by Lia Habel
The door opened slowly, just a crack. I saw Mr. Delgado’s white face looking out at me. I gasped. His eyes were streaked with blood.
He looked down, and upon seeing his daughter, opened the door and picked her up, holding her to his chest. “Oh, my Jenny-girl!”
“Papa!” Jenny squealed with delight, throwing her little arms about him.
“Thank you,” Emanuel said again, before looking to us. “Thank you. She got out, and—” He fell silent, his eyes on mine. I filled in the blanks. He hadn’t been able to go searching for her, not the way he looked. He would have started a riot.
I took another step down the stairs even as I asked, “Is Mrs. Delgado all right? And … Tata?”
He worked his blackened lips for a moment before saying, “Mrs. Delgado is … fine.” I interpreted that as “ill.”
“Her grandpa is …” He gripped his daughter all the more tightly, and I understood that her grandfather was dead. “She’s used to him being drunk,” he said, with the air of one who was going to use this explanation until she would no longer accept it, and maybe for a little while afterward.
Never in my life had I felt such pity for a group of people. They weren’t mad. They were trying to carry on as best they could. But still, the very sight of them was enough to force me back yet another step, and my father with me. I wanted to help, I wanted to reach out to them, but my instincts were guiding me the other way. I felt caught in the middle.
Mr. Delgado watched us go. There was no anger in his face, only resignation. “If you hear any news … would … if you could, would you let us know? We don’t have power, and …”
“Yes, sir,” I said without reservation. That I could do.
“Thank you,” he said again as he shut the door.
My father took my arm and pulled me home, for the second time in a single evening. He was shaking. “You ever do something like that again, you are on your own. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered again. As we climbed our own stoop, I looked up at him. “Thank you.”
My father didn’t smile, or even nod. He did, however, meet my eyes—and within his I thought I caught a glimpse of the real him, my real father, the one who had loved me and called me “pet,” the one that I’d killed by killing.
He was still in there somewhere.
That night, after everyone else had gone to bed, I lit a candle and sat in the middle of my bedroom floor, staring into its flame and trying to sort out my thoughts. I was still shaken from our walk back through the city and from my visit to Halperin Street. My arms felt cold, and I rubbed my hands along them, trying to warm myself up. I never wanted to do anything like that again, especially not at night. I’d felt exposed out in the open, easy pickings.
Even now I didn’t feel safe in my own bed. I couldn’t sleep. I felt like I wanted to hide from the world outside my front door.
Hide.
We could hide.
I skipped back from this idea quickly, before I became too attached to it, and examined it for flaws. We’d have to take supplies with us. We’d have no way of knowing when it was safe to come out. But if we chose a good location, the infected might not be able to find us. If we stayed hidden for a few days, a week, it would give the world time to settle down. We wouldn’t have to flee through the streets or the countryside. After all, we had no transportation, and if more and more people left the city, there was no guarantee we’d find even a handcart to help us.
The reporters were chanting, constantly, that our troops were on top of the quarantine. What if they were right? We’d just have to wait it out.
But how could I get my family to go with me? How would I explain it to them?
The answers to these questions would not come immediately.
Before returning to bed, I made my nightly trip downstairs for a few slugs from one of Dad’s wine bottles. As I leaned against the liquor cabinet and willed the foul taste of the alcohol to leave my mouth, I hugged my own body. I allowed myself to indulge in the numbing, paralyzing fear that wanted to take me over, just for a moment. I did so because I knew that the time was swiftly approaching when I was going to have to ignore it.
I was going to have to get my family into hiding, before we went the way of the Delgados.
I hadn’t even thought about Christmas, not until Nora mentioned it. After that it was all I could think about. I had nothing to give her. I couldn’t exactly arrange for a skating party or a trip into the city, or anything. I really sucked at this whole “I am very attracted to you and would like to demonstrate this to you via attention and creative uses of my disposable income” thing.
I finally had to fully acknowledge it. I liked her. I liked her a lot. She was smart and courageous and pretty, and she had gotten to the point where she didn’t look at me like I was some sort of demon wearing a man suit.
Dearly was going to have my throat, if Wolfe didn’t beat him to it.
When I went to bed that night, the Ghost of Christmas Past visited me. Since my death, my dreams have changed. I’ve never asked anyone if they experienced the same thing. I used to dream in color; now my dreams are black and white. They play like hastily spliced-together movie reels, the occasional image whizzing by that has nothing to do with anything else, like a subliminal advertisement. Wooden shoes. Aunt Edna’s floury apron. Men dying everywhere—help yourself to the buffet. No?
We’d never had a lot of money, but Mom liked to get little things for the girls at Christmas when she could. Usually it was a new pair of hand-knitted stockings stuffed with chips of molasses candy and fruit and perhaps a copper or silver coin, if it’d been a good year.
The size of the gifts didn’t matter to them. The fact that there were to be gifts at all excited the girls, made them as tight as little spools of thread all through December. By Christmas morning they’d usually had it, and they would unwind themselves all over my bed—bouncing on me until I was awake, whispering so that Mom in the next room over wouldn’t hear.
“Wake up! Wake up, Bram! Santa came! Santa came in his big steam sleigh with all his automaton reindeer!”
“I heard it last night!”
“You did not!”
“Did too!”
“Did too,” I remember mumbling, hiding my eyes with my arm. “I heard it. Emily’s right.”
“See, I told you!”
“Why don’t you go draw the steam sleigh?” I’d suggested, in order to buy myself a few more minutes of sleep. That resulted in them tackling me anew, dissatisfied with my answer. The correct thing to say would have been, We will go open presents now.
My brain shorted, my dream footage flickering, and the presence above my body became Nora, her nose and cheek nudging at my arm. I moved it, opened my eyes, and took her in. She was smiling.
I awoke with a start, a split second before my alarm clock went off. The jangling bell only added to my sense of panic. I quickly filed that one under “things to never, ever dream again if it is humanly possible.” Not only did I feel guilty, it’s not as if my body could do anything about it. You kind of need a heartbeat for that.
I showered quickly, before the whole thing could depress me too much, and returned my attention to the problem of Christmas. I still wanted to do something for her. Maybe not anything grand—she was still surrounded by trouble on every side, after all—but something nice, maybe something to remind her of home.
Midway through brushing my teeth, I opened my closet.
My dress uniform caught my attention.
I swallowed my toothpaste, threw some clothes on, and attacked the door and ran out into the hall, idea suddenly in hand. I made my way to the med facility, chewing on my toothbrush and exploring my idea from all angles. Yes. It was traditional, involved dress-up, and had meaning. It was perfect. Genius, even.
I was so absorbed in my planning that I almost didn’t notice that Dearly’s office door was slightly ajar. Thankfully, the part of my brain that’s always on high alert, the hunt
er, set off a little siren.
Nora wouldn’t leave the door open.
My training kicked in, and I slunk against the wall. I slowly pocketed my toothbrush, and found that I was all thumbs. I forbade myself to think about the fact that I might be afraid. It was probably nothing—somebody most likely ducked in for something after she went to bed and forgot to close the door all the way. No big deal.
I edged closer to the door, slowly, listening for signs of life. There weren’t any. The med bay was empty, the lights dim. A lozenge-shaped cleaning automaton slid back and forth on its predetermined track along the tile, the only movement I picked up on.
Although I don’t like to do it often, as it makes me feel distinctly less than human, I took a sniff. At once I relaxed. I could smell her—that unique combination of clean skin and hair that was Nora. No blood. I got to the door and pushed it open a bit farther.
Nora was asleep at her father’s desk, breathing easily. I opened the door fully and let myself in, keeping my steps quiet. She’d drifted off where she’d been working. A fountain pen was still clutched in her ink-stained hand, and her cheek was resting against a pile of parchment. I leaned over her body to look. The top sheet contained a list of names and numbers, completely random to my eye. She must have been dredging her mind for anything that might’ve been included in the system password. The computer screen on the desk flashed patiently, waiting for that password to be entered.
I tucked my hands into my pockets and watched her for a while. I found it funny, really, how much pleasure I could get out of simply resting my eyes on her. She didn’t even have to do anything. After a few minutes, though, I made my way quietly into her father’s chambers and got a blanket, which I tucked around her. I shut the door fully on my way out and continued to Chas’s room.
There, I could be as loud as I wanted. “Chas, wake up,” I said as I gave the door a few good pounds.
I heard a lot of crashing, and Tom cursing, before the door opened a crack and Chas peeked out. “Whuzzat?”
I sighed. “Chas, it’s seven A.M. Why aren’t you up yet?”
She stared at me as if I’d just spoken Swahili.
“Right. Anyway, I need a dress for Nora.”
“She out of clothes?”
“I need a pretty dress. Like a … a …” I gestured to my shoulders, trying to convey the level of fanciness I wanted. I’m a farm boy, what do I know?
Chas squinted blearily at me, but eventually seemed to understand. She opened the door and let me in. In addition to the usual mess, there was a person-shaped lump under the blanket on her bed—Tom. I chose to ignore it. Cohabitation was against the rules, but the only thing they could sleep together for was companionship, and I wasn’t about to deny them that.
“Like a ball gown?” she asked as she made her way to her closet and opened it.
“No, not for a ball. Like a … church dress?”
“Huh?” Chas was lost.
“Don’t question it, just do it.”
She pulled out several things, eyed them herself, and pushed them back. Five minutes later she held up two dresses for me—one bright red with chiffon flowers on the shoulders, the other light pink satin with black stripes.
“The pink one, I think, but … do you have any dresses that are tight on you?”
Chas was losing her patience. “Tight?”
“Yeah, you know …” I rolled my eyes, but pointed to my chest. “Up here. She’s way smaller than you. Not that I’ve been looking, or anything.”
“Are you complimenting my girl’s boobs?” Tom muttered beneath the blanket.
I looked at the lump and deadpanned, “Yes, I am.”
The lump shifted in a self-satisfied way. “Thank you, you’re very kind.”
Chas tightened her fingers on the hangers and cut her eyes at me. “As if he grew them.”
“I’ll take the pink one. And … what goes with it?”
Chas let out a little “Raaaargh,” but dug everything out for me. She kicked me in the calf on the way out. It was worth it.
I snuck back into Dearly’s quarters and laid everything out on his bed for her. I then tiptoed around Nora and returned to my room, where I put on the works. Beneath the uniform proper there’s a black dress shirt and a red waistcoat, and there are cuff links with the enameled Z-and-loops on them, and a chain for the waistcoat, and five thousand other parts that simultaneously make you feel pretty badass and like a girl for putting them all on so carefully.
I didn’t put the hat on, seeing as I was inside, but I carried it tucked beneath my arm as I made my way back to the med hall an hour later. By then engineers and doctors were appearing for work, coffee in hand, and their eyes followed me. I rapped smartly on Dearly’s door.
Nora opened it, wrapped up in the blanket. She took one look at me and her mouth opened to release a little “Oh.”
I bowed like a clockwork soldier, straight from the waist. “Miss Dearly. May I enter?”
She nodded mutely, and stepped back to let me in. I shut the door behind me and grinned at her. “Did you find the dress?”
“Uh-huh.” She was still looking at me as if she wasn’t sure if I was really there or not.
“Well, put it on! It’s Christmas, and we’re going to church.”
She rested both of her hands on the edge of the desk as she backed up a little. “We are? Where?”
“There’s a chaplain on base. I thought we might as well do something. I know your father isn’t here and everything’s crazy, but … I still hope you have a happy Christmas, Nora.”
She didn’t say anything in response to this, but slowly made up the distance she’d put between us, keeping one hand on the desk. She reached out with her other hand and stroked a finger along the edge of my captain’s bars. Then, in a sudden fit of propriety, she yanked her hand back as if out of an open flame and hid it beneath her blanket. “Wow.”
I vowed that I was never taking the uniform off, ever.
I bent my head, all proper-like. “I’ll wait for you in the courtyard.”
“Okay.”
Samedi eyed me on the way out. “Oh, you scoundrel. That’s dirty pool.”
I jutted a finger at him. “You just wish you had one.”
“I don’t need one!” he shot back. “I have maturity, and strength of personality! And … and the ability to hide my own head in glove compartments and lockers to see if she’s cheating on me!”
Beryl handed him a file on her way past. “You ever try that again, I’m going to drop-kick you into the next country.”
Once outside, I put on my hat. I shined the brim of it with my thumb and waited, not daring to move—I was afraid I’d wrinkle the uniform. I’d only worn it once before, when I first got it. Who knew it held such power? And all this time it’d been languishing in my closet.
Nora came out half an hour later. The pink dress actually fit her very well, and it rustled invitingly when she walked. Her hands were gloved, and a ribbon held her curls atop her head. She stopped when she saw me and flashed that same shy smile she’d first shown me in the field of grass. But then she set her shoulders and came closer. “You do look very nice, Captain.”
“You are lovely as always, Miss Dearly.” I offered her my arm.
This time she took it.
I escorted her to Isley’s little wooden chapel, which she eyed with interest. The cats soon had all of her attention, though. She giggled, picking up the same kitten I’d patted the other day. “Aw!”
Jacob emerged from the doorway and smiled. His face was drooping a bit more than usual. “Miss Dearly, welcome.”
She turned to look at him. “Hello.”
“This is Father Isley. Father, say—would you mind doing a Christmas service sort of thing?”
“Ah … well, certainly! I suppose I should!”
Jacob saw us inside, and we sat on a pew together. His cats followed after him, although the kitten opted to stay with Nora. She spoiled it with petting. I f
elt slightly jealous.
“You must forgive me,” Jacob said as he tried to find everything. There were wooden boxes stored beneath the makeshift altar. “Our Masses are so rare, I normally put everything away, or it gets filled with shed fur.”
Nora stroked her fingers along the kitten’s ears. “Are all these cats yours? Aren’t you afraid someone will eat them?”
He lifted his head. “No. True, in hunger, the undead may turn on any animal—but if anyone here did decide to eat one of my pets, I would hunt them down and make their final transition into the afterlife one of pain and fear. With God’s blessing, I daresay. I think this is common enough knowledge to keep them safe.”
Nora laughed. “I think I like his religion.” Her eyes took in the chapel, the rough carvings of religious icons, the rainbow painted on the wall over the altar. “You don’t normally hold Mass, then?”
“No.” He found the monstrance and heaved it up onto the table. “Religion is a difficult topic here. Those who come from the lands where the Son is worshipped think that their resurrection is similar to His, and that they must be here to fulfill some divine destiny—but they’ve no idea what it could be. It leaves them feeling directionless. And after accepting that they’ve come back to life, some lose their faith entirely … after all, they’ve not ended up with the afterlife they were promised, but here they are, dead as the proverbial doornail.”
Nora thought this over. “But you still believe that God exists.”
“Me? Yes. How can I not? My proof is right here.” Jacob picked two cats off the altar—a black and white Hemingway cat, and a muscular black one. “These little creatures. Animals can sense things we cannot, you know … earthquakes, oncoming storms, even illness. And yet I can sit here, nights, with my hand upon one as it sleeps, feeling its stomach fall and rise … it knows I am there, and still it slumbers on. So trusting! If I were a monster, surely it would flee from my touch. It’s the most profound example of divine mercy that I can think of, the unconditional love shown by these animals for someone … something like me.” He set the cats down on the ground. “So, how can there not be a God, and how can I not try to be a good man so long as there is one?”
