by Pike, JJ
Not that she thought it was likely. But what if? What if one of their number had the smarts and skill and training to get them out of this mess? If she let them die, wasn’t she consigning the world to its doom?
The sea of faces in front of her kept undulating. Mouths moving. Faces contorting. Sweat building. They were entertaining themselves now, full of steam and ire. She had a brief window in which to think.
They’d been in lockdown, underground, only each other for company, no contact with the outside world for over eight months. Tempers were way past boiling point, her options narrowing. This was all coming to a head. Now.
She had the same thoughts, over and over. She was almost mad with the repetition in her brain.
She opened the doors to the outside world and the Downers died. Right? Or had the nuclear threat abated? Maybe Hurricane Erin had been kind and driven all the nuclear waste out to sea. How could they know? There were no Geiger counters or any of those neat little “changes color with exposure to radiation” badges they always had in the movies. She couldn’t measure the invisible toxin that had rained down on them for eons.
Conversely, if she kept the doors closed it was absolutely certain that those people (still outside battling who-knows-what), some of whom had been “her people” just a few short months ago, died.
Perhaps one of them was The One?
Damn. She hung her head. It wouldn’t do any good if the Downers in her office saw her struggle. She couldn’t allow any chinks in her armor to show.
There was no way of knowing if anyone (inside or out) was The One.
Perhaps no one was?
Perhaps they were all supposed to scratch out a life as best they knew how. Why was it her decision? She hadn’t asked for any of this.
She took a deep breath and invited the spirit of Alistair to guide her. She’d disobeyed his last order, to kill the soldiers who’d come to Wolfjaw Ridge carrying the disease known as MELT, but that didn’t mean she didn’t still revere him. He’d set the bar. High. She couldn’t let him down.
Her job was to protect the Downers. The end.
No sooner did she stiffen her resolve but the Outers scraped at her decision, leaving little marks in the soft, igneous rock that passed for her brain.
She kept the doors closed and those people… she closed her eyes: don’t name them, don’t think of them as people; think of them as numbers; it’s only twenty-five people; that’s a much better choice. Deep breath. It didn’t get any better. If she kept the doors closed and the Outers and all their unborn descendants died, how many was that? How many deaths would be on her hands? Hundreds? Thousands? Entire family lines, wiped out.
She couldn’t think of it as a simple numbers game.
She wasn’t constitutionally able.
Alistair would have been able to boil it down to the numbers. He’d have done it in the time it took you to snap your fingers and have already moved on. There would have been a short debate, he’d have made a convincing case laying out his argument using a few quotes from the crowd, to make it seem like he’d been listening to everyone, then he’d have done whatever he’d decided to do before anyone started blathering.
Hell, he’d ordered her to kill those soldiers and leave their bodies hanging in the trees. And she’d almost done it. If they hadn’t pushed back, laughed at her, told her that they would never string each other up, she might have their blood on her hands, too. She’d had plenty of time to think it through. Alistair had been wrong in that instance. She’d lucked out and landed on the side of right. She wanted to stay there.
Keep as many people alive as you can; that’s your mandate. Alistair can’t make any decisions for you now. He’s dead, his body dragged away by the scavengers and his bones picked clean by now. (How terrible that there hadn’t been time to bury him. But there hadn’t. Hurricane Erin had made sure of that.)
Her boss dying like that—knife to the back, his blood spilling across the dirt near the front gates of the compound he loved so much, his last words whipped away by the wind—leaving her in the pole position was a joke.
The sad truth was that Jacinta wasn’t Alistair. She knew it. The Downers knew it. That’s why they’d never stopped hammering away at her. She opened her eyes and scanned the crowd. The faction who wanted to open the doors made a good point: there were real people out there, hurting. Possibly dying. They weren’t all strangers. Some of them were people she’d worked alongside for years. People she knew and, in some cases, loved.
If she stuck to her guns, who was she sentencing to death?
Liam Bradstone, father, brother, son, builder, planner, loyal Downer. He’d die if she didn’t open the doors. He’d never leave the compound. He was a true believer. He’d wait until his bones turned to dust before he abandoned his post. How could she leave him to that fate?
Who else?
Amy Heebner Davis, grandmother, mother, wife, nurse, expert wool carder and spinner, beloved of all: Gone.
Elain Bateman, mother, wife, comedienne, and good sport: Gone.
Philius (Phil to his friends) Cox, husband, father, best curer of meats she’d ever met. Gone.
The list went on and on. Even the names of those she didn’t know—the soldiers who’d arrived at the last minute and some randoes who’d shown up at their door begging for shelter—plagued her thoughts, hanging like leaden weights in the tender meat of her conscience.
How could she let the Outers die by leaving them out there?
How could she let the Downers down by letting them in here?
How was she supposed to know what to do? Best do nothing, right?
Alistair hadn’t left her a consensus-driven democracy. What he’d left her was a massive ship—manned by several hundred sailors, each of whom thought they knew what was best for the Good Ship Wolfjaw Down—which required an autocrat to steer it to safety.
People couldn’t be trusted to act in their own best interests. Alistair had known that. But he hadn’t reckoned on dying. Which was why he hadn’t come up with a succession plan. And why she found herself standing behind a couple of wooden crates with three planks balanced across the top in a cave she called her office, surrounded by a hundred-plus angry, vocal Downers.
Alistair would have known how to make them shut up and leave him alone. He would have beckoned her to his side and whispered an instruction in her ear and she’d have made it happen. No matter the order, she would have had that plan rolled out and people toeing the line faster than you could say spit.
Not so, now.
There was no illustrious leader. No dazzling personality who made them forget they were living hand-to-mouth and closer to the ground than any of them had ever imagined they’d be doing. No instructions. And that wasn’t the worst of it. Alistair had run a compound that was above ground. With sunshine. And trips to the local store. And hunting. And fishing. And nights under the stars.
Jacinta was lumbered with a series of warren-like caves that had no natural light source, a ventilation system that she prayed was robust enough to keep the fallout at bay, and a water filtration system which made her nervous. There were gardens which would produce vegetables, stables for the livestock, an entertainment complex of sorts (Nightly concerts! Karaoke! Learn to play the lute!), and a school system that would make their children the envy of the nation (if there was a nation to return to when it was all said and done). But Alistair’s utopia was beneath a million tons of soil and roots and creepy-crawlies and wet walls and dripping ceilings. She hadn’t known how much it was going to wig her out to be trapped underground. And if she was panicking—she the truest believer of them all—then you could be damned sure there were other people with misgivings.
Did didn’t let the thought in, though it tap-tap-tapped at her brain: there’s the other problem. The bigger issue. The one that no one has mentioned yet. How do you open the doors but keep that out?
The crowd still yapped away, huffing and chuffing forward on its own steam. Open it. Don’t
open it. Hear me out. I’m right. You’re wrong. Who made you boss? On and on it went.
Jacinta turned to face her aid-de-camp, Abbie Prosser, meeting her friend’s eyes and silently begging for her to take the decision out of her hands. “Is it time? Are we safe?” She shuffled some papers on her desk. She needed a logical way out of this. “What’s the decay rate?”
Abbie Prosser was a straight shooter. Every word that came out of her mouth was the gods-honest-truth. She’d come to Wolfjaw Ridge to “get away from evil.” She never elucidated, no matter how Jacinta came at the question. She would only say Wolfjaw was better than all the alternatives, restrictions to one’s personal freedoms notwithstanding. She had a husband, two strapping boys, a newborn, and enough common sense to fill an entire library. She could incite a riot or calm the compound with a single sentence. Whatever she said next would set the tone for their entire day, perhaps the week. “Decay rate doesn’t change because we want it to, Jace.”
Damn. Abbie wasn’t going to provide her with an easy way out. “Keep going…” Jacinta had heard the science of nuclear fallout before, but she wanted Abbie to repeat it out loud for all to hear.
“Iodine-131, half-life of 8.02 days, if the Chernobyl stats are to be believed. It’ll be in the milk supply, if there’s a milk supply left and the thyroid glands of anyone who didn’t take precautions.”
Jacinta scanned the room. No one who hadn’t been convinced before saw that as a threat. So, fallout was in the milk supply. Big deal. Don’t drink milk. She’d heard all the arguments. She was punting and trying to buy time. “Anything else?”
“Nothing we haven’t discussed before. Caesium-134, 2.07 years. Ceasium-137, 30.2 years. Stromium-90, 28.8 years…”
“This is total bullshit. You’re not talking about the real threat and everyone knows it.” Aleta Goin stepped forward. 34, wife, mother, writer, and former musician, she was solidly on the side of keeping the doors closed. Most of the mothers who had little ones in Down were. Against, that is. Firmly against. “Talk about the plastic-eater. Talk about how it gets into your muscles and makes you rot from the inside out. Talk about the fact that we were eating plastic for all those years, even though we grew our own food. Talk about the toxic, plastic-filled rain and all the chemicals we don’t understand, not the ones we do. Talk about the real threat to our life here. Talk about letting MELT in through those doors.”
There it was; finally. Aleta had named the thing that had, in the months they’d been in Down, become taboo. Now that it was out in the open, Jacinta could almost smell the panic in the room rising. MELT was a death-dealing pathogen that none of them understood. She might, with good conscience, authorize the opening of the doors to let someone with radiation sickness in. They could isolate the Outers in the sick bays in a genuine quarantine area, but what about Downers who’d been infected with MELT? What did this new disease do to the human body? Before they’d closed the doors to Down she’d heard reports ranging from, “Patient Zero is making a good recovery” to “no one recovers from this, it eats you alive.”
If she opened the doors and MELT made it past the sick bays, everyone who’d made it to safety would be at risk.
A space had opened up around Aleta. Little by little, the room divided itself into the “for” and “against” camps.
“What’s it to be, Jacinta?” Aleta had thrust herself to the front of the crowd, her shoulders bunched up, her hands curled into fists. “Are you going to do the right thing? Keep the doors locked? Or are you going to bow to pressure and let the loudest members of the pack dictate policy?”
Jacinta nodded, neither smiling nor frowning. Never let them see what you’re thinking. They’ll roast you alive for a personal opinion. Stay neutral. Tell them you’re listening. Keep your cards close to your chest and wait it out. That was the only way to get anything done. “I hear you.”
The room was silent for the first time in over an hour. They were waiting. They seemed to sense that she’d made a decision. It was a decision that both was and wasn’t an answer. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it sooner. With some effort, she kept her smile to herself.
“We’ll take a vote.”
There was a cheer from the back and the bon-homie—smiles, chatter, nodding, noises of approval—washed over her in a pleasing wave.
“Secret ballot. One vote per adult. Every Downer gets to be heard on the issue of the doors.” She turned to Abbie. “Set it up. We’ll vote tomorrow.”
CHAPTER THREE
MARCH 2022
Hedwig’s life was ruled by one truth: MELT didn’t die. Ever. It lived on; a perverse perma-bug lying in wait like a spring toad idly yawning until its prey relaxed then snapping it up with its long tongue; crunching exoskeleton and wing and compound eye with relish.
Or at least that’s what they’d decided—collectively, together, everyone in agreement—at a family meeting back in September when they’d moved into the salt mine. They being: Her, the Everlees (minus the mom), Mimi, Bryony, Nurse Nigel, and Doctor Handle.
“Treat MELT as if it’s a living creature.” Nurse Nigel started his tutorial with the same words every time. “Remember, MELT is an organism that kills. You can’t see it. You can’t smell it. You can’t feel it when it lands on your skin or tunnels up your nose or lands in your eyes or slides down your throat. You don’t know if you’ve stepped in it, brushed up against it, or transferred it from your shirtsleeve to your lips. With an enemy like this you need to be vigilant at all times. You can never let your guard down. Don’t assume you’re safe just because you’ve been somewhere before.”
Those words were supposed to strike fear into her heart but Hedwig found her mood lightening each time the meeting drew nearer. The first of the month meant she and Sean would be headed outside.
Into the sunlight.
Into freedom.
Into (she would never tell another living soul this part; not even Paul…or especially not Paul), into adventure. She needed to stay busy.
Month after month they listened to what Nurse Nigel had to say about MELT and safety. And why not? Nigel had credentials up the ying-yang and wasn’t a douche about it, so Hedwig had decided early on to listen rather than tune him out.
The tutorial was designed primarily for Hedwig and Sean, seeing as they were the family’s hunter-gatherers, but at the beginning of each month everyone piled into the lounge for the lesson.
This month was no different. The clan was gathering.
Hedwig’s stomach did little flips. She tried not to smile but going outside was such a trip she could hardly wait. She was the first adult to arrive in the lounge (as usual). She said hi to Midge who was dozing in her hammock by the door and little Bryony who was drawing on the wall with her chalks, and settled into her usual spot on the floor, legs crossed, arms folded, and her brain on high alert.
The lounge wasn’t the only space designated for communal gatherings but it had become their favorite, probably because it was cozy without being claustrophobic and the ceiling was higher in that room than any other (bar the corridors, but they didn’t count; you didn’t congregate in a corridor).
Mimi brought the wooden rocking chair Paul had made for her and set it up close to Midge’s hammock. The chair—all found wood, no nails or glue—creaked as she settled. It didn’t rock but she said she didn’t care. “It was a gift of love from one of her boys and nothing makes me happier than love gifts.” Once she had her blanket arranged the way she liked it, tucked under her knees and tight around her middle, she pushed Midge to let her know her grandmother was there. The two of them would creak and rock for hours without exchanging a word. Sometimes Bryony climbed into Mimi’s lap which made the crochety old lady a little less acerbic, but mostly Bryony was in her own world.
Petra waddled into the room, her hand in the small of her back in the way of a million women before her. Mouse, the dachshund Alice had brought from Manhattan, wove about her ankles. He’d taken a shine to her. Her be
lly was too big to let her lap accommodate a snoozing dog but Mouse seemed just as happy to lie at her feet.
Hedwig thanked all the stars that it was her friend who was carrying and not her. Far better to be out hunting, foraging, and collecting meds than to be heavily pregnant and waiting for a day that might kill you. Or the baby. Or both of you. Hedwig would have lost her mind if she’d been required to be that still.
“Doctor’s orders.” Paul appeared in the doorway, pushing a chair over to where Petra leaned against the wall. “You’re to sit.”
Petra rolled her eyes. “That’s all I do.”
Paul shrugged. “When he tells us you can stand, you can stand.”
“If you don’t want varicose veins like me…” Mimi wasn’t one for mincing words. Or being positive. But she made a good point. Petra was only twenty years old, but that didn’t mean she’d be spared spider veins or stretch marks or mood swings or cravings.
Hedwig made a mental note: Check with Petra to see if she can give us a clue about her next overwhelming hankering. Once they set off for their drug buy there was no saying how long they might be. The shortest trip had been eighteen hours but that was when the ground was rock hard and the streams iced over. The longest they’d been outside was when they’d almost run into an Army patrol and had to hide out for a whole night and half a day while the soldiers passed. If she and Sean were delayed for more than a day or so, Petra could easily have switched from “pineapple on everything” to “pickles and nothing else.”
Though where they’d find pickles…
Bill used the rope rail they’d installed along the wall for Midge to guide himself into the lounge, even though he wasn’t an invalid and had perfect balance and gait. His legs had never been injured but the loss of his arm (Really, Hedwig? The loss of his arm? More like the loss of his wife!) had aged him and made him turn in on himself. He wasn’t quite a ghost presence, but he wasn’t the man his kids talked about. Not by a long shot. They remembered some funny, engaged, engaging man who’d stayed home when his wife was promoted at work. He talked, he listened, he trained, he did everything, if Paul and Petra were to be believed. Hedwig had never seen any of that. Bill Everlee was a shell of a man who occasionally surfaced and engaged, but mostly remained locked away in a world no one else could access.
