So I slipped out of my brother’s room and went back down the stairs. The door to my parents’ room was still shut, and I felt a completely unworthy stab of irritation. Yes, it must be terrible for my father, but I doubted my mother even knew he was there, whereas I needed him, needed someone to talk to. But I knew I would never disturb him, so I kept going to the kitchen. Once there, I pulled a glass from the cupboard and held it up to the ice dispenser. A few cubes half-heartedly spilled out, and I guessed it was working overtime to replenish what I’d already used in my futile attempt to reduce my mother’s fever.
I sat down on one of the stools at the breakfast bar and stared out the window, not really focusing on anything. Since our house was on a corner, the view included the low juniper hedges planted against the fence, and a fairly unobstructed glimpse of the street beyond. As I watched, a silver car wove its way down the street, listlessly drifting from one side of the narrow residential lane to the other, actually hitting one curb before correcting and moving toward the one opposite, like the world’s biggest and slowest pinball. It finally came to rest halfway up on the sidewalk on the corner across from our property, almost touching the smooth green lawn Mr. D’Ambrosio took such pride in, when most everyone else in the neighborhood had long since given up on grass and had switched over to cactus- and evergreen-studded drought-tolerant landscaping.
No one came out of the D’Ambrosio house to check on the driver, which told me Mr. and Mrs. D’Ambrosio must be as incapacitated as whoever had been driving that Camry. In that moment, I was just glad the driver had only been going twenty miles an hour at the most. Anything else, and they could have caused a lot more damage.
Footsteps coming down the hall made me turn, and I saw my father approaching. His eyes looked red, but otherwise his face was still and calm, as if he’d made his peace with whatever was happening to my mother, to Devin…to the world.
The words made their way to my lips before I even realized I was saying them. “Is she…?”
“No.” His gaze shifted to the glass of water sitting on the counter in front of me, and he gave a faint nod. He went and got his own glass from the cupboard, and got some water as well, although I noticed he didn’t bother with the ice. Afterward, he sat down next to me on one of the barstools and added, “Not yet, anyway.”
“How…how long?”
“I don’t know.” He drank some water, and I decided I should as well, although it seemed to get jammed halfway down my throat, lodging there as if it was a solid object instead of liquid. “It…varies, from what I’ve seen and heard.”
I didn’t know why, but for some reason that bothered me almost as much as anything else that had happened so far. If a disease was going to be this evil, it should at least be predictable.
The question had been torturing me all afternoon, and now I finally had someone I could ask it of. “Dad…why isn’t anyone helping? Why are we being left to deal with this alone?”
A long pause, during which he stared down at his glass of water without meeting my eyes. When he did look up, I almost wished I hadn’t been watching him, waiting for his response. Never in my life had I seen such an expression of despair on my father’s face. Despair…and fury.
“Because there’s no one to help, Jess. What’s happening here in Albuquerque — it’s happening everywhere. New York. Los Angeles. Washington, D.C. and London and Moscow and — everywhere.” His hands, his big, strong, capable hands, now somehow looked limp and broken as they rested on the counter. “There’s no answer at the CDC. Tried calling in the National Guard for help, and nothing. The only good thing about the whole situation is that people are getting sick so quickly, they don’t have time to get into trouble. The fever makes them incapable of violence, of looting. Most collapse where they stand. That’s why I said that Devin was lucky — you got him into bed, and he’s sleeping. The fever doesn’t have him hallucinating and having convulsions or seizures, like I saw happen with some people today.”
“So…that’s it?” I whispered. “We all just sit back and wait to die?”
He scrubbed his hand over his face and glanced away from me. “I don’t know. There’s no way to treat this thing. Either you get it, or you don’t. Or rather, I have yet to see anyone who hasn’t caught it, but…you’re not sick.”
“Yet,” I said flatly, then drank some water.
“Usually, you’d be sick by now, since you’ve been around infected people.”
“You’re not sick, either,” I pointed out, and he gave a grim nod.
“I keep expecting to be, but….” Deliberately, he picked up his glass and drained the water. “I don’t know. It’s possible we could have a hereditary immunity. I just don’t know.” His fingers tightened on the glass, and for a second I thought he was going to pick it up and hurl it at the wall, do something to express the frustrated anger I saw in his eyes. Instead, he let go of it and pushed it away. “The problem is, I don’t know anything.”
Neither did I, except that I didn’t feel sick, and my father didn’t appear to have any symptoms, either. Maybe there really was something to that notion of hereditary immunity. In looks and build, I favored my mother, with my almost-black hair and dark eyes, traits she claimed came from a great-great-grandmother who was full-blood Ute, while Devin and my father were more alike, hair still dark but not as inky as mine, their eyes a lighter, warmer brown. So why my father and I were the ones with no symptoms, I couldn’t begin to guess. Obviously, appearance didn’t have much to do with this particular quirk of heredity.
“I don’t know anything, either,” I said. “But I guess I’ll start with checking on Devin.”
“And I’ll look in on your mother.” My father got up from his stool, and I followed suit.
Once I was upstairs, I could tell there hadn’t been any real change with my brother. He didn’t even seem to have moved, but still lay there with one arm flopped over the side of his bed, eyes tightly shut. In fact, he was so still that I went over and laid two fingers against his throat, worried that I wouldn’t feel a pulse. It was there, but thready and fast, which couldn’t be a good sign. His hair, cropped short for football season, was damp with sweat.
Something about that thought, the realization that he should be off at football practice right now instead of lying here, fighting a disease so mysterious and strange that it didn’t even have a formal name, made the anger rise up in me again. This shouldn’t be happening. He should be with his teammates, getting sweaty because his coach had made him do a hundred push-ups for being a smart-ass yet again. And an hour from now, we should all be sitting down at the dinner table together, something families hardly ever did anymore, but which my mother insisted on. I’d been skipping those meals on Tuesdays and Thursdays, since I had to teach a six o’clock class, but I tried to make it when I could.
None of that was happening, though. And it wasn’t happening for Devin’s girlfriend Lori, or my own friends Elena and Tori and Brittany, or — or anyone. All across the city…the country…the world…people were suffering and dying, and no one could stop it.
That realization made the enormity of the whole situation come crashing down on me. I let out a choked little sob and fled my brother’s room, running down the stairs to the family room so I could turn on the TV, could reassure myself with the sound of someone else’s voice, even if the newscasters were following the commands of people who might already be dead. I had to know a world still existed out there beyond my house, even if it was a world swiftly falling apart.
But when I picked up the remote and turned on the television, nothing came on to reassure me. Some stations blank, others showing a “please stand by” message, others with a test pattern of colored bars. My heart rate sped up as I moved from channel to channel, thinking that there had to be at least one still broadcasting, one that hadn’t been abandoned.
AMC seemed to be showing a rerun of The Walking Dead, which had to be someone’s idea of a sick joke, as I didn’t think that show ev
er ran before nine o’clock at night due to its content. And that wasn’t even the worst. Farther up the band, on a channel I didn’t recognize, the screen was black, with words in stark white emblazoned across it:
And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and, lo, there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood….
I wasn’t much of a Bible reader, but even I recognized the quote from Revelations.
Making a disgusted sound, I clicked off the TV, then turned when I heard my father come to the door and lean against the frame, his shoulders slumped.
“It is the end of the world,” he said softly.
That couldn’t be my father — my hard-nosed, practical father, the one who made sure I knew how to shoot, how to catch a fish and clean it, how to change the oil in my car and swap out a flat tire. Nothing ever fazed him. But now some underlying steel seemed to have given way, his firm jaw somehow loose, his eyes blurred with sorrow.
“Dad?” I said uncertainly.
“She’s gone,” he told me, voice flat. “While we were down in the kitchen.”
The words didn’t seem to make any sense. Or rather, my mind refused to make sense of them, because if I understood those words, I’d know in that moment my mother was dead, and I just couldn’t face that. Not yet.
For the longest moment, I didn’t say anything, only stared up at him as I turned the remote I held over and over in my hand, its familiar rectangular shape suddenly alien, cold and hard. Not wanting to hold it any longer, I set it down on the coffee table.
“No,” I said at last.
“Yes,” he said softly. “It doesn’t look like she suffered. At least, not like some that I’ve seen. You’d almost think she was asleep.”
“Maybe she is asleep,” I protested. “Maybe you just thought — just thought she was — ” I couldn’t say the word. Not in connection with my mother. If I said it, then it would be true, and I couldn’t bear that.
He didn’t bother to contradict me, only watched me. Something of the no-nonsense father I was used to was clear in those eyes. They said, I don’t want to believe it, either. But that doesn’t make it less true.
That hard knot was back in my throat. My eyes burned. For some reason, though, the tears wouldn’t fall. They just remained where they were, burning like acid.
Finally, I asked, “What should we do? Should we — ” I couldn’t even finish the question. This would have been bad enough under normal circumstances, but at least then there was a routine to follow. You called the doctor. The doctor called the ambulance, and then eventually someone got in touch with the funeral home. That was how it worked when Grandmother Ivy — my mom’s mother — had passed.
Now, though…now you couldn’t even get a call through. And if by some miracle you did, it wouldn’t matter, because there wouldn’t be anyone on the other end to answer it.
My father wouldn’t meet my eyes. “We don’t need to do anything,” he said, that scary monotone back in his voice. “It’ll take care of itself.”
And something in the way he said those words made me too frightened to ask what in the world he meant.
Chapter 4
He went into the kitchen after that. I didn’t follow, but instead just stood there in the family room, my entire body feeling as if it had been encased in ice. One thought kept hammering away in my head, over and over again.
She’s dead. She’s dead. Your mother is dead.
I wished I could cry.
From the kitchen, I heard the clunk of ice dropping from the dispenser, the sound of liquid pouring, although not from the refrigerator door. I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly what it was.
My father was not, unlike a lot of cops, a heavy drinker. He and my mother would have a glass of wine with dinner sometimes, and I’d seen him drink champagne at weddings and have a beer after a morning of washing both his and Mom’s cars, but that was about it. But there was a bottle of Scotch he kept high up on a shelf, a bottle that rarely made an appearance. One time when his partner Josh was shot in the leg while breaking up a domestic dispute. Or the time my mother found a lump in her breast and had to go in for a biopsy. It turned out to be nothing, a benign cyst, but we’d all been fearing the worst.
And now the worst had happened, although in a manner none of us could have imagined, and he was sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, drinking Scotch on the rocks.
And I was too scared and shocked to even give him shit about it. If he wanted to seek comfort in a glass of Scotch rather than in me, there wasn’t anything I could do about it.
Still with that horrible lump lodged firmly in my throat, I went back to the staircase and slowly went up it, each step more and more difficult, as if I were in some horrible alternate dimension that kept strengthening the gravity pulling at me with every movement. Finally, though, I made it up to the landing, then went to Devin’s room.
He had shifted and was now lying on his side, half his covers thrown off. They’d probably felt far too hot, but I knew he had to stay warm. I crossed the room and grasped the sheet and blanket, hesitating as my hand paused on the comforter. Maybe that really was a bit too much, since it had been a mild, warm day, and his room wasn’t anywhere close to cold yet. I could always put the comforter over him later.
As I began to settle the sheet over his shoulders, though, something felt wrong. At first I couldn’t quite figure it out, and then, even as I realized what the problem was, my mind didn’t want to acknowledge it. Not this. Not so soon after — well, after.
The last time I’d been this close to him, heat had fairly radiated from his flesh. Now, though, he felt cool, and when I reached down to touch his hand, his fingers were like ice, and somehow already stiff, although logically I knew it was far too early for rigor mortis to have set in.
Then again, what was logical about any of this?
I recoiled, letting go of my dead brother’s hand, and backed away from the bed. As my father had told me about my mother’s passing, Devin didn’t look dead, just asleep. For whatever reason, his face didn’t have that sunken look about it that my mother had worn. Maybe his fever hadn’t burned as hot?
Not that it mattered, because he was gone, too.
A frightened little sob tore its way out of my throat, and I continued to back away, creeping out into the hallway and shutting the door behind me. I knew I should go downstairs and tell my father what had happened, but for some reason my feet took me in the opposite direction, toward my parents’ bedroom. Before I even knew what I was doing, my hand seemed to have reached out of its own accord and was turning the knob. I’d just seen death. I needed to see my mother’s, too, so it would be just as real. Maybe then my brain would be shocked out of its current numb state.
The sun was beginning to set, but my parents’ bedroom had a window in the western wall, so a warm, mellow light was flooding the space. It was certainly bright enough for me to see where my mother’s body should be lying, propped up against the pillows on her side of the bed.
Only…she wasn’t there.
My first thought was that my father must have moved her, but why in the world would he have done that? Besides, there wasn’t anyplace he really could have moved her, not unless he put her in the bathtub for some reason.
On second thought, that notion wasn’t so strange. He could’ve put her in an ice-cold bath in an attempt to bring her temperature down.
I rushed into the en suite bathroom, but the tub was empty. As I stared down at it, I realized that was a ridiculous notion. Even if my father had put her in the bath, I would have heard the water running, and I’d heard no such thing.
Thoughts racing, first rejecting one idea, and then another, I returned to the bedroom. From this angle, I could now see a pile of fine gray dust marring the surface of the blue and tan striped comforter, the one my father had permitted in the room only because “it wasn’t too girly.”
Dust? My mother would never allow d
ust to collect on the furniture, let alone a pile like that right on the bed.
Cold coiled in the pit of my stomach as I stared down at the strange little pile. On a dare from Devin, I’d once peeked inside the urn containing my grandmother’s ashes…and they had been almost the exact color and consistency as the ashes now sitting on my parents’ bed.
No, that was impossible.
Then my father’s words came back to me: It’ll take care of itself.
Was this what he’d meant? That somehow after she passed, my mother would simply crumble into a pile of dust?
No, I refused to believe that. There had to be an explanation. Otherwise….
Otherwise, this whole situation had moved from the unexplainable and tragic to the positively Biblical. Whoever heard of bodies turning themselves to ash, unless it was by some strange otherworldly force?
“You see,” my father said. He must have come upstairs while I was standing there, staring down at my mother in shock. His speech sounded a little slurred, but at least he hadn’t brought the glass of Scotch up with him.
“What — what happened?”
“It’s what happens to all of them,” he replied. “Usually within an hour of death.” Rubbing at his brow, he added, “Very clean, when you think about it. Much better than having all those bodies lying around, don’t you think?”
I stared at him in horror. “That’s Mom lying there!”
“No,” he corrected me. “That’s what used to be your mother. The part of her that was really her — that’s gone. To a better place, I have to hope, but after everything I’ve seen today, I’m beginning to have my doubts.”
His voice was sad, but resigned. And as I looked at him, I noticed the way he wasn’t completely steady on his feet, the glisten of sweat on his forehead from the last rays of sun coming in through the window. Maybe my mind had registered them earlier, but had dismissed them as effects of the alcohol. Now, though….
Demons & Djinn: Nine Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Novels Featuring Demons, Djinn, and other Bad Boys of the Underworld Page 5
