by Amy Cross
"We can find a way to save you," I tell him. "We can -"
"More miracles?" he asks with a faint smile. "Is that really your plan, Thomas? Go to a city, hook up with some miraculous bunch of people who're gonna save the world, and then find some fucking doctors who can perform another miracle by saving me?" He sighs. "Face it. This body is old and gone. I'm already dead. I just have to wait for my mind to catch up."
"I'm not leaving you," I say firmly.
"I don't want you to leave me," he replies. "I want you to finish me off."
I shake my head.
"Please."
"I can't," I reply, trying to stay calm. "I already did it once, Joe. I can't do it again."
He pauses. "I was in pain that time," he says eventually. "I'm not in pain now. It's just about waiting, but that seems kinda pointless, right? Just sitting around, waiting for the lights to go off?" He pauses. "Fuck that shit, man. Do you know how I always wanted to die? In a fucking blaze of glory! You know, like some kind of fucking hero, with machines guns in my hands and hookers everywhere." He smiles. "Real immature shit, yeah? The full Troma kind of thing. And obviously that's not gonna happen, but at least I don't have to sit around, dragging it out forever."
"You can't just sit around and wait to die," I tell him. "That's insane!"
"I'm not waiting to die," he replies, turning and heading over to the table. Carefully, he lowers himself into a chair. "I'm already dead, dip-shit. I'm just waiting to rot away to nothing." He pauses. "Do you remember how Mom died at the kitchen table? It's hard to believe that was only about a week ago. I guess... I guess now it's my turn. I'm gonna die at a kitchen table too, just like her. Talk about a fucking comedown, huh?"
"No," I say firmly. "You can't just sit around like this."
"And how are you gonna stop me?" he asks. "If you try to drag me out of here, you'll probably end up pulling my goddamn head off anyway. I'm already falling apart." He pauses again. "You need to leave, Thomas. You need to get the hell out of here and just forget about me. I'm okay with it, really. It's too late for me, but you've still got a chance." He waits for me to say something. "Go on, Tommy. Get the fuck out of here. At least one of us should make it."
"I'm not leaving you."
"Then you can stick around and wait until my fucking head falls off," he replies. "Believe me, there are already maggots chewing through my flesh. It doesn't hurt, but I can feel them. They're hungry little bastards, burrowing their way through the meat. I can feel some of them wriggling in my brain, it's..." He pauses. "It's okay, Thomas. I'm not scared. Maybe I should be, but I just feel like I'm ready, you know? I've already died, really. Those few seconds when I knew you were killing me, I felt so free. I liked it, and I want it again. I'm at peace." He laughs. "Well, peace is the wrong word, but I'm pretty chill about it all."
"I'm not leaving you," I say again, sniffing back the tears.
"You wanna sit around and watch your older brother's head rot off?" he asks. "Seriously?"
"I'm not leaving you."
"Pervert."
I take a deep breath as I try to work out if there's any other way. Joe sure looks as if he's about to fall apart, and I guess I should accept his decision. Still, I know that when he's gone, I'll be alone. It's not as if I've got any chance of finding my sister Martha again, even if she's alive, so once Joe's gone, there'll be no-one left. Slowly, I walk over to the kitchen table and sit facing him. He's all I've got left, and once he's gone, I don't know where I'm supposed to go. Sure, I can get in the truck and drive away from this place, but what do I do after that? I know he's right about the cities, but at the same time it doesn't seem as if the countryside is much better. Every time I try to work out some kind of plan, to decide where to go, I come to the same conclusion: there's nowhere that's ever going to be safe.
"Come on," he says. "You've gotta be kidding. Get in the fucking truck and get the fuck out of here!"
"I want to be here with you," I tell him, sniffing back some more tears. "I don't care how long it takes, but I want to wait with you. It's my decision, Joe, and there's nothing you say that'll make me change my mind, so you'd better just get used to it, okay?" I take a deep breath. "I'll keep you company," I add, "and then I'll bury you, and then I'll get going."
"Don't bury me," he replies. "I'm claustrophobic."
I sigh.
"I mean it," he continues with a smile. "You can just leave me sitting here at this table. You never know, some kids might come by one time and get freaked out. I kinda wish I could stick around and see their faces, but I can already feel my body being destroyed. There's not much time left. Sooner or later, one of these maggots is gonna chew through an important part of my brain, and it'll be lights out."
"I'm going to wait with you," I say firmly.
"You're not making the right decision," he continues. "Don't be dense, Tommy."
"I don't care if it's the right decision or not," I reply. "It's what I'm doing."
"I'm not gonna be much company," he replies. "Jesus fucking Christ, I can feel a big fat maggot in my brain right now. It's trippy as shit."
"You swear too much," I point out. "Maybe we oughta pray or something."
He raises an eyebrow. "Pray?"
I nod.
"What the fuck for?"
I open my mouth to reply, but at first I'm not sure what to say. "I don't know," I continue eventually, "but it seems like it might be a good idea. You know..." I pause. "Something good might come out of it."
"You wanna sit here with your zombified, rotting brother, with some kind of fuckhead Nazi asshole locked in the basement, with the world falling apart all around us, and... you wanna put your hands together and pray?"
"I do."
"Fine," he says with a shrug. "What the hell? I've never tried it before, not since school anyway, so go ahead. Let's do this shit."
"Repeat after me," I say, closing my eyes. "Dear Lord."
"Dear fucking Lord."
"Joe!"
"Dear Lord," he says with a sigh.
I pause for a moment. "We ask you to look over this world and deliver us from whatever catastrophes you've seen fit to visit upon us. We ask you to keep us safe and to watch over us, and we ask you to watch over our sister Martha. Wherever she is, we ask that she's in good health and that she'll be okay."
"Yeah," Joe says, sounding a little more subdued, "look after Martha. None of us deserves this shit, and she's not a bad person. Keep her out of too much trouble, okay?"
"Amen," I add.
"Amen."
We sit in silence for a moment, before I suddenly realize that I can hear a voice somewhere nearby. Looking over at the door to the basement, I realize that the old man is talking down there.
"What's old Adolf going on about?" Joe asks.
Getting to my feet, I walk over to the door and take a moment to listen.
"Please," the old man is saying, his voice filled with fear and pain, "I'm begging you, don't come any closer. Leave me alone, please. Dear God..."
"What's he saying?" Joe calls out to me.
"Hang on!" I hiss, keen to hear more.
"I'm sorry, Sara," the old man continues. "Maybe I didn't treat you right, but I'm your father, for God's sake. I command you to go back over there! Get back in that corner!" I can hear him scrabbling about for a moment. "Get back over there!" he shouts. "I didn't tell you to get up! Obey me! You're my daughter and I command you to stop this! Leave me alone!"
I reach into my pocket, ready to get the key out, but at the last moment I reconsider. The truth is, I like hearing the fear in the old bastard's voice. If that makes me a bad person, after everything that's happened to me over the past few days, then I guess I just have to accept that I've become a little meaner than before. The old Thomas probably wouldn't have made it this far anyway; the old, naive Thomas would have panicked and ended up dead.
"Sara, please," the old man whimpers, "for the love of God and all that's holy, stop! I'm begging you! Se
e? I'm on my knees and I'm begging you. Don't do this. Go away! Leave me alone!" There's the sound of footsteps hurrying up the stairs, and suddenly he starts pounding on the door. "Let me out of here! Get me away from her!"
"Who's he talking to?" Joe asks.
"Help!" the old man screams, still banging on the door before, finally, he lets out a cry of pain and falls quiet.
"What the hell's happening in there?" Joe asks.
"I..." I start to say, before realizing that the old fool must be talking to the pile of bones in the corner of the basement. As he continues to whimper and moan, I put the key in the lock and struggle for a moment with the awkward, slightly warped door, before finally getting it unlocked and pulling it open. At the last moment, I hear a clattering sound, like bones being dropped onto the floor.
The first thing I see once the door is open is the set of bones, except now they're in the middle of the room, and the old man's body is next to them. I walk cautiously down the steps and head over, only to see that the old man's eyes are wide open, staring up at the ceiling with a horrified look on his face. I kick him gently in the side, but it's clear that he's dead. Turning and looking down at the bones, I can't help but stare at the skull.
"Sara?" I whisper after a moment. "Was that your name?" I pause. "What did he do to you?"
Silence.
"What's happening in there?" Joe shouts.
"Revenge," I whisper as I continue to stare at the skull for a moment. "I guess she waited."
Without saying anything else, I turn and hurry up the steps. At the last moment, I glance back down at the old man's body. I don't know what the hell happened down here, or what exactly he thought he saw as he was dying, but somehow it seems strangely fitting. Whoever that Sara girl was, I guess he treated her about as well as he treated me, in which case I don't feel any pity for the old bastard at all. Maybe I'm getting tougher or more mean-spirited, and maybe what I'm thinking isn't exactly very Christian, but he got what was coming to him.
Day Fifteen
Elizabeth
Pennsylvania
"How's she doing?" Patricia asks as she walks quietly into the room.
I nod, not wanting to disturb the baby as she sleeps in my arms. It's about 6am and the sun's first rays are starting to lift bring light to the farmhouse. Having cried for most of the night, the baby has finally fallen asleep and seems to be absolutely content in my arms. I'm terrified to move, though, in case I wake her from her slumber; she looks so peaceful and happy, and there's a part of me that thinks she's better off sleeping. Every time she opens her eyes, she seems upset and troubled, almost as if she senses that there's something horribly wrong with the world.
"Did you change her?" Patricia asks, sitting next to me on the edge of the bed.
I nod again.
"And you used talcum powder?"
I nod again.
"And did she sleep okay?"
"It wasn't too bad," I reply. "She cried once, around two in the morning, but that was because there was another of those booms in the distance. Did you hear it?"
"The windows rattled," she replies, and it's clear that she's worried.
"It was the fourth one this week," I point out. "What do you think it is?"
"Probably nothing."
"It's something!" I reply. "It comes from different directions at different times. It's like..." My voice trails off for a moment as I realize that I don't quite want to say what's on my mind.
"Like the end of the world?" she asks with a smile.
"I just wish it'd stop," I continue, "or if something's going to happen, I wish it'd hurry up and just happen. I'd rather get it over with." As the baby starts to screw her face up, as if she's about to cry, I lean down and kiss her forehead; she seems to calm down, and she reaches up and touches my nose with her wrinkled little fingers.
Patricia smiles. "You're a natural." Looking down at the baby for a moment, she pauses. "Some people have got what it takes to be a mother, and some haven't. It's genetic."
"I'm just doing what anyone would do," I reply uneasily.
"She bawled non-stop when I held her yesterday," she points out. "Face it, Elizabeth. You've got the gift."
I take a deep breath. I keep telling myself not to get too attached to the baby, but the truth is, I already feel as if she and I have some kind of bond. After all, no-one else has paid her nearly so much attention. Somehow, I seem to have fallen into the role of her carer, and although I'm wary of taking on too much responsibility, I can't deny that this role seems to be coming to me very easily and naturally.
"Do you think she knows?" I ask after a moment, keeping my voice down. "About her mother?"
"I have no idea," Patricia replies. "Not on a conscious level, obviously, but maybe..." She pauses. "No," she says eventually. "I guess that's a conversation she'll have to have later, when she's older."
"Was it hard?" I ask. "I mean, you had to make a decision right there and then, whether to save Shauna or the baby... Was it hard to choose?"
"Not at all," she replies. "The choice was between a fully-grown woman and a new-born child. I chose to prioritize the child, even though I knew it meant the mother would likely die. I think that's a perfectly rational decision. The child, theoretically, has more years ahead of her. It's simple math."
"But you can't look at it like that, can you?" I reply. "You can't reduce it to logic and numbers?"
She nods. "Yeah," she says after a moment. "I can, actually. It saves a whole lot of time. If I'd stopped to debate the ethics of it, they'd probably both be dead." She pauses for a moment, staring down at the baby's face. "So has anyone decided on a name for her yet?"
"I guess that's Eriksen's job," I point out.
"He doesn't give a crap," she replies. "Does he even bother to hold her?"
I shake my head.
"She needs a name," she continues. "Maybe you should choose?"
"Me?"
"Why not? If Eriksen isn't going to do it, you seem like the best-placed person to -"
"I'm not her parent," I say, holding the baby out and trying to get Patricia to take her. Suddenly filled with a kind of panic, I feel as if I'm in danger of being installed as a substitute mother, and that's not something I'm ready for. "Why don't you look after her? You're a doctor, aren't you?"
"She cries when I hold her," she replies, pointedly refusing to take the child. "You're doing a good job with her, Elizabeth." She pauses, and it's clear from the look in her eyes that she's amused by my reaction. "What's so bad about choosing a name for her? Just pluck something out of thin air. It doesn't have to be anything special. Make something up. What was your mother's name?"
"I can't use that," I say quickly, feeling as if I'm about to hyperventilate.
"Why not?" She puts a hand on my arm. "Jesus, Elizabeth. It's just a baby. You're not tied to it for life."
"I know," I reply, "but..." I take a deep breath, trying to calm down.
"So isn't there a name you like?" she continues. "Don't think of it as some kind of chain, binding you to the baby forever. It's just a name. Don't you think she needs a name?"
I stare down at the baby. I know Patricia's right, but at the same time I also feel as if, by naming her, I'd be accepting even more responsibility. This isn't my child, and I don't feel as if I can handle the job of looking after her.
"How's Toad?" I ask, hoping to change the subject.
"He had a difficult night," she replies, with a hint of concern in her voice. "The infection isn't spreading, but it's pretty well rooted. I've tried everything in my kit, but it's not like we've got a plentiful supply cupboard. I have to balance his needs with the importance of keeping some stocks in reserve." She pauses. "He's feverish and he's not responding as well as I'd have liked. In normal circumstances, I'd have shot him off to hospital, he'd be pumped full of drugs, and he'd recover without a doubt. As it is, he's..." She pauses again, and it's as if she's debating whether or not to be completely honest with me. "It's fifty-
fifty whether he'll get through the day without deteriorating further. If he gets much worse, I don't think I can continue to throw the last of our dwindling medical supplies at him."
I stare at her for a moment as I realize what she's saying. "So you'd rather let him die," I say eventually, "than keep trying to help him?"
"I can't throw good drugs after bad," she replies. "If I make a judgment call that he's unlikely to get better, I need to keep those drugs back in case someone else needs them some time."
"You have to save him," I continue, starting to panic once again. "We need him!"
"You seem very attached to Toad all of a sudden," she replies, with a hint of a smile. "Tell me something. If it was Bridger or Thor, or me, in the same situation, would you be quite so concerned?"
"Of course," I reply, even though there's a heavy sensation in my belly that makes me realize I might not be telling the whole truth. "Is it really so easy for you?" I continue. "First Shauna, now Toad. Can you just quantify human life like this and make calm, logical decisions about whether someone lives or dies?"
She nods.
"Really?"
"Really." She pauses. "I've always been able to take the emotion out of a situation. Even back at medical school, other people would get all tied up in knots, and I'd be able to just stand back and make a calm, calculated decision. Believe me, as a doctor, it helps to be able to take a step back. I don't know whether that makes me a good person or a really bad one, but it's just how things have been. Always."
"I wish I was like that," I reply after a moment.
"It might not be up to us anyway," she continues. "The others have got wind of Toad's condition, and they're starting to worry that..." She pauses. "There's been some talk about his condition, about what might really be causing it. Some of the others are starting to worry that maybe he's infected by the same thing that's causing those creatures to keep showing up."
