Plague

by Michael Grant

  She had a squeegee and a bucket and some fairly clean rags. She had to get water. She had to get Pete something to drink.

  No one to call on for help. Sam was gone. She had looked for Edilio but not found him. Who could get her anything? Who could help her?

  Little Pete coughed hoarsely and licked his lips as he hung in midair, twisting slowly, like a chicken on a rotisserie, hovering in the breeze that blew strong through the window.

  Afterward Diana lay alone in her bed. She’d kicked Caine out and Caine was relieved to go.

  Diana would not have minded him staying. But she sensed he needed to go off and think, wonder what he’d gotten himself into, and regret any implication that he had cleaned up his act and accepted her terms.

  It was all a fantasy, of course, the idea that he would change. Maybe someday. Maybe when he was older. Maybe when he got a career and a house and a wife and all the other things that cause wild boys to turn into men.

  Not that men were always better behaved than boys.

  Diana stayed on her side of the bed, just as if Caine was still there. That had become his side of the bed. It belonged to him.

  Of course if that was true she was going to have to find some condoms. From just the two times the risk of pregnancy wasn’t great, especially given the fact that her body was half wrecked. But still. The last thing anyone wanted was a baby.

  What chance would any kid have with Caine as father and Diana as mother? Diana laughed softly. And could not later recall the exact moment or the exact reason that her laughter turned into bitter tears.

  Edilio stood completely still in the hallway outside of Roscoe’s room.

  He could barely breathe.

  What could he say? What could you say to a boy who was going to die? The terrible truth was that he could do nothing for Roscoe. It was good that Roscoe was calling to God because only God could save him. Edilio could not.

  And what Edilio had to do next would destroy Roscoe’s last hope.

  Edilio looked at the plywood. Three half sheets, each four by four feet. A hammer and nails. Two-by-fours.

  It had to be done. It had to be. Roscoe—the things inside him—could not be allowed to escape.

  Edilio dragged the first sheet across the dark hallway and propped it against the door.

  “I hear someone out there!” Roscoe yelled.

  “It’s me, Roscoe. It’s Edilio,” he said.

  “Edilio! Please, can you help me?”

  Edilio opened the box of nails, grabbed the hammer, lined the nail up so it would go through the plywood into the door molding.

  “Roscoe, there’s nothing I can do, brother. I have to . . . You’re going to hear some hammering.”

  “What?”

  Edilio slammed the hammer into the nail. He had to be careful; it was dark, and operating by feel alone was a bad way to hammer nails.

  This was going to take a long time.

  “Roscoe, I have to do this, man,” Edilio said.

  “You’re going to lock me in here and let me die?”

  Edilio hesitated. “Yes.”

  “No way. No way. No!”

  “And I have to do the same thing to the window, man.”

  “Edilio, no. No, man. You don’t want to do this.”

  “No, I don’t want to do this,” Edilio said.

  Roscoe fell silent as Edilio nailed the remaining plywood in place. Edilio propped the two-by-four against the plywood and nailed it into place. The other end he nailed into the floor with massive long nails that took forever to hammer in.

  Outside in the fresh air, Edilio steeled himself for what came next. He leaned the ladder against the building and with some difficulty wrestled a sheet of plywood up the ladder. He was going to fall and kill himself, he thought, and it would be justice, wouldn’t it?

  Roscoe was there at the window. His face was ghostly in the pale moonlight. “Isn’t there anything . . . ?” Roscoe pleaded.

  “Sam can’t even kill the things,” Edilio said. “He tried but he couldn’t. I can’t let them hurt more people.”

  “Yeah,” Roscoe said. He nodded, jaw so stiff his teeth were cracking audibly.

  “Sorry, man,” Edilio said. He slapped the wood into place against the window, resting it precariously on the narrow sill.

  “Tell everyone I was ever mean to that I’m sorry,” Roscoe said, his voice muffled now.

  “You were never mean to anyone, man. You were a good guy.” Edilio winced, realizing too late that he was using the past tense. He quickly drove in the first nail. He hit his thumb with the hammer. The pain was stunning.

  He welcomed it.

  Orc woke to a headache and shivers.

  He was facedown. On the sand. The surf was lapping at his legs, covering his feet, gently surging to wash over his calves.

  His head was a single giant ball of pain.

  There was sand in his mouth. Sand in the cracks between the pebbles that formed his skin.

  He could see the bottles. Just a few inches from his head, empty. Not even a tiny little drop left.

  He was still drunk, he had not slept long enough to sober up. But he was no longer blacked-out, brain-dead drunk.

  He was naked. That surprised him a little. But he had vague memories of ripping his stained, filthy clothes off and rampaging like a wild animal through the water. Bellowing.

  There was no one to see him anyway. No one around. No one was going to hang around when Orc went crazy.

  Scared of me, Orc thought. Surprise, surprise. Orc the monster, all covered in his own crap and staggering and lurching through waist-high water trying to get clean, scared people.

  He decided to go look for another bottle, quick, before it all came rushing back into his head but it was too late because it was all coming back now.

  He got to his knees. He might be a filthy, disgusting drunk, but he was still strong.

  He’d have to walk naked through the dark streets. What did it matter? He wasn’t a boy, he was a monster. A naked Orc was just a curiosity for people to laugh at. One more thing for people to find disgusting.

  He tried to stand up but somehow ended up rolling onto his back. He vomited. It dribbled over the side of his face, over the last patch of human skin.

  There were stars in the sky. They kind of swam around and sometimes doubled and blurred.

  Here he was: Charles Merriman.

  He hated himself. Hated himself so much. He had what he deserved: cold sand and colder water and pain.

  Why couldn’t he just die? He deserved to die. He needed to die. If there was some kind of God up there looking down at him, then God was wanting to throw up.

  Of course God probably liked doing stuff like this. Charles Merriman was probably, like, his favorite person to beat on. Yeah, it was, like, I’m going to give this kid a violent drunk for a daddy, and a dumb dishrag for a mother, and I’m going to make it hard for him to even learn to read, and then, just when he’s starting to finally get some respect, I’ll turn him into a monster.

  No one ever treated Charles Merriman like he might be a kid. Like he might not be totally worthless. Except Howard, and that was just so Howard could use him.

  The only other person who had been nice to him was Astrid. Not like she liked him, but she didn’t think he was scum. Like he wasn’t just some nothing.

  He had saved her life once. But even before that she’d been nice to him. One person. Ever.

  With a supreme effort, Orc got to his feet.

  In the end Sam decided to camp for the night by the train. They had crates to burn and a reassuring fire roared high into the night sky.

  They made a camp out of lawn furniture. They ate Nutella and drank Pepsi, nowhere near tired of the sweetness.

  They stared into the flames and up at the sparks.

  “If we bring kids here, they’re going to find out about the missiles,” Dekka said.

  “Yeah,” Sam agreed. He made a keep it down gesture and added a significant glanc
e at Toto, who was dozing fitfully on a wicker chaise lounge.

  “We can’t get all this to town. They have to come here.”

  “Yep,” Sam said.

  “What we need right now is a bunch of . . . what were they called?”

  “M3-MAAWS,” Jack said. “Multi-role Anti-Armor Anti-Personnel Weapons System.” He was reading the instruction manual by the light of the fire.

  Sam rolled his eyes. “M3s. Yeah, this would be, like, the last thing I would want to see getting into a kid’s hands.”

  “Can we hide them?” Dekka suggested.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Jack said distractedly. “I don’t want kids coming here and stealing my ’puters, anyway.”

  “We have a new member of our little band,” Sam said. “Toto the truth teller. I don’t think he’s great at keeping secrets.”

  He got up to throw another wooden crate on the fire. The fire would most likely keep the coyotes away. He yawned and flopped into the wicker rocking chair and hefted his sore feet onto the little table.

  “You know what?” Sam said. “I keep forgetting: I am not the guy in charge.” He laughed contentedly. “I’ll tell Albert. I’ll hand Toto off to Edilio. Then? Not my problem.”

  “Yeah, that’s totally going to work, Sam,” Dekka said.

  Sam noticed her feeling her stomach, pressing in on it, frowning.

  “Anything the matter?” he asked.

  Dekka shook her head. “I think I’ll get some sleep.”

  Sam nodded off. At some time in the night he woke to see the fire had burned down to glowing coals. He saw Dekka some distance away, just outside the circle of firelight. She had her back to him, her shirt lifted up to expose her stomach, which she prodded and poked.

  Sam went back to sleep and came fully awake what felt like mere seconds later, though the fire was almost entirely out and Dekka was on her own chair, snoring.

  Something. Something out there in the dark.

  Coyotes? He didn’t want a fight with coyotes—if he or one of the others was badly hurt, there was no easy way to get back to Lana.

  He raised his hand and tossed a Sammy sun into the air. It hovered ten feet up, casting a sickly light over the camp. Jack and Toto asleep. Dekka, no longer.

  “What is it?” Dekka hissed.

  “Don’t know.” He pointed to the direction he thought the sound had come from. Then, in a voice pitched loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to wake his sleeping companions, he said, “If anyone’s out there, I am Bright Hands. I will burn you if you bother us.”

  No answer.

  A faint but definite rustling sound. Maybe a clicking. Maybe not. Then silence.

  “So much for sleep,” Sam said.

  “I’ll sit watch,” Dekka said.

  “Dekka: you have anything you need to tell me?”

  He heard her sigh. “Just being paranoid, Sam. Just, you know, making sure. My stomach was just rumbling and I thought maybe . . . You know.”

  “Dekka, the last time you had anything even a little bit sweet was months ago. It’s not a surprise your stomach would be a little off.”

  “Yeah. I know. Is yours?”

  “Sure. A little,” Sam lied.

  Jack woke with a loud snort and a crash as he smashed his arm down, crushing a table.

  “What?” he yelled. He sat up. Rubbed his face. Found his glasses. “Why are we awake? It’s still night.”

  “It’s true: it is nighttime,” Toto said.

  “Well, if we’re all up, we might as well push on. Sooner the better,” Sam said with a sigh. “Let’s go find this lake.”

  Sanjit was slight in build. But he was strong. So when Lana collapsed he was able to catch her and hold her.

  Dahra saw it happen. “She needs sleep,” she said to Sanjit. “Get her out of here.”

  “What about you?” Sanjit asked.

  “I’ve gotten really good at grabbing power naps,” Dahra said. “Besides, Virtue is almost as much use around here as you are.”

  “Almost?” Virtue grumbled.

  He had come to the so-called hospital with word that Bowie was doing much better. He had tucked the rest of his brothers and sisters into bed with too little water and too little food. And now he was helping Dahra.

  Dahra put a hand on his shoulder and said, “You’re a life-saver, Virtue. My little African brother, here.”

  That brought one of Virtue’s rare smiles. Dahra’s folks came from Ghana and Virtue’s from Congo, so they weren’t exactly from the same neighborhood, but it gave them something in common, Sanjit realized. That, plus the fact that they were both incredibly decent people.

  “I can’t carry Lana to Clifftop,” Sanjit said. “But I can get her a place to lie down.”

  Lana woke up long enough to say, “Urrhh. Wha?” And then her eyes rolled back in her head and Sanjit lifted her in his arms. Virtue brought him a couple of blankets and draped them over his shoulders.

  He carried her up out of the basement, up through the hallway crowded with hacking, miserable kids, and out to the plaza.

  Five unburied bodies lay there side by side. Mismatched blankets covered each one, corners tucked underneath, faces covered by chenille or satin or tartan wool.

  They’d given the plague a name, a callous nickname. The SDC they called it: Supernatural Death Cough.

  But at some point during the day they’d begun to notice that some kids were getting better, too. The flu was awful. But it wasn’t a death sentence to everyone who caught it.

  They’d been unable to keep complete records, but according to Dahra’s hasty notes and frazzled memory about one in ten progressed to full-blown SDC.

  Sanjit was struggling a bit to carry Lana, but he was unwilling to lay her down near the dead or within sound of the hacking coughs.

  She wasn’t just going without sleep. She was going without love and hope. She was living with guilt for having failed to be Superwoman, having failed to kill the evil in the mine shaft, having failed to see what was happening to Mary.

  He took her to the beach and laid her down on one of the blankets, which he spread on the soft, dry sand. She was lying on top of the gun in her belt, so he slid it out and lay it on her stomach. Then he covered her with the other blanket.

  Her faithful dog had followed them the whole way and now Patrick snuggled beside her. He looked up at Sanjit, questioning.

  She would almost certainly be safe here alone. No one wanted to hurt the Healer. And Patrick would bark if anyone came close.

  But Sanjit couldn’t just leave her here all alone. So he settled into a sort of yoga sitting posture, sighed, and decided to await sunrise.

  • • •

  Albert did not resist. Maybe, he thought, a braver kid would have. But he wasn’t that kid. When Turk demanded to know where Albert’s secret stash was, Albert told him.

  Simple as that.

  Albert had wet himself. He had cried. Still was crying.

  He was going to die. He knew that. They would figure out pretty soon that there was no safe way to release Albert.

  They would know that. He knew it, so how could they not know it?

  But he could negotiate, maybe. Maybe now that they had all his stuff, his stash of canned food and bottled water.

  It didn’t look like much. It wasn’t, although it was untold wealth in the FAYZ. They had filled two small boxes with his things and filled their hoodie pockets as well.

  “You got what you wanted,” Albert said, trying desperately but failing to keep the sobby quaver out of his voice. “Just go away. I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Man, you were hiding cans of Beef-a-Roni,” Raul said. He was disbelieving. “You had three cans!”

  “Take it,” Albert pleaded. “Take it all.”

  Turk glanced at Lance. Even in his despairing, shattered state, Albert knew they weren’t quite sure just yet. Hope rose like a tiny flame inside him. Maybe. Maybe they wouldn’t.

  “Look, you want food and wate
r, right?” Albert pleaded.

  “You have more?” Lance demanded angrily.

  “Not-not-not here.”

  “Not-not-not,” Lance mimicked.

  “N-n-n-n-not h-h-h-here,” Watcher said, and laughed.

  “So where is this other stuff?” Turk asked, and kicked him almost tentatively. It was enough, though, to send a breathtaking spike of pain up Albert’s leg from his broken knee. The knee was already swelling to twice its normal size. It was the worst of many agonies in his body.

  “I don’t have anything else here,” Albert said. “But listen, I make more, right? I buy more. I control what gets made and picked and all.”

  “Yes,” Turk said, mock-serious. “You’re a big man, Albert. Too bad you peed yourself.”

  That set off another round of laughter.

  “You think we’re stupid?” Lance demanded. “You think we’re just some stupid white boys who don’t know you can snap your fingers and have Sam or Brianna or one of those freaks come after us?”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Albert said. His jaw was quivering so bad he almost couldn’t speak. “I wouldn’t. Because if I did that, you’d, you’d, you’d tell people I cried.”

  “And wet your pants.” Watcher seemed the most likely to let him go, but Albert knew the decisions were being made by Turk and Lance.

  There was no pity in either face. Lance was aglow with hatred. Turk was less emotional.

  “You know what we ought to do?” Turk suggested, laughing in anticipation of his punch line. “We ought to throw him in one of the slit trenches we dug for him.”

  “No, no, don’t do that,” Albert begged. A dunking in excrement was infinitely better than being killed. “No, don’t, I’m begging you.”

  Lance squatted down, brought his handsome, chiseled face right down to Albert’s level. “You just think you’ve got it all, don’t you? Yeah, it would be fun to see you wallow around in the crap like you made us do. But then you’d just climb out and next time one of us turned around, there’d be Sam Temple. Flash of light and zap, we’d be dead.”

  “I’m not . . . That’s not . . . ,” Albert said. “Please. Please don’t kill me.”

  Turk looked offended. “Did we say we were going to kill you?” He turned to Lance. “Where did he get that idea?”