The walls are college-typical: half-dressed girls, sports posters, and beer advertisements cover most of them, while the opposite side, that of a more studious roommate, are filled with inspirational ones: “Be the change you want to see in the world.” “The longest journey begins with a single step.” and “Strength through adversity!” give words to my feelings, and I stop to digest them before moving toward what I can only guess is the bathroom.
From outside the door, I stake the shower curtain and use my spear to slide it open for anyone or anything that might still be hunkered behind it. Nothing. And to be safe, I close the door behind me and lock it, before I begin rummaging through the medicine cabinet and under the sink, until I find what I’m looking for. Truth told, I find peroxide and rubbing alcohol. The difference between the two is astronomical as far as pain’s concerned. I know the peroxide will sting less, but I know the burn of the alcohol will mean it’s doing the job better. I can’t wuss out when it’s something so vital, so I choose the alcohol. Apprehensively.
Bandage off, I gawk at my wound in the mirror. A crescent shaped ring of teeth—save for the missing few—arches the front of my shoulder. The same goes for its back. The reflection I see when I look up at myself—pale from the darkness of seclusion—is only a glimpse of the pallor that will soon consume me. It was his plan after all—he got what he wanted. Mr. Laverdier will finally have me out of the picture, soon enough. But little does he know that he’ll be first. And though I refuse to fade away without taking him with me, time isn’t on my side anymore. It never really was.
Cap off, I hold my breath and bite my lip as I turn the plastic bottle to a horizontal and the clear liquid pours over my shoulder and down my chest. “Fuck!!” Hushed profanity spills from my mouth as the alcohol eats at the deep punctures of teeth. Some of the blood washes away in the burning bath, and it streaks down my torso, drips to the floor, and I have to bite down even harder to keep from screaming out and waking the dead—or worse, the white.
It’ll only buy time, if anything, and the pain probably isn’t worth it anyway. But, at least for now, it doesn’t look as bad as it did. It’s still not pretty, but at least it’s clean. With some bandages and gauze from under the sink, I wrap it tight and press an ear to the door for any new sounds in the bedroom. And with nothing, I recheck the lock, turn back to the mirror, and inspect the rest of myself. I know the approximate path of infection, but that was then, and this is now. Everything could be entirely different. Who’s to say that The Whitening hasn’t grown stronger? Maybe four days to white is only two now, or maybe it’s only hours. Who’s to say I won’t be whited-out by tonight?
I lean as close as I can to the mirror, and I pry my eyelids apart between two fingers to look deep in my eye. They’re still blue, but I see flecks of white there. Or maybe those’ve always been there. Maybe I’m just giving myself a complex and imagining them there. I grab my hair, tug angrily at a handful of it, and expect a clump to let loose from my scalp. But it doesn’t. There’re only the customary few that anyone would’ve extracted, had they gone at theirs with the same, determined vigor.
My skin looks sickly, but I’ve already chalked that up to circumstance. Unless it has gotten paler. Has it? Arms outstretched and turning in the light, I try to remember what my complexion used to look like, but I can’t. The lighting here doesn’t help much, either—the room’s lit only by a small window, positioned high over the shower.
But there’s no sense overanalyzing it, because there’s only one thing to do, and it’s what I originally set out to accomplish: to find my family and Catee. And considering my mom’s all I’ve got left now, I’ve got good sense where to find her. And where I find one, I’ll find the other.
And then there’s that needle Mr. Laverdier stuck her with, back before all this happened. And if that’s the vaccine I know it was, chances are, there’s a cure out there, somewhere. And if I find Catee, I’ll find my mom, and I’ll find Mr. Laverdier. And then I’ll have the solution to the virus that’s setting up home in my body.
Staring at myself won’t accomplish anything, and it’s time to go. As scary as it is to go back out there, it’s all I can do.
For them.
For me.
And for whatever humanity might still be out there.
May 11th: 1:12 P.M.
Exiting the dormitory isn’t half as hard as entering it was, and I find the same things leaving as I did going in: a whole lot of nothing. The dorm was a giant morgue. And as suggestive of life as its street-side bodies suggested, the creator was gone. He … she … whoever it was … was wiped out before they could finish the job. And while I’d like to think they got away, and that they’re out there, alive like I am now, experience tells me they’re probably dead by now, too.
My doors are locked, my seatbelt’s fastened across a worn t-shirt that I snagged from inside, and the car clangs noisily into gear as I pull its shift into drive and peel out, now comfortable enough behind the wheel to burn a little rubber. Assured in my escape vehicle and in my command of it, I recklessly draw attention from any other hunters who might still troll the campus.
And I don’t even pause at the main road’s intersection, because time isn’t on my side anymore, and hesitation is my new, worst enemy.
On bike, Damariscotta’s far. On foot, it’s even further. But cruising along in a Mercury Grand Marquis, it’s a heartbeat away, and it’s one I’m able to tackle in short time. I cross the town line and pass by its inviting placard: “Welcome to Damariscotta: The Flowering Town.” Its irony hits me and makes me laugh. Softly at first, but then louder. And then maniacally, as I roll along and weave the sporadic, street-side corpses of the fallen. My occasional thump over one or another is out of total necessity, but it comes with an uncontrollable laughter that would sound sadistic to any anyone else. I’ve got to be losing it. It’s the infection, I’m sure.
Images of my dad and my sister flash before my eyes. I picture them laid out there, like so many other loved ones, and I imagine some kid rolling over them; it stifles my hysterics, and it returns me to the solemn reality of tasks still at hand.
I’m not far now. I remember the landmarks well from when Catee and I first took our bikes here, before it all fell apart. There’s the long, wooden fence. And the rock wall, to my right, that now conceals whatever disaster’s befallen the red, gambrel house behind it. I coast over the green bridge, tarnished with age, and I see the ominous, dirt driveway of Catee’s camp, just beyond it. But I don’t slow down, and I don’t stop until I’ve past it, and I safely round the next bend.
I’m not in any position, or condition, to go storming in on their compound like I’m conducting some one-man raid. If anything, this is a reconnaissance mission, and it’s one I need to conduct with stealth and unprecedented caution. I’ll launch my plan of attack after I’ve got a better understanding of what I’m up against—whatever that might be. But, no matter what, I’m not coming out without Catee. I’m not leaving without my mom, either. And if I’m going to get them safely away from whatever anarchy they’ve become involved in, I’ll need to protect the only escape vehicle we’ve likely got.
Around the corner, a long driveway leads to a neighboring camp, and I pull the Marquis far enough in that it can’t be seen from the road, but not so far that I can see the house at its opposite end, either. The point I stop at is a quarter mile in, and it’s wide enough that with a few careful turns, I’m able to get the car turned around; I leave it’s nose facing the street to facilitate a swift getaway. I consider leaving the keys inside to cut-down on their clumsy jingling in my pocket, but I can’t leave anything to chance. Who’s to say someone else, maybe even one of Mr. Laverdier’s own missionaries, hasn’t had a change of heart, or that they’re not looking for their own getaway vehicle now, too? Leaving the keys behind would be a foolish gamble to take, considering how far I’ve made it already.
I don’t know if I even breathed as I moved from the front to the back o
f the car—climbing over the seat to organize my backpack arsenal, and to reunite myself with my white-tipped spear: a stronger weapon than I could’ve ever imagined, back when it was just part of a cot and before it became a weapon for freeing the sick. I take in a deep breath, hold it, and close my eyes to say a quick prayer before the handle lifts and the Marquis’ door drops down from its frame.
And, as slowly as I try to open it, and as quietly as I try to make my exit, it’s not quiet enough. And even though its creak is probably only audible to me, it’s more a sound than I care to make in such a precarious place. Discretion is the only way I’ll be able to pull this off, and I know for fact that I’m outnumbered if they’re still hunkered down out here.
Closing it takes twice as long as my exit did, until it’s pushed snug into its frame behind the weight of my body.
I’d decided to avoid the road at all costs when I chose this driveway, and with a look to the sun, still high in the afternoon sky, I know I’ve got time to make it in and out—through the half-mile of dense woods and alongside the street—before darkness falls. Even then, I’ve got a flashlight tucked away in my backpack for good measure, but I don’t plan on using it unless there’s a serious emergency; there’s no way I’m about to be stuck out here and shining a beacon in the middle of the pitch-black woods.
The ground underfoot is still damp with spring showers, so it’s ideal for stifling my movements. Further and further from the driveway, the trees become denser, and their fallen branches grow more abundant underfoot. And suddenly, what was once a stealthy reconnaissance mission becomes tainted with the snap and crack of sticks. I try to kick some out of the way before my feet connect with the ground, as I simultaneously swat at low hanging ones that scratch my face and tangle in my hair.
But where I avoid one sound, I make another.
My movements—slow, methodic, and only partially muted—carry me through the woods, and I make sure to keep sight of the road through the surrounding trees as I push forward.
My wooden stake doubles as a walking staff. It sinks into mossy, water-sodden spots on the ground, and it gives caution to the knee-deep muck that I dodge along the way.
I see a bright spot ahead—what looks like a clearing and a place to wring my soaked socks before I tackle the second-leg of my journey. It invigorates me to pick up the pace, even at the risk of making undue noise, until the sounds I make draw movement from in front of me. It’s the first I’ve seen of any since parking the car, and I throw myself against the closest tree and freeze.
I didn’t get a look at whatever it was before instinct took hold and I ducked from view: it could’ve been a person; maybe an animal; or even one of them. I can’t say, and I can barely help but peek around the tree for a second look at whatever it was. But I don’t. I wait for it to make first move, instead. Man, animal, monster, whatever it is, it can’t stand there forever. And if it’s anything but a person, it doesn’t have the sense to stand as silent or as motionless as I am right now.
But it does, and seconds pass. Then minutes.
There’re no sounds.
And there’s no snap of branches or any movements from afar.
Whatever it is, it’s as still as me.
And so I look.
My head presses sideways against the rough bark, and my bandaged shoulder aches from the pressure of being pressed so forcefully against it. I lean into it until cool air moves across the tip of my nose, and then I lean just a hair further out, so my eye can discern what’s kept silent for so long.
I see the backside of a person.
They’re far away, and they’re dressed in a camouflaged green that blends with the surrounding woods. Still, I see them there. Whether it’s the distance or just my line of sight, obscured by overhanging branches, they look short—maybe only four or five feet tall—another kid, I guess. I’m dumbfounded by the first person I’ve seen in almost two weeks, and it’s all I can do not to scream out and to let them know that I’m here: that they’re not alone; that I’m not alone anymore, either. But sensibility wins out, and I keep my quiet and pull behind my barrier to adjust the pack and to regroup with a new plan.
Whoever it is, I can’t just leave them alone. What if they need help? But, what if it’s a trap? What if this is just bait for me? What if they saw or heard me coming and this is one of Mr. Laverdier’s pawns, luring me in? Either way, I can’t go back to where I came from, and I can’t stay here, either. So I do the only thing I can do, and I dart for the next closest tree, tuck squarely behind it, and I wait for a reaction.
But again, I hear nothing.
I crane my head around the trunk to take second look, but the figure in the distance is unchanged.
Emboldened, I move forward, two trees this time, and I pause only briefly at the first before I scurry to the second and flatten against its back. And again, I look out and around, and I see whoever it is, fall from their knees to flatten against the ground. Camo-clad, I can barely discern them from the land they’ve morphed into, and I don’t want to take my eyes of them and risk losing them entirely.
And now that we both know the other’s here, we’re at a standstill. I’ve already concluded that whoever it is, they aren’t some kid. I also figure that they’re like me. Or at least, like I am right now—four days from now, it could be a totally different story; especially if I don’t get to that camp, to Mom, Catee, and to the cure I hope is waiting there. But before I can get to any of that, I’ve got to get through this: this one person who stands in my way.
And one of us has to make first move.
I rummage the ground for a rock, a stick, or something heavy that I can chuck their way and get a reaction.
I come up with a good-sized stone. Smooth, it fits neatly in the palm of my hand—like it’s been waiting for me all along. And with reservation, but fueled by precious time wasted in the sinking sun, I give it a chuck to the clearing. With a soft thud, it hits the ground and bounces twice before it comes to a stop.
Still, there’s nothing. No reaction at all. And it gives cause to wonder if whoever it was, didn’t shimmy away while I was caught in the distractedness of my first, human discovery since ascension.
“Hey … ” I speak loud enough to be heard from where I’m at, but not so loud that distant, attentive ears might hear.
“HEY.” I repeat my frank salutation with added emphasis, and hope to garner a response.
“Listen,” I start, after getting nothing. “I’m not sick. And I don’t think you’re sick, either. My name’s Damian. What’s yours?”
At first, there’s nothing in trade. But then, as I peer around the tree, less than twenty-yards away, the camouflaged figure begins to rise. I see one arm lift, and a hand plants into the ground. Then the other. And when the two push up, a torso rises and rises, until it stands at monolithic proportion that’s unmistakable.
“Damian!!” Mr. Laverdier venomously hisses my name, but I’m already hunkered back behind my tree. I hope I haven’t given my hiding spot away and that he can’t discern me from the surrounding woods.
“Damian! Get over here! Get down! It’s not safe!!” His words cut through the hanging limbs, and he’s a target for me. I reach into my backpack for a knife: one that I can whip through the air, lodge in his throat, and silence him forever with. I select a chopping one: its got good length and solid weight, and of those in my arsenal, it’s most likely to sail with the distance and speed I need to take him out with one, well-placed throw.
With its hilt firmly gripped between fingers and thumb, I leap out to aim for where he last stood. And I whip it through the air with all the might I can muster in my bandaged arm. It flies perfectly and, like I’ve practiced the shot time and time before, it moves end over end, like lightning, his way, but it misses its target by inches.
I’m back behind my tree by the time it hits the ground, and I hear him speak again—from the ground, based on his muffled voice. “Damian! We’re on the same side! I know you don’t
want to believe it, but we are! I’m sorry for the bad blood between us, but this has all gone too far. We need to stop it! We need to work together! Like it or not, you need me, Damian!”
“I need you all right!” I yell back in the same hushed projection of voice. “I need you dead!”
“But what about Catee? What about your mother??” he asks, and baits me with the only weaknesses I’ve got left.
“What about them?! What have you done with them!? Where are they?!?!”
“I’ll tell you everything you need to know, Damian. But you’ve got to trust me. I only want to do what’s right and fix what I’ve done!” he pleads.
“Fix it? Fix it! What can you do to bring back my dad? And how are you planning to piece my sister back together again? How the fuck are you planning to make things alright again, Pastor Dave??” Sarcasm drenches the title that he’s bestowed upon himself.
“I can’t, Damian. I can’t do anything to bring them back, and I’m sorry. I can’t begin to express how deeply sorry I am for the harm I’ve done to you and to everyone’s families. I can’t take back what’s happened, but I can try to make it right again. I can help you to salvage what’s left—and there’s Catee, too. I was wrong to interfere the way I did. I know she cared for you, Damian.”
“Cared?” I spit back. “What do you mean cared?” The tense of his verb choice doesn’t go unnoticed. “Has something happened to her? Because if something did—
“Damian,” he interrupts. “Enough of this. Let’s lay down our weapons and talk like men. Let’s call a truce, for now. And if you’ve still got bad feelings for me after all’s said and done, I’ll let you take your revenge. I’ll gladly let you do to me, what my work did to those you loved.”
“She’d better be okay!!” I repeat.
“Damian. Please. Just step out. We can’t stay here much longer! It’s not safe!”
Project Pallid Page 23
