“You read my name! You survived it, Bill!”
Memories of the pamphlets, the warnings on the radio, the television, how I axed it, it’s all coming back. “What day is it?”
“Thursday, I think. It’s been seven days.”
I’ve blacked out. Who was in my place? The kitchen isn’t too messy, but there’s a black stain on the oven and the surrounding benches. Madeline is coughing hard in my arms; there’s blood touching her lips.
“I’m sick,” I say.
She nods. “I made you take tablets…maybe they helped.”
“Is there a cure yet, for the virus?”
Madeline is sniffling, her eyes losing their life. “Hospital.” Her head rolls back and a whisper escapes her lips. “Outside.”
“Outside,” I repeat. I might be sick, but Madeline isn’t, although us being this close has probably ensured it. But if we’ve been spending so much time together, we shouldn’t even be having this conversation. I try to stand with her in my arms, but I’m too weak. It’s then that I notice how much weight I’ve lost in my arms, which are thin and gangly; my shirt drapes from my body.
I throw all my strength into the lift this time, groaning and willing my legs to straighten, and I succeed. Madeline’s eyes are closed, and I lay her down gently on the couch, putting a pillow behind her head. If I’ve got the Memo virus, then this might be a temporary lucid moment.
The room is a mess. Stains on the floor, knickknacks scattered, marbles, papers with a child’s drawings. Hannah’s projects are strewn about as well. Anger wells within as I think of Madeline’s disrespect for my dead wife’s projects.
They were kept half-finished for a reason, suspended in time, but as my gaze drifts back to Madeline’s sleeping form, that anger wanes. Her parents are gone. She’s only got me for company—well, some version of me that can’t remember what he did the last seven days.
I smell of soap, my clothes are fresh, and even though I’m thin and my face is furry—there’s no way I took care of myself—I’m alive because of her.
There’s a knitted throw folded beside the girl. I draw it over her, tucking it down gently. She’s feverish, damp, and she looks as thin as me.
Outside. We need to go outside. Madeline needs medicine.
I go to the door, peer out between the slats I’ve nailed over the window. When did I do that? As I glance around the room, I notice every window has boards over it. There’s writing on the walls as well.
Don’t go outside. Don’t go outside.
There’s a hammer on a table end that I pick up and use to pry off a board. People wander about the streets in the midday sun. They’re chatting to themselves, their clothes ragged and their faces drawn from starvation. They stare up at the sky, wringing their hands and swaying.
I should be like them. None of this makes sense.
I go back to Madeline, pick her up again, and cradle her to my chest. There’s a feeling of protectiveness, of being a man; it’s almost paternal. She’s so small and warm, and the closeness just feels nice. She took care of me, and now I can repay her by taking care of her.
Madeline moans and grabs her chest. “It hurts.”
“Hold on,” I say. I open the front door and step out into the blinding light. People spot me, and some yell or shout, while others just keep wandering. There are bodies on the side of the road. Their eyes are open; they’re still breathing.
Madeline’s eyelids flutter. “Outside.”
“We’re outside, hold on,” I say reassuringly while I stumble down the street, hoping that I already have the virus and I’m not about to catch it. Two cars have crashed into each other. One man holds a gun and is firing shots at a squirrel in a tree.
The world is a mess.
You’ll never make it. Where are you going? You’ll catch their disease and die.
I need a plan. There’s no one sane here. There’s a house with an open door, so I take Madeline inside and find the keys to a Ford truck hanging in the garage.
“Are you here to fix my toilet?” an old lady asks me. I’ve seen her walking up and down my street before, yet now her hair is matted and dirty, her clothes are torn, and there’s blood on her skirt.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m just going to go pick up a special part for it.”
“I’ve got money. Do you need money?”
A few days ago, I was sick like her, and after seeing the barely alive people lying in the street, I know this woman’s fate, and it breaks my heart.
“I’ll send you the bill,” I say, and then I go into the garage, put Madeline in the passenger seat, and jump in. I press the beeper for the garage door, reverse carefully out of the driveway, making sure not to hit anyone, and start off down my street.
I switch on the radio and stop on the first station, and that’s when I hear screaming outside. I shut off the radio again so I can hear what they’re shouting about. One man is clutching a woman’s arms, yelling, “You know me. You’re Daisy. You’re Daisy.”
“I’m not your daughter,” the woman replies. “And you stole my dog.” For a moment, I wonder if one of them might not be infected, until the woman lowers her chin right to her chest and drools. The man keeps shaking her, insisting she’s Daisy, a person of obvious significance to him.
He wants an anchor to the past, some way to ground himself in a steady identity that’s falling to pieces without his permission. The concept terrifies me.
I drive on. I turn down two lanes and end up on a main road and head for the shopping district. No cars are in use, but there are people everywhere, and I switch on the radio again.
If you can…Static. …safe zone…quarantine…More static. Hospital.
“Where?” I hit the radio angrily.
Memorial Hospital is now a safe zone.
That’s where we’re going. I pick up speed. The road has three lanes, which allows me to dodge the wandering shells that were once people. The children disturb me the most. Their hollow eyes search the adults around them, asking questions, receiving no answers, and they’re crying. Their brains are so fragile, and even if a cure is developed, how much damage has already been done?
And then the most disturbing of all thoughts crosses my mind: what about infants? Or toddlers? Their parents will forget them.
What if there’s a minimum age for survival, like one or two years? We need people to live, to reproduce, to repopulate the countries that have fallen.
The hospital looms up ahead. It’s a six-story red-and-gray building. There are flashing lights, and my heart leaps with joy.
Madeline takes my hand. Her eyes are still closed, but she croaks, “You’re my dad. Tell them you’re my dad.”
I glance at her. “I’m fifty-eight.”
“Forty-nine,” she corrects me. She’s smart.
“Okay, forty-nine. And you’re…”
“Twelve.”
“Okay, I’m forty-nine and you’re twelve.”
Twelve from forty-nine is thirty-seven, which sounds like a good age for a first-time dad.
Soldiers wearing facemasks and plastic gloves are pointing weapons at us. They’re not shooting, but pulling apart a fence and letting us through. I count about ten men in uniform. They run up to us.
“Get out of the car.”
“She’s sick.” I point to Madeline. “She’s really sick. It’s not the virus. I think it’s pneumonia; she’s been coughing up blood. She’s my daughter, Madeline.”
“Get out of the car!”
I turn off the ignition and do as they say. Two men emerge wearing full hazmat suits and take Madeline away. A soldier jabs me in the arm, and blood seeps out the fleshy pinhole. The soldier places a strip into a blue substance and swishes it about. It turns red.
“He’s infected.”
“But I’m fine,” I say.
They stare at me. “You might have only just caught it.”
“I’ve had symptoms for days.” Not the best defense.
“Go back the way you came or we’l
l shoot.”
“So it’s only a safe zone so long as you’re not sick, eh? Aren’t you a lucky bunch of bastards.”
I didn’t trust these guys to help Madeline properly, and after seeing the people of my street being taken away, I wanted to make sure she was safe. “My daughter is in there.”
I take a step forward but they drive the ends of their weapons into my chest screaming. “Back! Get back!”
There’s only one way I’m getting inside that hospital, so I take another step forward. One of the soldiers smacks me over the head with the butt of his gun. As I’m going down I grab his arm, and another one jumps me. I rip off his mask and spit in his face.
I say to him, “Don’t worry. I’m not sick. Just wait and see. You’ll be fi—”
There’s a bang. Something bites the side of my ribs. The bullet’s in there. Agonizing pain rips up my side and I can’t breathe.
The world goes black.
Someday Later
I blink awake—bright fluorescents blind me. The glare retreats and I can see a television screen. Madeline is standing beside it, smiling at me. I remember the gunshot and check my side to find it bandaged up.
“Are you okay?” I ask her.
She smiles, looks over her shoulder, and shouts, “He’s awake.”
A man in a lab coat walks up to the end of the bed. “You’re sick, Mr. Fowler.”
I stare at him like he’s an idiot. Of course I’m sick. I’m in a hospital bed after spitting in a soldier’s face. I clearly have no sense of danger or fear or sanity.
He presses play on a video machine.
It’s me, talking to Madeline.
“What’s this?”
“Toilet,” she says. I’m just standing there like an invalid, a shell—there’s nothing. And then my eyes are moving rapidly, scanning the room, and my arms come up to shield my face.
“It won’t hurt you,” Madeline says. “You have to go or you’ll pee your pants.”
“Who are you?”
“Your daughter. Hannah.”
I take my eyes off the television and look at her. “Hannah?”
She nods at me. “It’s the only way I could calm you down and get you to trust me. It was your idea, don’t you remember?”
I watch the television again.
I’m on the ground, organizing a stamp book, rocking forwards and backwards.
“What are you doing?” Madeline asks me.
“Everything in its place. Everything right. If Hannah’s projects are done, then Hannah will come back. She has to come back.”
“Your wife?” Madeline asks.
“Yes. Yes. My wife. Act sane, be sane. A sane person moves on and finishes what was started, and then projects are like thoughts. Thoughts have a beginning and an end. Like Hannah and me—we are a beginning and an end.”
The doctor pauses the video. “I have your psychiatrist’s records here, Mr. Fowler.” He pulls up one of the pieces of paper on his clipboard and reads. “You’ve been depressed, anxious, experiencing some obsessive thoughts. Your therapist has recorded you at risk of psychosis.”
“Psychosis?” I say.
“Complex psychosis. Short-term memory problems can be any number of things, and with your background and specific vulnerabilities, I think you talked yourself into a psychotic state.”
“Is that even possible?” I ask.
“It’s rare, but certainly possible. You interpreted your symptoms as a manifestation of the virus, and when the stress became too much, you slipped into a psychotic break, of which you have no memory.”
“I gave you the pills,” Madeline says. “Mom takes pills too, and they make her feel good.”
“The pills might have helped,” the doctor says. “It’s more likely that you were already coming out of your psychotic break at the time you took them.” The doctor gestures to a woman standing behind him. It’s hard to focus since I’m still feeling groggy.
Seven men and women in white lab coats walk up to the bed and surround it. They’re all smiling at me, and I have no idea what’s going on.
“We found bits of the virus in your system, broken down by your antibodies.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Your body fought off the virus,” the doctor said, and he starts clapping his hands together. He’s applauding me.
My eyes are wide, and I feel crazy. This can’t be true. I’m at home, in bed; I’ve finally lost it. I’m batshit crazy and it’s all down to losing Hannah.
I glance at Madeline. “Why aren’t you sick?”
“The virus has a twenty-four-hour incubation period,” the doctor says. “That period of time had already passed by the time Madeline came to you.”
“What about all those people out there?”
Their faces turn grave at my question. “We can stop the virus’s progression, but it won’t reverse its effects.”
“How many?” I ask.
“We estimate at least 90%. It’s still reaching some of the more isolated regions of America.”
“And the rest of the world?” I have a thousand questions that I want answered immediately.
“We managed to contain it in America, though it’s spread to the Middle East and throughout Africa. Asia remains untouched, as do Australia and several island states.”
“So what? Have we got a vaccine?”
He smiles. “Not yet. You almost died from your bullet wound, and we figured it was more important keeping you alive than developing the vaccine. The president has been notified that you carry antibodies and will send a jet to fly you to the Pentagon tomorrow.”
“Will people be able to regain their memories?”
“Only recently have scientists been able to restore some memories in mice. We’re just not sure. Those in the early stages might see some remission. The brain is an amazing thing. For those who’ve been infected for longer than three days, we can halt the virus, but some of the damage will likely be permanent.”
“Why am I going to the Pentagon?” I ask.
“The CDC relocated there during the outbreak.”
“Can’t you just take my blood here? This is my home. I want to start helping people since I’m immune to the disease. Give me some supplies. I can go door to door, find those not infected who’re still hiding out, and bring them here.”
“Our resources are already depleted, and I think you should stay here until tomorrow when the plane arrives.”
“Bullshit.” I try to get out of bed, but the pain in my ribs is excruciating, and I wince.
Madeline takes my arm, saying, “Calm down, Dad. You need to get better. If you die, they won’t have anything.”
The doctor smiles at her. “You should listen to your…daughter, Mr. Fowler.”
“Bill,” I say.
Madeline holds my hand and says, “Hannah would be so proud of you.”
I stare at this little girl, who seems to know so many intimate things about my life. “Why do you say that?”
“Talking about her, thinking about her, it made you happy. You would get angry, raise your fists to me, but as soon as I said her name, you’d calm down. You loved her. And so she must have loved you back.”
Love. The memory of the feeling brings tears to my eyes, and I weep for the first time in months. Hannah passed before this awful virus outbreak, and in that way, I have the best of her in me, forever.
The doctor presses play on the video again and leaves with his colleagues.
I watch closely as video-Madeline speaks again.
“Hannah said it’s time to go to sleep,” the little girl says in a cheerful voice. “She’ll be home later.”
“She should be home now.”
“It’s her night off,” Madeline says sweetly. “I’m a child and you’re an adult. I need supervision.”
“You’ve got parents for that.”
We’re lying down on my bed and Madeline has a book in her hands. She gives it to me, saying, “Will you read this to me?”
>
I grumble, snatch the book from her, and stumble over the words because I’m not focusing properly. I look at the book, read a paragraph, then look around the room as if I’m searching for ghosts.
“Read,” Madeline complains.
“Where’s Hannah?” I ask her.
“When we wake up in the morning, Hannah will be home, okay?”
I look into the camera; I can see the confusion in my face, but it’s clear I trust this little girl. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“When I’m done reading, you’ll go to your own bed.”
“Yes,” Madeline says, exasperated.
I begin reading again, this time with more focus yet still stumbling over the words a bit, and within a few minutes, I’m drifting off to sleep, slurring my words, and then I’m snoring. Loudly. Madeline is covering her mouth and giggling at me.
The video stops playing.
I glance over to the strange little girl smiling at me, all smug at her cleverness for tricking me into sleeping. “Thank you,” I tell her.
She pats her chest and breathes heavily to show me her lungs are clear. “We saved each other.”
A Word from K. J. Colt
During the past few years, I’ve had the very privileged and wonderful experience of temporarily working in aged care facilities—mostly in dementia wards and end-of-life care. My job was to collect data for psychological research, but I volunteered as well. I’ve always been fascinated by the human mind, and I’m driven towards improving the lives of others, especially those who’re undervalued in society. Unfortunately, some of the most undervalued members seem to be the elderly.
In the United States, approximately 5.1 million people suffer from Alzheimer’s disease. During the middle to late stages, these people are switching between sanity and insanity. For sufferers, their shining globe of human sentience becomes dulled, the glass cracked, and on bad days, that once sentient light barely stays flickering. Eventually, their personality is so fragmented and mixed up that the person inside can completely disappear.
In the earlier stages of my work, witnessing this process drove me to tears, and I often felt angry. It completely violated my just-world ideations.
The Doomsday Chronicles (The Future Chronicles) Page 24
