Without looking up, Richard studied the bag of potato juice. Gripping his hand around the neck, he mumbled, “That floor of dwellings is for families only.” He tightened his grip until the bag strained, as though it were alive and trying to breathe.
“Families?” she replied, but then she realized that he was alone. In a little over a year, the man had gone from a family of four to no family at all. Richard narrowed his eyes at her, annoyed by her question.
“I’m by myself. Got no family anymore. No right to take the space of a dwelling meant for a family,” he answered, his words broken and shaky. He drank then—deep and long—encouraged by the salt she’d unintentionally poured on his open wounds.
“I didn't understand,” Janice answered, hating that her tone sounded like an apology, but knowing that she’d spurred hurt in him with her question. Watching him pour the juice into his mouth, she saw that it didn’t matter what she’d said; he was going to drink anyway. When he’d finished the heavy swig, and saw her staring at him, he pulled the bag away from his lips, coughing out the remainder in his mouth. She saw shame in his eyes and watched humiliation fill his face, like the fog that sometimes stole the hands in front of you.
“I need it,” he said flatly, looking once more at her before dropping his chin to fix his sight on the floor. “At first, I didn’t need it. I just drank because I liked the way it made me feel. It was my friend, helping me forget about what happened to Sandra and Hadley. But now, I need it. I get sick when I don’t drink.”
The rustling sound of Richard squeezing the bag told Janice that he was ready to drink again. He’d said his piece, and she was glad. For selfishly, she hadn’t sought him out to help him; it was she who wanted his help. Needed his help. And if he was going to drink while helping, then that would have to be okay.
“Richard, I didn’t come to you about this,” she said, motioning her hand to the bag of potato juice. “I need your help.”
They walked along as he seemed to consider what she’d said and lifted the bag for another long swig. Janice could tell that he was trying to get more juice in him, probably knowing that a convulsion was coming. As he swallowed, she watched the pink flush of his skin shrink away; the blue arteries in his neck spiderwebbed into broken red capillaries that mapped upward onto his face. Declan’s father was far worse off than she’d ever have imagined possible.
“What kind of help could I possibly give you?” he asked, with his eyes pegged to the side while he kept his head forward. “I can’t be of help to anyone.”
But before Janice could answer, Richard dipped his head, grunted unintelligible words, then dropped to his knees. The bag of potato juice fell from his fingers and sprayed across the ground, spilling what remained. Richard threw his hand forward, clutching at the air, trying to get to the bag before it was all gone. Janice knew what was coming. Richard hadn’t drunk enough juice in time. Had he missed it by minutes? Hours? He was going to seize.
And before Janice could do anything about it, Richard Chambers tumbled onto his back, body arching upward, as a seizure stole every bit of his dignity.
******
Hours. It had been hours since Janice had brought Richard to her dwelling. The heavy breathing and snoring of a man in her home sounded strange, foreign. While the sound was odd, she was relieved that his seizing had stopped. For five minutes he’d seized, arresting every muscle in his body in a contorted manner that she was sure would shatter his bones and tear apart his feeble muscles.
Before, when it had happened to one of her students, the poor boy was small enough that they’d needed only a few hands to hold him down to protect him. But Declan’s father was a fully grown man, and his condition—his frailty—was lost during the convulsions. She’d tried to hold him on her own, then begged the empty faces that passed them by to help her, but nobody did. They only furrowed a concerned brow—some with disgust, some with morbid curiosity—but none of them had offered to help.
When the seizing had stopped, she’d brought him to his feet and half-carried him the remainder of the way. Sitting at her table now, she listened to the sound of his breathing. It slowed, and then stopped altogether. She turned her cup of root tea, circling her finger around the brim, and waited. This wasn’t the first time: his breathing had stopped twice before. Each time she feared that his heart had finally given out, like his mind had long ago. But once again, as it had before, his back bellowed against a sudden push of his lungs, and he was breathing again. A few phlegmy coughs followed, daring to wake him, but they didn’t. The snoring came next, and then softened as he fell deeper into what she hoped would be a healing sleep.
There were moments during his slumber in which she didn’t know what to do. There were moments when the broken man pulled himself into her arms, calling out the names of a dead woman and child. There were moments when he insisted that he wanted to die, begging Janice to help him put an end to the man he’d become.
Janice honestly wondered if that might not be the most humane thing to do.
Instead, though, she held onto him as he dug deeply into the pain and spilled it out like a bucket of stained water, cleansing what she knew couldn’t be cleansed with just tearful bouts. Janice couldn’t help but feel angst too, wondering if James would have felt the same grief. Would anyone have mourned for her the way that Richard mourned? The hole in her heart—the one that she’d never been able to fill—was suddenly bigger, and it tormented her, echoing Richard’s pain as she tried to help him.
Soon, the man in her arms fell away, his arms weakened, his cry quieted to a whimper. Janice welcomed the respite. For now, the painless quiet of unconsciousness was the best place for him.
She wondered if he would be offended when he found that she’d shaved and bathed him. She’d seen male anatomy before—granted, that was a long time ago, but still, she hoped he wouldn’t mind. Then she considered whether he’d even notice. Thankfully his coveralls had come clean easily enough. She’d scrubbed them, ridding them of the stench they had carried, and delivering to the waste recyclers a mess of human waste and undigested potato juice. Twice she’d almost thrown up herself, gagging against the hand she cupped against her mouth. She’d held it in though, and left his coveralls out to dry, dressing him in one of her larger towels.
Now she brought the cup up to her lips, and looked over the brim to check on Richard. The towel she’d wrapped around him had fallen, leaving his bottom half exposed. She caught herself staring, and then felt a warm flush come to her face.
“It has been a while since you’ve seen anything like that,” she chuckled, and then went to him to cover him and rub his back.
******
Groggy but lucid: these were just about the only words that Janice could think of to describe the man sitting across from her. With his face now shaven and clean, she realized how handsome Richard Chambers was. Although the drink had taken from him much of his weight, she could still see why Sandra Chambers had chosen him. A flutter of nerves caught her off guard, and she found herself about to stammer and stutter her words. She thought it silly, though, and pushed the sentiment away so that she could talk to him about the small pouch that sat on the table between them.
“Thank you,” he said, keeping his head down and his eyes fixed on the pouch. She was certain that he had no idea what was in the pouch, and that it was just an object for him to set his eyes on as they talked. “I’m going to have to leave in a few minutes. I have to go get some more… you know.”
Janice nodded, and then with reluctance, brought up from beneath the table a bag of potato juice and a cup. She placed them on the table; the thump they made caused him to lift his brow. When he saw what she had, his eyes became round, awake. Unaccustomed to the bag, Janice was careful opening the top, and was even more careful as she poured it into the small cup. Richard flinched when she spilled a few drops over the lip of the cup.
“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head apologetically.
But Richard didn’t
notice her. By then, he was fixated, licking his lips, and he drank down what was handed to him. When he gestured for more, Janice shook her head. The handsomeness went someplace far away then, and he frowned, scowling at her.
“I’m sorry, but no,” Janice told him. “I need your help, and if you’ll do as I say, I might be able to help you, too.” She wasn’t at all certain that she’d be able to do the last part, but she thought that there was a chance that she could help Declan’s father like she’d helped her former student; she just hoped she didn’t kill him trying.
Weaning is what they’d tried with the boy, and it had succeeded. But it had worked just for a few hours; no longer than a day. It was enough to get them to rest the monster brewing inside—the one that has childish tantrums when it needs more, and grabs their bones like a puppeteer, shaking them until it gets what it wants.
Give the monster a few sips, she thought. Just enough, until it’s too weak to do anything.
Richard’s frown gave way to reluctance, and he picked his cup up, turned it over, and placed it down with a soft clap. His hands were already shaky, but he was quick to cover them as he pulled them under the table, embarrassed.
“It didn’t used to be this bad,” he said. “Not before Declan left, anyway. I kept telling myself that I’d quit tomorrow, and I meant to. But then I just couldn’t.”
“I’ve seen this before,” she offered him. “With one of my students. We helped him through it, and I can help you too, if you’ll let me.”
He nudged his chin toward the juice as though he hadn’t heard her. “I’m going to get sick soon… my hands are already shaking,” he said, and then looked at the towel that he was wearing. “But I suppose you already know that.”
“I have something for that,” Janice offered. He moved his eyes toward her, and she saw that he was not only interested, but eager. From one of her cabinets, she pulled carrot candy. She’d never cared for the stuff, finding it too sweet, but the classroom had gifted it to her: a whole bag no less. The older it got, the sweeter it tasted, and sugar was what he needed to calm the shake in his hands. She handed the bag to him; he furrowed his brow, asking if she was serious.
“It’s the sugar; it’ll help. But don’t eat a lot, otherwise you’ll throw it up. Just have a little now, and we’ll get you some real food when your stomach can handle it.” He nodded, understanding, and then pulled one of the carrots from the bag. When he bit into it, his face turned immediately, as if he was revolted by the taste. But after a minute of chewing, he began to nod his head.
“Sweet. Very sweet. And this will help?” he asked. “When can I have some more juice?”
“The carrot candy will help your hands,” she answered. “As for the juice… in time. But just what’s needed; nothing more.”
Richard leaned forward, picking up the broken blood seal.
“It’s bad luck to touch a blood seal,” Janice blurted out, more out of reflex than anything else. His eyes moved slowly with her words, and he calmly turned the broken blood seal over in his hand. When she realized what she’d said to him, she swallowed hard, embarrassed. Perspiration stung the pit of her arms, needling, as the room suddenly seemed to be much hotter than it was.
Oh, Janice, how could you say such a thing? She followed his eyes as they peered above the blood seal to meet hers, and then went back down. He kissed both pieces of the seal, leaving his lips on the waxy imprint until she was sure that he could taste it. Finally, he pulled his face back and looked at her. His expression seemed arrogant—or maybe it was just unconcerned.
“Well, I think it’s time I gave back some of my luck,” he replied, his voice curt and annoyed. Dropping the message to the table, he asked, “You said you needed my help?”
While Richard ate more of the carrot candy, Janice began to explain, but when her eyes settled on the small pouch, she realized that something else might be easier. Pulling on the torn strand of fabric, she untied the pouch, opened the bag, and poured out the puzzle pieces. As she spread them around in front of Richard, his chewing stopped, and his eyes moved from piece to piece. Janice began to move the pieces, pushing the puzzle into place—with occasional help from Richard, who’d become interested in seeing the final composition. Within a minute, they’d loosely collected the pieces into a shape that was similar to what it had looked like before James had torn the odd parchment apart.
What Janice found missing was a reaction from Richard: clearly he’d seen something like this before. When he started chewing again, and poked a finger at the strange parchment, she noticed that his hands had steadied. His finger still wavered in the air with uncertain direction, but there was improvement.
The sugar is working, she thought when he raised a piece of carrot candy toward her and offered a thankful grin.
“I know this parchment,” he told her. “It’s an index card. Where did you get this one?”
“’Index card’? And what do you mean by ‘this one’?” She’d never considered that there might be more.
“Sandra, my wife, brought one home. She called it an index card. The one she brought home had rows of numbers on it. Something to do with the VAC Machines, and…” He started to say more, but then paused, as if reluctant to finish. “I think the index cards have something to do with the End of Gray Skies, too.”
“Do you still have it?” Janice asked, but Richard stayed quiet. He picked up the puzzle piece that was stained with James’s blood, and flipped it in his fingers as he studied it.
“Declan has it. He took it with him when he left the Commune,” Richard answered, and then surprised Janice with what he said next. “I’m going after him. I’ve been planning it for a while now. But, well, like I said, I’ll quit tomorrow. Declan wants to find out why the End of Gray Skies failed. But I think the index cards are dangerous,” he added, and then looked up at Janice. “Where did you say this came from?”
“My chosen. He jumped from the executive floors, but before he jumped, he tore the index card and threw the pieces over the ledge.”
“Who?”
“His name was James Sundref,” she answered. “He’s dead now.”
“Good! He deserves to be dead.” Richard spoke flatly, and without emotion.
Again the slap across her face came, but this time, it wasn’t from the cursing words of a former student; it came at her hard, cutting into her heart and paining her deeply.
“Why… why would you say something like that?”
A long pause came before he answered.
“Because he killed my wife and little girl.”
Janice could only shake her head. Her mind was filled with disbelief, as she thought of her chosen possibly being responsible for the death of a wife and mother, a child and student.
“No,” she said, and dipped her face into her hands, swiping at her eyes. “There’s no way he could be responsible.”
A spark of anger shone in Richard’s face as his eyes darted to the puzzle pieces and then back to Janice. She understood what he was thinking, what he was connecting; fear came to her next.
“Did you say he was your chosen? The man who killed my wife and little girl?”
Janice tried to stop crying, but the accusation was more than she could bear. She nodded, and waited to see what Richard would do. Her tears slowed when she saw his expression: it scared her. Maybe he was vengeful, and he’d kill her. Maybe he’d only hurt her. She closed her eyes and waited, but nothing came.
Her breathing stuttered once before settling, and she added, “But we broke our bond twenty years ago. His cleaning and passing is done. The pieces of the index card were brought to me.” She motioned to the puzzle pieces. “That’s all that is left of him.”
She watched Richard throw the bloodied puzzle piece from his hand, as though it were burning his fingers, like a red-hot heating stone.
“I’m sorry that you lost your chosen,” he said in a voice that held sincere compassion. “I am sorry. But I firmly believe that what I said is
true. I’m leaving the Commune; I’m going to find Declan, and bring him home. My wife and little girl died because of what was on that index card. I’d have stopped Declan from going, too, if I would’ve known that he’d take the one that Sandra had brought into our dwelling.”
As Richard spoke, his hands quivered, his upper lip trembled, and his brow had begun to sweat. The withdrawals were coming on stronger, and it was just a matter of time before he’d seize.
Give the monster a sip, just a sip. Janice pulled his cup from in front of him, sliding it through the cluster of strewn puzzle pieces, and poured him a drink. He said nothing as he brought the cup to his lips; he only nodded once, before sipping off the top. Closing his eyes he threw back what remained in his cup, filling his mouth until his cheeks bulged out, where he let the juice rest a moment before swallowing.
“I’m going with you,” Janice announced, and could hardly believe her own words. Richard sat up, shaking his head, but he held his tongue, unwilling to give up the last drops. “I’m going with you to the VAC Machine. I’ve been in the classroom for twenty years, and it’s time for a field trip. If James had something to do with Sandra and Hadley’s death, then I want to know about it. And if the index cards have something to do with the End of Gray Skies, then we owe it to the Commune to find out what that something is.”
18
STRANDED EYES. DECLAN STRUGGLED to understand the distant and vacant stare of those who walked by him. Although his passage through the corridor from their room was not at all the scary travel he’d made it out to be, the blank faces of the men and women made the passage unnerving.
What surprised him was the freedom to travel. Even when bumping into a person or two, it seemed that he was free to move about the VAC Machine. Gripping Sammi’s lock of hair, he wondered how much of his freedom was due to the fact that he was carrying a piece of her with him.
End of Gray Skies: An Apocalyptic Thriller Page 17
