okay,” Kyle agrees. “But can I talk to you for one minute?”
“Kyle—”
“Dad, you remember Plan John’s logbook? Well, I cracked it. I haven’t finished yet, but…there are other survivors. People out there. People hanging on, like us. Isn’t that great?”
Ben grips the bottle within his coat. What’s the boy saying? People out there? They aren’t people at all. Dumb kid, he has no understanding.
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