Less Than Little Time (Between Worlds Book 1)

by Sabina Green

  I was sitting in his car, so it was up to me to say goodbye and get out. But I was stuck in my place, a thousand thoughts swirling in my head. One of them was getting louder and clearer every minute. I just didn’t know if I could say it out loud.

  “Ross…” I started and realised that my next question will be incredibly selfish and treacherous. There might even have been some consequences for this if the end wasn’t so near.

  “I guess I know what you want to ask,” he sighed.

  Our eyes met. How could he…?

  “You want to know if I have any spare vaccines?” he asked without blinking.

  Just two! For me and Connie, some irrepressible inner voice was screaming. Why was I letting these fantasies overwhelm me? I barely know her! And she’s dying! Even if she’d survived the plague, she wouldn’t be here for long. What role did I play in her life?

  She hasn’t given me any signs that my feelings were returned. What am I doing? Why am I destroying my reputation and my colleagues’ trust for some impossible visions of the future?

  I couldn’t answer Ross, but I’d say that my silence was an answer in and of itself.

  “I don’t, Mark,” he answered quietly. But there were no traces of reproach in his voice. “You know that we only made a certain amount of injections. We have these two for the Fialas here in Perth and that’s it.”

  I’d thought I wasn’t afraid to die. But when it came down to it, I was shitting my pants. I guess I’d stopped caring who would be around to witness it. Was it unmanly to show fear?

  “What if we fail at administering them?”

  “I was told it’ll be Connie doing it. If I was doing this for my family, if I had any of course, I’d make damn sure to do it right. Don’t worry, they won’t need any spares. Either way I don’t have any more.”

  I nodded and tried to relax the tight ball in my throat.

  “If it helps… you’re not the first to ask that. And you won’t be the last. I’d say that the human instinct of self-preservation is still stronger than anything we think we believe. And… even if there was an extra vaccine, do you think I’d get away with just giving it to someone like that?”

  If I’d never met her, would I still have asked Ross about this? I couldn’t say.

  We were sitting there in silence for a while longer, before I grasped the handle of the briefcase and walked out into the wet night.

  Connie

  “Would you really like your family to watch you die?”

  Those words came back to me like an echo and I couldn’t stop them. They brought me such intense anxiety that my stomach was doing somersaults. I should have been devoting my time primarily to my daughter, making sure that we were creating beautiful moments worth remembering. But every few minutes I couldn’t help but cry. I couldn’t smile or make her laugh, and the best I managed this morning was a pained grimace. Dad was starting to be really uneasy from all this, and that made my heart wither inside me.

  I certainly couldn’t speak for everyone, but I thought that the worst thing anyone could experience is their own child’s death. Parents simply shouldn’t outlive their children. So it wasn’t just terrifying to imagine Ruby watching me die, but allowing Dad to witness my last moments made it even more devastating.

  Mark was right, I couldn’t go to New Zealand. I wanted them to remember me as happy, functional… Even though recently I had obviously been struggling and my mind was constantly somewhere else, but at least I wasn’t writhing in deadly agony and looking like death. Had he known, I was sure Dad would have said that any time spent together–even painful and scary–was better than no time. But maybe it would be better to rip that band-aid off quickly and not prolong the suffering. The idea that Dad would have to think about what to do with my corpse was repulsive and unbearable.

  But how could I arrange it so that Ruby and him willingly go to New Zealand without me? I decided to pretend that it was a real holiday and I was going with them until the last possible moment, until it’s time for the actual flight and I came up with some believable reason why I needed to stick around in Perth for a bit.

  The very next day I bought three tickets–return trip, of course. I didn’t want there to be any doubt, and in any case, it was better to avoid questions. The tickets were expensive, but I didn’t care about the money, in a few months it wouldn’t mean much anyway.

  “Alright, we’re all booked,” I looked up from my laptop and smiled, hopefully at least somewhat successfully. “We’re flying Wednesday fortnight.”

  Dad cheered. “How long are we staying?”

  “Six weeks.” Originally I’d wanted to choose two months, just in case, but that seemed a bit too suspicious for a regular yearly time off. According to Mark, they were going to release the plague in two weeks, he’d promised me that two weeks after that there won’t be any more air traffic.

  “Isn’t that too long?” Dad said hesitantly. “Don’t get me wrong, I could stay even longer. It’s just that… can we afford it?”

  I understood his scruples. “If we couldn’t afford it, I wouldn’t have suggested it, you know that. And before you even start with your I-cost-you-too-much-money monologue,” I quickly added when he started to open his mouth, “I’d like to remind you that you’d been selflessly looking after me for my first twenty years. Let me just buy us a holiday.”

  I got up and hugged him tightly. He was slightly taken aback. Neither of us particularly enjoyed physical or verbal displays of affection, although we weren’t totally against them either.

  I’d gotten a bit carried away, encouraged by the knowledge that we wouldn’t have much time left together. And it stopped his protests, which is what I was hoping for.

  Afterwards when I suggested various New Zealand activities and trips, he happily joined in, approving and disapproving, and came up with his own ideas. I’d thought it would have been difficult to come up with an itinerary for every day, but my worries were unnecessary as our calendar filled at lightning speed. Getting Dad to Rotorua a few days before the required date was so easy it’d surprised me. His birthday had fallen conveniently on the time of our holiday, so I’d found some guided fishing trips, told him about it at once, and booked him on one accompanied by his ecstatic approval.

  “But what about you and Ruby?” he asked as if he didn’t deserve a day for himself.

  “We’re gonna go swimming,” I promptly answered and winked at him, “and watch from the shore how you’re hunting for dinner.”

  It was a downright lie, but what did it matter? If when the time came he did feel like using the voucher, he could just take Ruby on the boat with him. We knew she wouldn’t get sea sick, thanks to the few fishing trips with Wyatt.

  “I’m liking this trip more and more,” he mumbled happily and rubbed his hands.

  I was glad that he was busy reading through the fishing trip leaflets, because I was overcome by the surge of love I had for him. I blinked furiously, chasing away the tears, while forcing my lungs to work normally. When Dad raised his eyes from the screen, I was in control of myself again, thank God.

  “So your sergeant’s ok with all this?”

  I fidgeted slightly. I had to be careful about my answer now. I wanted it to provide me with an escape later.

  “He’d agreed that I can go on holiday, and he knows the rough dates. He didn’t have a problem with it.”

  He nodded and I was relieved.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon reading through our itinerary and searching for accommodation, and then it was time to pick Ruby up from kindy. That evening, full of my daughter’s giggling that was brought about thanks to her Grampa, games and good food, could almost be considered perfect were it not for that first panic attack I suffered.

  It happened just as I was putting Ruby to bed. Rather than frighten her by gasping for air and desperately rubbing my chest, I gr
itted my teeth and pretended to sleep.

  I usually let her fall asleep alone, but today I couldn’t get out of her bed. The sudden anxiety wouldn’t let me, and also, I wanted to feel her tiny body pressed against mine, just this once.

  It felt like I was there for ages, listening to her whispering to herself and playing with her favourite stuffed elephant, and then breathing peacefully, hugging me with her little arm.

  I never wanted the moment to end.

  I’d always liked animals better than people. It didn’t mean I didn’t like people at all, it was more that I was wary of most of them. For me, the biggest difference between animals and people was that animals never behaved immorally, whereas people often did so. Both species were capable of killing when hungry, threatened or when protecting their young or their territory. But that’s where the similarities ended. While most animals seemed innocent and helpless to me, people were using their superiority, and oftentimes cowardice, to take what wasn’t theirs.

  As I got older, more and more things were becoming clear to me and I was getting increasingly upset, frustrated and angry. I joined in heated discussions online, signed one petition after another, read tons of articles, and whenever there was a protest in Perth, nothing in the world stopped me from going.

  Inevitably, problems connected to the protests had caught up with me. I was sixteen the first time, fighting for the humane treatment of dairy cows. It was incomprehensible that people turned a blind eye to what was happening. Cows were impregnated, year after year, so that they’d have calves which were then taken away from them two days after birth. The cries from both sides were unbearable, and the cows were then milked several times a day, in a painful procedure, regardless of any possible inflammation, infection, or bleeding. And all this happened while they were standing in a crammed shed they couldn’t even turn around in. I was marching down the street with the other protesters, chanting while waving a poster. The police turned up soon, of course. And even though the protest was completely peaceful, their speakers said that if we didn’t disperse, the police would arrest anyone blocking traffic. But how were several thousand people supposed to squeeze on the tiny sidewalks?

  Policemen with clubs and shields entered the crowd and started taking individual protesters away into nearby vans. Most people got cold feet and started backing as far away as possible. I stood there, frozen, thinking: they’re really going to scare us off again? We’re fighting against such cruelty, and all they have to do is shoo us away for everything to go back to how it was, and nobody will do anything to help those poor animals?

  I noticed a huge uniformed man walking straight to me. He even raised his arm and pointed at me, frowning so much his eyebrows became one angry line.

  I bet you take your coffee with milk. Well, I hope you enjoy it!

  I jumped to the side at the last minute, squeezed into the crowd on the sidewalk and elbowed my way through with my head bowed low to hide my face.

  That luck ran out the next time. A year later, there was another protest, this time about the export of livestock, especially live sheep. By ships, journeying for several months, suffering from seasickness, dehydration and hunger, because nobody had bothered to feed and water them. A third of them didn’t make it to the end destination alive. The rest was obviously sent straight to the slaughterhouse. It made me sick, and of course I was really angry at the protest. Such injustice!

  Dad, unusually quiet, picked me up from the police station I eventually ended up at. Facing the policemen, or even the short stay behind bars, didn’t shake me up at all, but Dad’s expression made me incredibly shaky. The idea that I’d disappointed him almost made me cry.

  I was waiting for his reproach about stupid, childish behaviour. On our way home I was stammering out apology after apology, but he stopped me with a single wave of his hand. We were on a busy street, but he still pulled over. He looked straight into my eyes and I felt myself shrinking.

  “You have no idea how proud I am of you,” he said.

  What? Did I mishear?

  “It’s brave to fight for what’s right, not everyone’s got the guts to do it,” he continued. “Don’t ever apologize for that. You just have to be smart and careful about how you’re fighting for what you believe in, or what you want to change.”

  I nodded with relief and kept my mouth shut just in case. I was grateful to him for this wisdom, but also for persuading the policemen to release me without a permanent record, on the condition of good behaviour.

  Since then I’ve been extremely careful with how I go about things. I stopped going to protests and started frequenting shelters, walking the dogs and helping with maintenance. As soon as I started making money, a part of my pay check went to the charities who could fight against animal cruelty better than I.

  “I’m proud of you…”

  I smiled now, remembering that moment which came to me just before dawn. Would Dad still be proud now, knowing what I’ve gotten myself into a few weeks ago? Would he understand me and my reasons for not reporting The Collective and their activities?

  I guess I’d never find out, I thought to myself and got out of bed to prepare for a new day. I put on my uniform even though I was going to see Mark instead of going to the station. I didn’t like putting on this charade for Dad, but any other way would mean a lot of explaining I didn’t feel like getting into.

  Today was the first time I was going to Mark’s house. He wanted to hand over the vaccine as far away from the public as possible, and when he suggested his home, I accepted. After all, why not? It was just a ten minute drive from mine, and although I’d come to associate his presence with moments of intense mental distress, I didn’t think he would cause me any immediate danger.

  At the agreed time, I knocked on his door. He greeted me as if greeting a friend coming over for a movie and popcorn, but when we got inside, his voice turned more quiet, more measured. He went straight to the business and showed me a small silver briefcase with a code lock.

  “You’ll be the only one who can open it,” he assured me. “Nobody knows the code, except two people from the management, and each of them only has a part of it.”

  “Why? I thought that everyone in The Collective trusts each other.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d say that at this stage the threat of the upcoming end hangs in the air and causes atypical behaviour… Andrew has decided to include this safety precaution as well, just in case.”

  I understood. Desperation can make people do things they wouldn’t think themselves capable of.

  “So… do you have it?” Mark asked, slightly uncertain, as if he wasn’t supposed to know.

  “I do,” I replied and surprised us both. Him, because he probably wasn’t expecting me to say that. And myself, because a hazy memory finally clicked with what Mark told me. A few days ago I’d received two letters by express delivery. I had to pick them up personally and confirm with a signature. Each of them consisted of an A4 piece of paper with the Association address and details at the top, and two numbers in the middle. There was no explanation of their significance, why they are important, or that I should keep them.

  Each letter must have been sent by a different person, I realised, and together they form the code to this briefcase.

  “Great,” Mark replied to my short answer and pulled a small bag out of his work case.

  He opened it and showed me an anti plague vaccine prototype. It mainly reminded me of an EpiPen injection we kept at the station first aid kit in case somebody suffered an anaphylactic shock. It was incredibly easy to use and Mark’s vaccine looked essentially the same.

  “You see how thin the needle is?” he removed the cover of a part of the injection while pointing out that I wouldn’t be able to do that with my vaccines.

  He was right, the needle was the size of a single strand of hair, and I hoped that Dad and Ruby won’t fe
el anything when I inject them. I let him show me how to use the injection several times, although it was pretty straightforward.

  “When should I do it?”

  “Today if possible,” Mark said. “It’ll take a little over a week for the vaccine to be effective.”

  “Isn’t it a bit risky to give them the vaccine so close to the plague release?” I managed to ask, my throat tight.

  “The doctor assured me it’s not,” he shook his head. “Frank and Ruby may experience a fever or slight reddening in the place of the injection, but that’s normal.”

  I nodded, and then it occurred to me: “What about the plague symptoms?” So I know what’s in store for me.

  He hesitated. “The first symptoms appear about three days after the infection, headaches, a fever, sneezing and coughing. A week later there’ll be shortness of breath, chest pain, phlegm. Eventually there’ll be coughing up blood.”

  “When do you start being infectious?”

  They must have discussed this a thousand times in The Collective, because he was answering my questions promptly, as if he was reading from a medical book.

  “Around twenty four hours after being infected.”

  I stared at him. “So soon?”

  He took a deep breath. “It’s the most aggressive form of pneumonic plague in the world. And the most resistant.”

  People would unknowingly spread the disease even before they realised they were ill… It was the same with many other illnesses, I didn’t know why it’d affected me so much in this particular case. Somehow it seemed unfair.

  “And… death?”

  He swallowed. Was he also drowning in visions of what it will be like for us when it’s our turn? Was he as scared as I was?

  “Two to three weeks depending on the strength of the individual. Children and older people may succumb sooner.”

  I closed my eyes. At least Ruby and Dad will get the vaccine. The idea of their death–and especially this kind of death–was just unbearable.