The 40th Day (After the Cure Book 5)

by Gould, Deirdre

  Whatever is happening will happen without me, he told himself. He went into the dark store, hunting for pesticide spray suits. If they had the chemical, they’d have the gear, he reasoned. He concentrated on picking his way through the dark aisles so that he could let the unrest in his mind cool a little. It was all wrong. It had felt wrong since Vincent had volunteered to go into the quarantine camp, and it just kept getting worse. He’d had friends in the City. When Henry had asked him for help, Amos hadn’t expected to stay separated from them forever. They were most likely dead. He’d left, not because he hated the City or the people in it, but because he understood. He knew how the Cured felt. He’d experienced it himself, Before. The Colony was meant to be a new start. A place without memory, without past. For Amos, too. He pulled the masks and suits from the rack, still smooth in their plastic bags, dumping them all into a bucket. He didn’t bother counting. He’d let the others divide them. Let the others choose who lived an hour longer. Let them choose their own murderers. He’d put that part of his life away. This was a close as he was willing to get to picking it back up again.

  You’re just a farmer now, he told himself. Just a farmer that knew how to wipe out a city full of people and knew what men like Gray meant for what was left of the world.

  “Amos?” Henry called.

  “Yeah, in here.” He shook himself and carried the suits back toward the loading bay.

  “Sprayer is running. How do we fill it?”

  “We need a standpipe or a well. I hope the pump on the truck is still working.”

  Henry shook his head. “We can’t use the farm one. Not unless it rains. It’s dangerously low on water.”

  “There’s a fire station down the road, there must be a hydrant near it. We’ll do that first. The longer we can avoid traveling with the chemical, the better. We can pour it in when we get back, that way we only need to worry about one truck exploding.”

  He loaded the suits into the pickup, keeping an eye on the horizon. The bulbous forms of smoke were plainly visible now. “We have to hurry, Henry,” he said, pointing, “I think Gray made a move earlier than we expected.”

  Henry covered his forehead with one hand. “Alone? He can’t be that stupid. What could he possibly gain by trying to hit us by himself? He wouldn’t be able to steal much.”

  Amos shook his head. “Whatever is happening at home, they need help. I wish Vincent wasn’t in that camp.”

  “We all do,” said Henry, his gut clenching painfully. Who would they lose this time?

  They didn’t waste time discussing it, jumping into the sprayer’s cabin and heading for the fire station before the clouds of smoke could spread even farther across the sky.

  Twenty-seven

  Gray’s skull throbbed and blood spilled over his eyelashes as he limped to the tree line. He didn’t stop, cursing under his breath instead, each step stretching the open flap of skin and muscle on his calf. He risked a glance behind him as the he reached the dim twilight of the thick woods. No one followed him. The priest must have stopped to pick up the girl. Gray sagged against the root system of a fallen tree. He wiped the blood from his forehead with the back of his arm and swore as he bent to look at his leg. Fucking zombie, he thought, I shouldn’t have bothered stopping to kill her. They’re all dead already. No way they’ll grow enough food now. And now I have to limp thirty fucking miles to the boat. The leg was gushing with every step and he was dizzy from the blow to his head. He had to find somewhere to hole up and heal for a few days. Gray was in no hurry. He knew their plans now. He had weeks to spare before they’d move out. A small part of him worried that his attack on the Colony would speed up the timeline, but he relaxed into a nasty grin as he realized that nobody knew why he’d attacked. Nobody knew what he was after, except Father Preston. And now that Gray had acted, Father Preston would be too much of a coward to speak up until it was too late. They’d blame the priest for not warning them. He wouldn’t risk it. Gray’s secret was safe. For all the Colony knew, he would keep attacking. They’d tighten their defenses if anything, not risk more people in trying to get to the City. By the time they figured it out, Gray would have sailed halfway across the ocean.

  But not if he bled to death. He hobbled farther into the woods, heading toward the City. There had to be something on the way. A house, a store, someplace he could stop and patch himself up. He hoped Molly was dead with every burning step. It was one thing to get beaten, he was no stranger to pain. It was another to be so wounded by a woman and a cripple. Humiliating.

  He might be laid low, but he wasn’t worried. This world was made for him, almost as if he’d shaped it that way himself. He’d waited, Before, his whole life. Biding his time behind a mask of polite civility until the Plague. When things like masks were worse than useless. When people like him, people that faced what the world really was, instead of pretending it would revert to what it had been, those people thrived. This world rewarded cunning and strength with power and ease where others scrambled to survive. Certainly, it was dangerous, but Gray wasn’t relying on a barn of burnt vegetables either. And he’d yet to find anyone more cunning or stronger than himself. Even Father Preston had proved a dupe in the end. Gray had thought the religious act just a ruse, another mask, but, in the end, Gray had proven smarter and more practical. This place was used up. He’d never be a farmer. He’d never even be a good thief. Not really. Gray was a leader. A goader. An instigator. He needed people. He’d keep moving until he found some. Nice, gullible people. Who would farm for him and manufacture for him and be happy to do it.

  No more Cured. They either collapsed under the weight of their own guilt or they turned out to be uppity and dangerous rivals. No, the further he went, the more likely it’d just be Immunes left. Frightened by the Infected, by the packs of wild animals, by the lack of everything, they’d thank him for saving them.

  These are the things he repeated to himself, like a mantra as he stumbled through the woods. It was almost nightfall before he found the hunting shack. He’d lost a good deal of blood and become disoriented. He was farther from the road than when he had started the day, though he didn’t know it. He dragged himself up to the porch. The door was locked and he flung himself at it, but was too weak to break it down. He stood a moment stupidly staring at the unyielding door. At last he looked around for a window and flung a stone through one nearby. He expected it to burst inward, but the crash was dull and the glass clung together in small shards. He used his shirt to carefully punch the glass loose and crawled through, swearing as his hand raked over a jagged piece he’d missed. He was in a small, unfinished bathroom and he pawed through the medicine cabinet for supplies. There was a collection of first aid kits, most were missing the band-aids but little else. He picked up three and walked out into the cabin. The tub that ought to have been in the bathroom was sitting in the middle of the living room floor, filled with packing peanuts and small plastic figurines. Glittering holiday ornaments hung from the unfinished rafters along with a pair of hammocks. Comic books were strewn over the floor. Gray smiled. It was little more than a tree house. Like one that had been in his backyard. He half expected to see a pack of partially smoked cigarettes or a dirty magazine tucked in one of the corners. He hoped the kids who’d been here had left him something to eat. He wouldn’t have to worry about getting jumped and that was worth something. He sank down onto one of the hammocks and pulled open one of the first aid kits. The small hand mirror in the top of the kit showed him a crackled mask of deep rusty brown. He didn’t bother to wipe it away. Instead, he attempted to see the cut on his head. He touched it carefully with one hand. Unlike his leg, it had already scabbed over. He rummaged through the box and found a few foil envelopes with pills. The labels were old and his eyes kept crossing as he tried to focus. He shrugged and downed a few of each, hoping something would help his headache. He opened the other first aid kits and swallowed the pills he found in them as well. Then he bent down to look at his leg. The sudden movement ma
de him pitch forward onto the floor. He fought to stay conscious and a wave of nausea rolled through him. Fucking zombie, he thought again. He stayed on the floor for a moment, catching his breath and watching the glittering ornaments sway in and out of focus above him. No passing out until it’s stitched, he told himself. He hauled himself up and propped the wounded leg on a nearby chair so he could reach his calf. He fumbled with the alcohol wipes and clumsily swept them one by one through the gash, hissing each time. It still looked red and puffy along the edges. He squinted at it for a while and then shrugged. He’d slap some antibiotic lotion on it after it was closed, he guessed. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to sweat through an infection. He pawed through the kits again and swore. The suture kits were missing. He lay back down. He could wrap it in bandages but the bleeding wasn’t going to stop. He stared at the ornaments above him. If he had to, he could use one of the wire hooks as a needle he supposed. The thought was as far as he got before losing consciousness.

  Twenty-eight

  Vincent pulled Nella gently away from Molly. Her lips were bloody where she’d been fighting the tide of Molly’s pulse as she blew into the thin straw. Her hands shook, splattering blood across the sleeping bag as she backed away.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, sighing. Vincent nodded and sat down beside Molly’s body and folded her hand into his own. Nella stumbled out of the tent into the sizzling summer light. The air was charred and gray ash sparkled in the sun, suspended in the windless day. Father Preston was waiting for her, wringing his hands.

  She pushed past him. “She’s dead,” she said blankly. “I’m sorry,” she added, but couldn’t muster the same sympathy for him as she had for Vincent. She didn’t know if he’d even known her.

  “I have to talk to you,” he said.

  She kept walking. “I don’t want to hear any of your lies.”

  “But it’s my fault! And yours too—”

  She wheeled around. “What’s my fault?”

  Father Preston pointed at the tent. “Our fault. The girl lying in there.”

  “Our fault? I did what I could. I’m not a surgeon. I warned him— the world is— is broken. Nothing works anymore. Even if I saved her, she’d have been infected. Everything is— everything is wrong.” Her last word threatened to tumble into an angry sob and she pinched the bridge of her nose with two bloody fingers to stop herself from crying in front of him.

  “Not that,” said Father Preston, and his voice was softer than she’d ever heard it before. “I know you did everything you could. It’s our fault that Gray attacked. I have to talk to you about him.”

  Nella shook her head. “You made him, not me. I’m sorry, Father. A few years ago, maybe even a few months ago, you might have found a sympathetic ear with me. But I’ve seen your brand of fanaticism too many times. And there’s barely anyone alive who isn’t carrying some kind of guilt for what’s happened. It’s become the new norm. Besides, I’m dying. Office hours are over. I’m not your confessor and I’m not your therapist. Find someone else to dump your sermons on.” She felt terrible almost as soon as the words left her lips.

  “But you don’t understand— I must speak to you—” he continued. She walked back to her tiny cell and slid into the tent, covering her head with one of the sleeping bags and burying her face in the crushed grass so she couldn’t hear him. Startled, Frank met Father Preston at the fence.

  “It’s about—” he started.

  Frank waved a hand. “She’s upset. Let her calm down and we’ll listen to what you have to say. Whatever it is, it can wait.”

  “No—” protested Father Preston.

  Frank gripped the wire fence tightly. “Yes, Father, it can. We’re trapped in here. Unless what you have to tell us can be solved inside this wire fence, then it can wait. It’s just your bad conscience talking. I won’t let you dump your guilt on to her. She’s had more than her share of that. Leave her be. We’ll speak later.”

  The priest backed away and Frank returned to Nella. She was crying and trying to wipe the blood from her mouth and hands.

  “She didn’t make it?” he asked, offering her a cup of cool water. She shook her head.

  “There was nothing I could do.”

  “I know.”

  “I tried,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “It didn’t even mean anything. It didn’t even count. He got away. He’ll come back, hurt some more people. And it won’t mean anything either. And in a month, I’ll die too and then you and then none of this will have mattered. None of us will have mattered. Because everything and everyone will be gone.”

  Frank shook his head. “That’s not true. We know there are others out there. We’ve seen them. And even if they weren’t— even if there were no more humans, it doesn’t mean we didn’t matter or that what we suffered made no difference. We are a handful of people, the leftovers of billions. We don’t hold the memory of every person that lived and breathed before us. Not even in our modern age where everything seems to be recorded. How many millions and millions of people were born and lived and died without leaving a single trace in history? But they mattered. Their lives meant something. How many thousands just in the past few years, that were lost in the Plague, that have nobody left to remember them? But they still matter. So do you and I.”

  “To whom? When there is no one left, to whom will we matter?”

  “To each other. To the people that lived with us, who knew us. To me, if you can’t think of better. It matters that I met you. It matters that you loved me. Even if this is it. Even if it all stops when we do. You gave my life meaning. It means something that that girl existed. That she was loved by her friends. Even if they don’t make it either. Besides, Gray isn’t going to come back. You didn’t see what she managed to do to him. I did. He’s lucky he didn’t lose his leg. He still might. He won’t come back, not knowing they are ready for him this time. She saved them. Whether she saved them for an hour or a month or years, that means something. And you saved her, the first time around. Maybe so she could do this very thing. That meant something too.”

  “I didn’t cure her, I just got bitten. You saved her.”

  Frank smiled. “Very well, I saved her. But you saved me. I don’t know if I believe we are fated to do anything, or that we have a purpose outside of just existing. But if I were looking for a worthy one, I think helping these people would be a good one. And loving you would be the best one. I don’t need any more than that.”

  Marnie slid her small fingers through the fence and fumbled with the latch on her lock. She unhooked it and slid out of her small cell, heading toward the tent where all the commotion had been. It was silent now, and she held up the flap to look inside. A girl was lying on the ground, pillowed by a few bloody sleeping bags. Vincent knelt beside her, brushing her hair from her forehead. He was quiet but the way he rocked slightly told Marnie he was crying. She sat down quietly beside him.

  “What was her name?”

  Vincent picked up the girl’s hand. Marnie could see it was broken and scarred. “Molly,” he said.

  “Was she at the Lodge?” Marnie asked.

  Vincent nodded.

  “Did Phil do that to her arm?”

  “No. It was one of our friends before they were cured.”

  “You’re friends with people that tried to eat you?”

  Vincent smiled. “I’m friends with whoever will have me as one. She and Henry were the best of them, though.”

  “What happened?”

  Vincent’s hand tightened over Molly’s limp one. “Someone worse than Phil. Someone worse than all of us. Someone who enjoys being a monster.”

  “What will you do?”

  He placed the hand across the girl’s chest and then the other on top of it. “Say goodbye.”

  “What about the bad guy? Aren’t you going to find him?”

  Vincent shook his head. “If he comes back, I can’t answer for what will happen to him. But I won’t chase
him. Molly died trying to protect this place. She’d want us to stay and protect it too.”

  Twenty-nine

  Amos winced as the sprayer bounced violently over an unseen rut. He slowed down, glad he was the one driving with the chemicals. He eased the pickup over the dip, glancing at the dark truck bed as if he could will the box of pesticide containers not to move. The headlights swooped up to illuminate the back of the sprayer again, its tank still swaying slightly from the slosh of the water. He could hear crickets even over the rumble of the trucks and the wind blew a dry tang of smoke into the cab. Too heavy to be the campfires. They were still too distant for that to reach him. He was unsurprised to see the sprayer speed up. Henry was panicking. Amos had considered warning him, when he was certain the smoke had to be from the Colony. But there was nothing to be done. They had to trust Molly and Vincent to hold it together without them. Amos understood the impulse, but he kept his foot light on the gas pedal. It’d do no good to blow himself up. Then there’d be two fires instead of one. He’d kept his own panic in check as the day crawled on because the signs of smoke had diminished instead of grown. He knew they’d controlled it somehow. What he didn’t know, was whether it was an accident. Had something truly ugly happened? He rubbed a rough hand over his face. He’d seen it before. Quarantines gone wrong. It didn’t take much. A superstitious group, a collective fear, one person could set it off. It wasn’t even hate, just sheer terror that would cause it. They’d certainly had enough of that.

  Before, he’d been an outsider. He’d been trained. Grown up in a western world where things like witchcraft didn’t cause disease. He’d looked down on the people he was trying to protect, even as he told himself he didn’t. He practiced pretending they were equal, they were the same as him. But deep in his head, he looked down on their fear. Minimized it even as he tried to show that he cared, that they were there to help. Soldiers weren’t built to fear, even when they did. He’d expected to be an outsider at the Colony too. As hard as Henry tried, as much as he liked the others, Amos really had been. The lone Immune. Nobody treated him badly, nobody pointed or stopped conversations when he came near. But he was still the outsider. Still the helper. Part of it was purely practical, he knew about farming. It was easy to fall into the role of teacher. And then leader. The others had been content to let him.