The 40th Day (After the Cure Book 5)

by Gould, Deirdre

  “Don’t call me that. You are no brother of mine. You’ve broken the most sacred law. You are no priest. Faithless, wicked, you are my mortal enemy. You are no longer part of the church.”

  “I know,” said Vincent quietly, “it comes from a higher authority than you, Michael. It had to happen. It will continue to happen. You will see. Your miracle won’t work here. We have to think of the days ahead. Of the Colony. Of your people and my friends on the hill. There are no more miracles coming, Michael. We have to save ourselves.”

  “Do not speak to me. Never speak to me again. I will cure these people. I was not given this gift to have it fail now—”

  “Perhaps you were mistaken about your gift. Perhaps there was some confusion—”

  “Stay away from me. You’re in league with Gray. I should never have trusted him. But I won’t fall into despair because of him. Or you. Stay away. You are unwelcome, unwanted. Keep your bloody hands to yourself,” Father Preston was hissing with rage. He fled the small tent. Vincent was still for a moment and then slowly returned to wrapping the bodies for burial.

  He knew Father Preston wouldn’t expose him. It would mean admitting that the miracle had failed. Still, Vincent waited several hours in the small tent for the camp to fall silent around him. He didn’t care what the others thought of himself, but he didn’t want the deaths to cause a panic in the quarantine camp. Near midnight, he slipped out, wheeling the barrow back through the dark pathway to the tent. He placed the bodies inside, the mother’s legs hung out of the end, though Vincent tried to gently bend them into place. He wheeled the barrow quietly past the other cages, their occupants all sleeping. The only light was from the watch fires that capped the ends of the Colony’s now finished wall. There was little fuel to spare for lights in the quarantine camp. That suited Vincent. He didn’t want to be seen. He didn’t want to be distracted. The quarantine fence ended in a large circle. The waste buckets were dumped into a hole here, because it was at the bottom of the hill and couldn’t contaminate the Colony’s water. Vincent didn’t want to bury them here. Not among the filth. But he didn’t trust himself outside the fence either. Despite his memory of how it happened the first time, the Plague was like an ax above him, waiting to fall at any second. He had to stay inside the camp. His own sanity demanded it. He set the barrow as far from the waste buckets as he could. A large crabapple tree grew just outside the fence, its old crooked limbs hanging over it and over Vincent. It would be a quiet spot, that much he could give them. It would smell sweet in the spring with plenty of blossoms and again in the fall as ripe fruit spilled onto the ground.

  Nonsense, Vincent thought. Just bodies. The mother and boy are gone. They don’t care what happens now. Just lumps waiting to turn back into dirt. Get it done. He chopped into the grass with a shovel and it released a gentle scent of growing and green. The ground was hard and stiff with years of unchecked grass growth, but soon Vincent broke through to softer earth and soon had a pit large enough. He carried them gently, mother first, then son, into the grave and then sat down on the edge to rest. Vincent looked up at the dark silo that towered over the Colony’s wall. He knew someone was watching the road from there, even if he couldn’t see them. He wondered who it was. He pulled the walkie-talkie from his pocket and turned it on. The click and sharp static startled him, even though he’d kept the volume low.

  “Anyone home?” he said quietly.

  “Vincent, is that you?” Henry’s voice crackled through the small speaker and Vincent smiled with relief.

  “Yeah, it’s me. I just needed someone to talk to.”

  “Are you okay? Have— have you noticed anything?”

  “I’m not sick. Not yet.” Vincent could almost feel the sigh of relief traveling through the small radio, though Henry didn’t transmit. “But the first one finally turned.”

  There was a long silence. “I know you wanted to believe he could do what he said, but— this isn’t a shock is it Vincent?”

  “No. I’ve been dreading it. It finally came.”

  “Does he realize what he’s done now? Is he ready to cooperate?”

  “No. He couldn’t face it. Days and days, he tried to cure them. He wouldn’t give up, I’ll give him that. He was exhausted at the end. He just collapsed. I— I took care of it.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Vincent swiped the back of his hand over his good eye. The radio crackled again. “I’m not supposed to tell you this. I don’t know who else can hear us, but I want you to know for sure that you did the right thing. We found a Cure dart. Someone cured the others, someone from the City. Some part of him knows it wasn’t a miracle. He and Gray both knew. He couldn’t do what you did, Vincent, because he’s a coward.”

  “It doesn’t make what I’ve done any better. The cardinal law, Henry. The one unforgivable thing. I’m damned.”

  “No, what you did was mercy.”

  “It was murder. It’s for God to decide life and death, not me.”

  “Maybe God did decide. Maybe he just used you to do it. Maybe He’s decided for all of us, but we can’t know. If you are damned, then we all are. There was no choice. There’s no return this time. Just madness and suffering and infecting others. Think of it as self-preservation. That’s allowed, right?”

  “I’m an evil person. It doesn’t matter how I justify it. I’ve done a terrible thing. And I can’t even repent, because I mean to go on doing it, when necessary.”

  “I’m coming down there. I can’t ask you to do this. We didn’t really think far enough ahead about what we were asking.”

  “No, Henry, I’ve accepted my role. There is no reason for you to become ill too or to share this burden. I just needed someone to talk to. I was just lonely.”

  “We’re missing you here too. I feel like I’ve lost my conscience. Like you were the voice of our better selves. I hate that you are there without a friend. Isn’t there anything I can do to help you? Sitting up here is driving me crazy.”

  Vincent took a deep shuddering breath and stood up on the edge of the pit. “I know you aren’t religious Henry, but knowing someone was praying for me, that my name still reached His ear, even after I turned away, that would bring me a great peace.”

  “If it will bring you some comfort, then there won’t be a day that I don’t pray for all of us and you in particular. Goodnight, Vincent.”

  “Goodnight Henry.” Vincent clicked the radio off and began filling in the pit with the cold soil just as the horizon began to lighten in the approaching dawn.

  Nine

  Christine watched the sparkle of dust floating in the morning sun. Marnie was awake, looking at the map again, but Christine wasn’t ready to go yet. She’d pretended to still be asleep when Marnie had shaken her shoulder. She was slow. And it was getting worse. She’d stumbled more and more after they left the tunnel. She slid one hand gently over the top of her belly. She’d heard that women grew clumsy, lost their balance during pregnancy. Even that their thought processes were impaired. But was it the baby? Or something else? After Marnie had fallen asleep, Christine had lain awake wondering what was behind the locked door in the back of the abandoned station. Maybe food that the looters had missed. Maybe more jerky. She could still feel the stringy pull of the pieces she’d had earlier, the salt and spices still tingled as she licked her lips. She told herself there was nothing back there, just an empty stock room. Even if the looters had been in too large a hurry to clean it out, the scav teams that hit it later from the City would not have left anything behind. But in the dark, the thought of the jerky grew until the clench and rumble of her empty stomach had woken her in the early morning. It had taken a few seconds to realize that she’d bitten through her bottom lip and was sucking the salty blood from the cut. Christine had shut her eyes again, wondering if she’d missed signs of the Plague, dismissed them as strong pregnancy cravings and symptoms. She pushed the thought away. She should have turned by now, shouldn’t she? Sevita had said a week and it had been two. Sevita said
a week until things got bad in the City, not a week to infection, she thought, as a panicked cramp squeezed her core. Could I have been that far behind Sevita? Are there still people turning now?

  And the baby? Was there any way to save it? What for? She asked herself, Marnie was right. No reason to bring a baby into this misery. But Sevita had been so happy. Christine could still see her sweet smile when the test had come back. She could still hear the melody of the lullaby Sevita sang with her cheek against Christine’s stomach. But Sevita was gone. And the baby would end up an orphan. Like Marnie. Its life as bad or worse.

  She glanced over at the teen. The question was whether to make a decision now or wait and hope she didn’t become irrational. Marnie had to get to the camp. She might make it on her own, but that would mean asking the girl to take care of Christine, one way or another. Christine couldn’t do it. She couldn’t force the girl to do that. But at the camp, there would be others. Adults. People that would know what had to be done. People that could do it. She had to make it that far. Maybe they had a doctor. Someone who could tell her whether it was just the baby or if Christine was infected. The thought made her shudder again. No use waiting around, she told herself, if there’s one more day, let’s get it done. Just get it finished. She sat up. Marnie looked over at her.

  “Are you okay? You hurt your mouth.”

  Christine rubbed off the small crust of blood. “Fine,” she said, “must have bit it in my sleep.”

  Marnie nodded and began sliding gear into her backpack. “We should get there this afternoon,” she said. “Oh, found this in the bottom of my pack. It’s not jerky, but—” she handed Christine a dented can of corned beef hash. “We can make a fire outside if you—”

  Christine had already peeled back the tab and sunk her fingers into the cold mash. “I guess you can eat it that way,” said Marnie. “Those cravings are no joke, huh?” She went back to packing.

  Christine could feel the tiny bubbles of grease squish onto her tongue, mixing with the over-salted canned beef. She remembered her parents taking her to a restaurant when she was ten. It had been fancy. All she remembered was the steak tartare her father had ordered. He’d let her try it and it tasted like a fresher, cooler version of the hash. More squish. More liquid. More blood, she realized. She rolled the beef over her tongue, sucking the salt from it before she swallowed. It was too soft. She wanted something with more resistance. With more warmth. She slid her hand around the inside of the can, trying to scoop up the last shreds of meat. The sharp metal edge caught on her fingers and sliced them. Christine felt it but didn’t stop. At last, she pulled her hand into her mouth, licking the little clumps of beef and potato, sucking on the slim flap of skin where her fingers were cut. She became more frantic and began to worry at the cut skin with her teeth, dropping the can to hold her injured hand still as she chewed.

  Marnie turned as the can hit the floor with a thin ringing. The wrapper was covered with dark blood. She looked over at Christine, half her hand disappearing into her mouth. “What happened?” asked Marnie, already reaching for the first aid kit in Christine’s pack. She didn’t waste time waiting for an answer but began fumbling with the gauze pads and tape. She reached for Christine’s hand but the other woman resisted.

  “I’m just going to bandage it, Chris,” said Marnie, pulling again, but Christine pulled back again. “I know you’re the one with the training but you can’t really do it yourself. Not with one hand. Just tell me what to do first, I can handle it.”

  Marnie pulled on Christine’s arm once more. A deep, gurgling growl bubbled up from Christine’s throat and Marnie shrank back. “You can’t be,” she said, scrambling backward. “You can’t. Snap out of it Christine. Wake up.”

  Christine gradually realized what she was doing. She forced herself to put her wounded hand into her lap. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, not looking at the girl. Marnie hesitantly knelt beside her again and began wrapping the bloodied hand in thick gauze. She handed Christine a disinfecting wipe for her face without looking. She didn’t want to see.

  “I thought you said—” she started. She sighed and stopped. “Maybe it’s like a weird deficiency or something.”

  Christine didn’t answer.

  “Can you say something besides a growl so I know you’re still you?”

  “I’m still me.”

  “For how long?”

  Christine snatched her hand back and began stuffing items into her bag. “Long enough to find your friend. Long enough to bring you home.”

  “And then?”

  “I don’t want to talk about ‘and thens’. I just want to get through ‘and now’.”

  Marnie was reluctant to drop the matter, but Christine turned away. Marnie got up and pulled the last of her things together. She regretted, again, having no weapon, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to do it if the worst happened anyway. She pushed out of the store’s front door and waited for Christine on the already-baking tar.

  Ten

  The ring of falling metal woke Nella with a jolt. A seam of daylight flickered under the door turning the storeroom a deep brown. Voices began on the other side. She felt Frank sit up behind her. Her muscles pulsed with acid adrenaline but she stayed still, fighting the urge to burst out of the tiny closet to meet whatever was on the other side. There was a slow, ascending growl from the other side of the door and then a girl’s voice sharpening in warning. Nella sat up, swinging her feet to brace the door, expecting someone to thunder through within seconds.

  “We can’t leave her,” whispered Frank. “It’ll kill her.”

  Nella was troubled. She wanted to open the door as much as he did. His stricken expression triggered an echo and she could hear him telling her the story of the boy in the bunker again. “I had to open the door. It was someone's baby. Someone's whole reason for being,” he’d said, “Nella, how could I not open the door?”

  She knew now, what he’d felt. She knew, also, if they opened the door and became infected, he’d never survive the guilt.

  “She’s already dead,” she mouthed toward him, more to persuade herself than him, “We know for sure that they’ve been exposed.”

  Frank hovered on his knees, leaning toward the door. “It sounds like it’s just a girl—” He reached toward the knob. Nella let her legs slide down to the floor and leaned in to stop him.

  “You’ve been here before, Frank. For days, you’ve been begging me not to take any risks. We’ve gone to great lengths to stay safe.” She put a hand to his cheek, turning his face toward her and away from the door. “We’re in the bunker, Frank. We’re safe and the little boy is knocking again.”

  Frank backed away as if she’d slapped him. “Why would you say that? Why now?”

  She followed him, holding onto his hand as he tried to twist away. “Because I can’t stand to see you that broken down again. You aren’t blind. I know you realize that we probably aren’t going to make it. Not both of us. Maybe neither of us. You knew it the minute Christine called us on the radio. That’s why you begged me to stay away. We chose to come back anyway. We chose. If something happens— if I get sick and you don’t— I can’t let you blame yourself for it the way that you did with Sarah.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t talk that way—”

  “I have to. We have to. This whole mess, the false security of catching Dr. Pazzo, the reinfection of the City, Sevita’s death— it’s all because we met. I don’t blame either of us, we tried to stop it. We failed, but we tried. And I don’t think anyone else could have done any better. But I can’t fail you. We’ve been happy, these few months, in spite of everything falling apart around us. This has been the very best part of my life, even if it came after the Plague. But now we have to decide how we live what’s left of it. We have to decide who we’re going to become.”

  Frank nodded but remained silent. The growl from beyond the door had grown.

  “I can’t bear to think of the memory of us being soured. I can’
t let you blame yourself for whatever comes next. So, here we are. We’re somewhat safe in this storeroom. There’s a child in danger that we might be able to save, for a day or two. But if we open the door, we’re going to do it together. It isn’t going to be anyone’s fault if one of us gets sick. I want to open the door, Frank. Who wouldn’t? You need to think for a moment. The moment is going to pass, like every other, and you’ve got to let it go, no matter what we decide. You can’t carry it around forever.”

  She stopped talking and listened to the growl die away and their breath filled the space.

  “Open the door, then,” he whispered.

  He was beside her as she unlocked the door with a soft click, and then twisted the knob. Cool air flooded into the store room and Nella squinted against the bright morning light streaming through the display windows. The store was empty. The only things left were a few drops of blood scattered over the dull epoxy floor and an empty can of breakfast hash lying on its side. There was no girl, no growler, no bodies.

  Nella let out a shaky breath. “Maybe it wasn’t a person with her. Maybe it was an animal.”

  “What about the blood? And why would it growl?”

  “Maybe it smelled us.”

  “Maybe we waited too long,” Frank frowned and crossed to the door. He looked down the road for some sign, but it was empty.

  She curled a hand around his. “Maybe she was someone else’s to rescue. Or maybe she just didn’t need rescuing. Besides, we have other people to save.”

  He pulled her into a tight hug. “I don’t want to die in the bunker, Nella.It gets in anyway. It always gets in. I don’t want the rest of our lives to be a long, dragging dread. I mocked you once, when we were searching for the missing vials. You were scared that we had reached the end, that we had missed some chance to stop the plague, that we were all doomed. And I told you not to worry, because I thought you were overreacting. That you were irrational. I’m sorry. Now I know what you were feeling. No matter how I try, I can’t push that fear away. My mind is constantly screaming to turn around, to take you back to the boat and go. You said so yourself. You said we ought to go south, leave the City to take care of itself. Instead, we keep walking further and further from safety. And every choice is harder than the last, but we still keep going. And when we get there, what then? No one will know us. Nobody is expecting us. What can you and I do that will make any difference at all?”