The Last Tribe

by Brad Manuel

  “Here we go, Hubba.” She pushed the cart over the broken glass, under the metal arm, and out the door. She pushed him all the way down to the street, across the road, and to the park to meet Todd.

  It was noon. The always punctual Todd pulled around the corner. Emily whispered into Hubba’s ear. “Your life is about to change for the better.”

  Her husband rolled the window down. He raised an eyebrow at the dog sitting on a purple pillow in a canvas mail cart. Hubba looked like a large Chihuahua with a Bulldog face. His skin showed every rib. Screams came from the backseat “A dog, a dog, Mom got us a dog!”

  Todd deadpanned. “We are both supposed to have input before purchasing a family pet.”

  “He came free with the mansion tour. You’ve always wanted a dog, and you know it. Let’s make a stop at a pet store and get some food. Marbles will have to wait for another day. I want to get him home. He’s pretty frail. “

  “Did you give him a bath? He looks wet. Where did you find him? You know how crazy it is that you found a dog?” Todd was full of questions. Emily was not answering.

  “Does he have a name, Mom? Can I name him? Can I?” Brian spoke excitedly.

  “He does have a name. It’s Hubba, and he is the First Dog of North Carolina.”

  “Hubba!” The kids yelled.

  Hubba was scared by the screams. He backed towards the corner of the postal bin furthest from the screaming children.

  “Okay, let’s calm down. I’ll tell you all about my adventure on the way home. The dog is scared, and weak, so you have to be quiet. I am going to hold Hubba on the way home so feels safe.”

  “Oh my god” Todd muttered, rolling his eyes. “A royal pillow cart and now you hold him on the way home? I just met the dog and he’s already spoiled.”

  “That’s enough out of you. Could you please get a towel out of the back that I can use to hold him?”

  Todd retrieved a towel and gave it to Emily. He opened her door as she gently picked up Hubba and got into the seat with the dog on her lap. Todd closed the door for her. He walked back around and got into the car.

  “I am excited to hear the story of how you were dropped off for a mansion tour two hours ago and end up with a clean, wet bulldog named Hubba.”

  “Before I start, did you all have a nice time?” Emily turned to face the boys.

  “Dad killed three ducks, gutted them right in front of us. It was nasty.” Jay said, scrunching up his face to show his disgust.

  “There were a bunch of cars, so he was able to fill our tank with their gas, and fill the spare can on the back.” Brian liked to talk about stealing gas, even though Todd and Emily explained that it was not stealing anymore. “He got the train to work too.” The best part of their trip was relegated to an afterthought.

  “The train works! That sounds like fun we can have many more times.” Emily patted Todd’s shoulder. He wore a smile of pride and accomplishment.

  Emily paused before she began. She used her best story telling voice. “My adventure begins when I open the door to the governor’s mansion. I was hit by a smell so bad I could barely breathe.”

  The car was riveted by her story, everyone but Hubba, who was asleep and snoring in Emily’s arms the entire ride home. He did not wake up when Todd stopped at a pet store and loaded five 40 pound bags of food into the truck. The dog did not wake up when they pulled into the driveway of his new house. Hubba snored against Emily, his savior and new master, and dreamed happily about his new family.

  17

  Rebecca was exceptionally smart. She was thirteen years old and a senior in high school. Her genius was a gift and a burden. She did not attend school with children her own age. She studied at the local high school. Girls and boys her age were still in 7th or 8th grade.

  She had eaten lunch by herself since she was five years old and identified as “gifted.’ She did not mind not having friends in school. School was for learning, but not having friends after school and on the weekends was hard. Her parents convinced the school board to allow her to play 8th grade volleyball despite her high school status. Volleyball only got her close to girls her own age, not boys. She started to like boys when she was twelve, but she had a hard time meeting ones her age.

  She had one semester of high school to complete, and was accepted to several universities with full academic scholarships for the winter semester. She was deciding on location more than institution. Did she want to be in Northern California? Did she want to stay close to home in Boston? Did she want to stay on the east coast in Baltimore?

  Despite the big life decisions she had to make, Rebecca’s mind was consumed with meeting boys her age.

  She was a cute thirteen year old with dark red hair and pretty greenish/hazel eyes. She did not go through an awkward phase like many girls. She was average height with an athletic body, and developing into a woman in all the right places. She had confidence which showed through in her actions and personality. She sat alone at lunch, not because she was an outcast, but because she wanted to read, study, or think about her next steps. Rebecca had plans. She always had plans, and she made them happen for herself.

  The one puzzle she could not solve was how to meet boys, cute boys her age, and it frustrated her. She had aspects of her life she could not control. She controlled her grades and her classes, but she could not control where she took the classes. High school was for older boys. She was young. She had no solution. After Christmas the problem would get worse. College boys were even older. Rebecca spent most lunches staring off into space, thinking about her boy problem rather than focusing on her studies.

  When the plague struck Sao Paolo, Brazil in June, Rebecca knew it was trouble. She brought it up at dinner with her parents.

  “Did you see all those people are sick in Brazil? It looks weird, like some sort of flu.” Despite owning a local grocery store open until 10pm, Rebecca and her parents had family dinner together at least four nights a week.

  “It’s winter in Brazil, isn’t it? Isn’t that a different hemisphere? I’m sure it’s just some winter flu epidemic.” Her mother was a great ‘mom’ who always tried to calm her daughter’s fears.

  “That’s pretty far away from here too, squirt. I’d be more worried about making the v-ball team this fall than a flu in Brazil.” Her father was volleyball crazy.

  “Dad, I bet this gets more press. Why don’t we order some extra canned goods and bottled water, extra dry goods, dried fruit, jerky, those kinds of things. I bet people will want to buy survival stuff if the flu gets worse. We can always keep it in the storage basement if it doesn’t sell right away.”

  “You have an opportunistic business mind, Rebecca. I’ll put the order in after dinner.” Her dad beamed at her with pride. He loved that his daughter thought about his business. He did not realize her ulterior motives.

  Rebecca followed medical blogs and chats every night. She knew Sao Paulo was not normal. Doctors could not connect the people who died. Their symptoms were odd. Panic alarms were going off in the private medical blogosphere.

  Three weeks later Raleigh, North Carolina went through an outbreak. South America was a giant hot zone on the news station maps, Africa was a hot zone. Europe was painted with red circles. Asia had red circles. Rebecca stayed calm and followed the blogs and chat rooms. She wrote down the identified symptoms. She tried to figure out a pattern, a way to avoid the flu, or “the rapture” as it was being called. The news spoke of an impending cure. The internet said otherwise.

  One night in July, just before the epidemic spread outside of Raleigh, Rebecca hacked into her favorite private medical chat room. It was populated with MD’s researching the disease. Rebecca loved contributing when possible. She was reading the conversation when a virologist posted.

  “Testing theory of 6-9 month dormancy, possibly year. If true, we’re all dead.” - S.P. Brazil

  “Concluding same. need cure, not vaccine, all infected” – P. France

  “Agreed. We are scr
ewed.” B. China

  Rebecca knew one of two things would happen. Either she would die, or she would live while everyone else got sick. She had been different all her life, exceptional. She continued to make plans to survive.

  The first symptom of the rapture was lack of appetite. It was the only indication of infection before the major symptoms of fever, lethargy, and euphoria began two weeks before or as little as five days before death. People focused on the fever because it was easy to diagnose. Rebecca wondered when a person lost their appetite. Was it when they contracted the disease? Was it a late stage symptom?

  She had access to data, her family’s grocery store sales. Sales could indicate a decline in food purchasing for the area and the onset of the disease. Her father did not share the store’s sales volumes with her, but he did not password protect his computer either. She snuck into his office the day after she read the disturbing chat room posts. She pulled the last three months of sales. June was 10% lower than May. July was 15% lower than June. Not only did the sales figures explain her father’s somber mood for the last two months, the numbers indicated most of the people in the area had the rapture.

  Rebecca pulled up the last year of sales. July of last year the store had double the sales of this July. She studied the past twenty-four months. Two summers ago the store’s sales grew each month from July through January, peaking in December. Holiday sales drove the increase over the last six months of each year.

  Last July to August showed a small increase month over month until October. Sales were flat in November and December, and declined steadily each month after the new year. February showed a modest dip of 4%. March dropped 7%. April dropped 7.5%. May dropped 8%.

  Rebecca attended advanced classes during the summer. It was technically ‘summer school.’ Most kids who attended had to attend. Rebecca did not daydream about boys during lunch anymore. She watched the other kids eat, except they did not actually eat. They talked and acted normally. Kids ate pudding or apple sauce. A bag of chips might be opened, but no one ate anything of substance.

  Rebecca observed the same at dinner. Her mother made spaghetti and meatballs, but neither of her parents finished their plates. Rebecca ate all of her dinner. Her parents threw most of theirs away. Rebecca found Tupperware upon Tupperware in the fridge. Most of the previous week’s meals were in plastic containers, untouched. Her parents, like the kids at school, ate enough to survive but not much more.

  “Hey, Dad?” Rebecca said to her father, walking into his study later that night. He stared at the computer, most likely fretting over the grocery’s sales numbers. He looked frail in the computer monitor light. Rebecca suddenly noticed how much weight he had lost.

  He perked up when she came in the room. “What’s up, squirt?” Her dad loved her. She could tell every time they spoke.

  “Well, I was thinking about inventory at the store. I know I talked you into ordering more stuff, and I’ve noticed that you haven’t needed me to restock too much lately.”

  He interrupted her. “Yeah, I think this flu thing has people scared to shop, but it will turn. I mean, people have to eat, right?”

  She gave a laugh, which was fake, but the appropriate response to her dad’s comment. “Yeah, that’s what I mean. I know people have to come back in full force eventually. While it’s a little slow, do you mind if I work through the expiration dates on the food, put the stuff that is closest to expiring upstairs, and move some of the further from expiring in the lock room downstairs? People are going to need food, a lot of food soon. I bet we can make this lull work to our advantage, move older inventory. I was thinking of raising the price a nickel on each item, something really small, but will help our bottom line.”

  The pride in her father’s face was noticeable, and his smile was ear to ear. “If you want to do that, I think it’s a great idea.” He opened his arms, the universal sign for ‘gimme a hug.’ Rebecca ran over and jumped into his arms. She hugged him tightly.

  “I love you, Daddy.” She cried softly.

  “I love you too, honey. I love you too.”

  Rebecca spent Saturday and Sunday moving inventory to the lock room in the basement of their store. She convinced her father to leave the shelves a little bare, a marketing technique to make people believe the store was running out of food. He loved the idea. Rebecca moved more food to the basement.

  One week later the disease spread outside of Raleigh, and the store shelves were sold out. The first cases of the rapture hit Concord, N.H. on a Wednesday. Panic ensued and people flocked to the store for provisions. Rebecca and her father did not have time to restock their shelves. The market’s staff did not show for work that day or ever again.

  Rebecca’s mother was at home, weak and feverish. Her father did not look much better. He hid his symptoms well.

  Friday he was too weak to get out of bed.

  Most of the people in Rebecca’s subdivision fled. Where they went, she did not know. The houses on either side of her were empty.

  Rebecca’s parents were too sick to travel.

  “We have an idea, squirt.” Her father said as she brought soup to their bedside.

  “Your mother and I want you to help us move to the Johnson’s house. You can take care of us over there. They are gone, and have a much bigger television in the bedroom.”

  “Why don’t I just bring the television over here?” Rebecca did not like the idea. She knew what her parents were doing.

  “We can’t steal their television, honey. Just move us over there. We’re afraid you’re going to get sick.” Her mother smiled weakly.

  Rebecca was usually good at separating emotions from practical decisions. She understood her parents did not want to die in the house and leave Rebecca to deal with two dead bodies. She got it, but Rebecca did not want to admit her parents were dying.

  She also knew she would move out of their house once her parents died. The fireplace was gas. She could not depend on a gas fireplace.

  “This is your house. You’ve lived here for fifteen years. You should stay here. I can go to the Johnson’s, but only if I need to go there. You know what I mean. I don’t think I’ll need to go, but if I do, well, I’ll move over there.” Rebecca reached out to hold their hands. “Like you said, they have bigger TV’s and I think they have lots of video games.”

  “What, you suddenly play video games?” Her father joked. Rebecca played word games or read on her handheld. She never played video games.

  “With school closed, I might have to start, or I can just read. You know I like to read.” Rebecca sat on the bed with her parents. They talked all afternoon, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company.

  The television broadcast awful stories from all over the world about military crackdowns and government roundups. The promises of a cure were quickly fading.

  One week later Rebecca was still healthy.

  “I have a feeling you knew all of this was coming, Squirt.” Her father said softly. “I know you well enough to know you have a plan too, but let me say what I want to say anyway.”

  “I’ll be okay, Dad. Don’t worry.” Rebecca held her father’s hand. Her mother slept beside him.

  “You put food in the store’s basement weeks ago. You had me order the survival food. You are on top of this disease. You were more than a month ahead of everyone, like you always are, I know, but let me speak.” He sat up in bed. Rebecca helped him place pillows under his back and neck. “Not many people are going to survive. I’m sure you know.”

  “I do, Dad. The number of survivors will be in the dozens, not hundreds or thousands. I won’t have to worry about food or shelter.” She sat with her parents every day, treasuring the last conversations.

  “No, no, you don’t understand, or maybe you do. Food and water will be abundant. Intelligence will be scarce. Genius will be coveted. You can’t trust anyone. No one, do you hear me?” Her father tried to sound forceful, but he was too weak. “When you meet other survivors, and you will meet
them, you cannot let them know what you are.”

  Rebecca giggled. “Dad, I’m not a robot. I’m smart, but whatever.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Promise me you will act like a thirteen year old and not what you really are. Survive, thrive, but keep your secret. You are the most valuable asset left in the world.”

  Rebecca’s face grew serious. She dropped the fake persona she maintained to fit into society and not intimidate people.

  “Dad, I know. Don’t worry. I promise.” Her green eyes fixed on him with a combination of pure intelligence and unwavering confidence.

  He loosened his grip and continued to hold her hand. “I’m sorry we are leaving you alone.” He reached out with his other hand and stroked her hair. “I love you, Squirt.”

  Rebecca’s parents died one day before their 20th anniversary. They passed within an hour of each other. Rebecca moved into the Johnson’s house before settling in the model home. The genius girl anticipated and planned for every aspect of the rapture except for one small thing.

  The disease that killed her parents, destroyed the world, and took away everything in Rebecca’s life delivered a cute boy her own age.

  18

  Greg and Rebecca were on their third day together.

  Most of what Rebecca told Greg was true, she just framed all of her planning and ingenuity as her parents’ ideas. By day three Greg realized there was far more to Rebecca than her being a bright or even very bright 13 year old.

  “What grade were you in, you know, before all of this happened? I was a Sophomore, well, I was about to be a sophomore. I came up to school early to take some prep classes and attend baseball camp. Anything to get out of the South Carolina heat.”

  “I was a senior.” She replied. Rebecca had a new rule. Never lie to Greg.

  “What? You’re only 13. Are you some sort of genius? Well, I can tell you are a genius, but are you one of those Doogie Howser type kids?” Greg was shocked she had not told him she was a senior.