Unwelcome Bodies
A Collection By
Jennifer Pelland
This collection is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in these stories are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
The stories in this collection first appeared in the following publications:
“For the Plague Thereof Was Exceeding Great,” Strange Horizons, 2003; “Big Sister/Little Sister,” Apex Digest, issue 3, 2005; “Immortal Sin,” Tales of the Unanticipated, issue 26, 2005; “Flood,” Abyss and Apex, 2006; “The Call,” Fictitious Force, issue 2, 2006; “Captive Girl,” Helix, issue 2, 2006; “Last Bus,” Electric Velocipede, issue 11, 2006; “The Last Stand of the Elephant Man,” Helix, issue 6, 2007; “Songs of Lament,” “Firebird,” and “Brushstrokes” are original to this collection.
Copyright © 2008 by Jennifer Pelland
Cover Design by Justin Stewart
Published by Apex Publications, LLC
PO Box 24323
Lexington, KY 40524
First Edition, 2008
ISBN: 9781452324265
—Table of Contents—
For the Plague Thereof Was Exceeding Great
Big Sister/Little Sister
Immortal Sin
Flood
The Call
Captive Girl
Last Bus
The Last Stand of the Elephant Man
Songs of Lament
Firebird
Brushstrokes
Acknowledgments
Bio
To Andy
and all the cats who’ve kept me company as I’ve written.
For the Plague Thereof Was Exceeding Great
December 1, 2010: World AIDS Day
KATHLEEN MURPHY GRIPPED HER CAN of Mace tightly as she rode the Red Line to work, hands sweating inside the latex of her surgical gloves. All around her, her fellow T riders were openly clutching Mace or pepper spray as well, all glancing around the car from behind safety goggles and surgical masks. Technically, it was still illegal to carry chemical sprays without a license, but no one enforced those laws anymore. It was safer not to.
The T pulled into Harvard Station, the end of the line, and she rose to get off the train. She remembered the days when people would crowd around the doors and bustle off in a mass of closely-packed bodies. No one touched anyone anymore. They wouldn’t even come close. She never thought she’d miss that.
She made her way up the escalator, not touching the handrails, crossed Mass. Ave., and headed toward the gates of Harvard Yard. At least the university was still open, even though enrollment had been dropping precipitously over the past four years. No one wanted to send their children away to school anymore. Not unless they lived in a country with even higher infection rates than the U.S. The only schools that were still doing well were Harvard Medical School and the School of Public Health. They even offered scholarship money. That was unheard-of.
At the gates, she flashed her employee ID to the armed guards, waited for them to scan it, and was let in. Still, she remained vigilant as she dashed through the Yard. The crazies had gotten into plenty of secure areas, armed guards notwithstanding. She didn’t feel safe until she’d sprinted up the stairs to Widener Library, flashed her ID again, and then heard the doors close behind her. She realized her safety was illusory, but she’d take it.
* * * *
“And I saw another sign in heaven, great and marvelous, seven angels having the seven last plagues; for in them is filled up the wrath of God.”
Tessa Spirko mouthed the words of the morning sermon along with Father Moran while picking absentmindedly at the fungal infection on the back of her hand. Next to her, Ben repeated the words under his breath, his lungs gurgling faintly. Tessa tried to smile. He’d be with God soon. And thanks to his hard work, so many others would soon be with God as well.
“And one of the four beasts gave unto the seven angels seven golden vials full of the wrath of God, who liveth forever and ever. And the temple was filled with smoke from the glory of God, and from his power; and no man was able to enter into the temple, till the seven plagues of the seven angels were fulfilled.” Father Moran stretched his arms out, then curled in on himself and coughed hard, bringing one hand to his mouth as his brow tightened with pain. When the fit passed, he put his arms out again, his hand now stained with blood, and said, “We are the seventh angel. No man will be able to enter into the temple until our plague is fulfilled.”
A chorus of “Amen!” rose up from the crowd, clustered tightly in the now-closed Porter Square T station, illuminated by one trash can fire and the twinkling of old Christmas lights hooked up to a chugging, smelly generator. A year ago, Tessa could still have hopped the T and gone out to Davis Square to watch old movies. But a year ago, she wasn’t sick. And a year ago, Boston could still afford to run the trains out to Somerville.
She reminded herself that none of that mattered anymore. She was one of the saved now. She should be happy.
* * * *
Kathleen headed directly to the women’s locker room, knocked to make sure it was empty, and began her morning routine. First, she put her bag in her locker. Second, she sprayed the metal counter down with disinfectant. Third, she pulled a sealed hygiene pack from the dispenser and tore it open, careful not to touch the contents. Fourth, she removed her gloves, goggles, and mask, putting them in the medical waste receptacle. Fifth, she ran her hands under the automatic faucet, covering them with a fine spray of disinfectant. Finally, she put on the contents of the hygiene pack: first the hairnet, then the mask, then the safety goggles, then the gloves. She always counted the steps. She never let herself autopilot through them. Familiarity bred slipups.
She took one look at herself in the mirror and sighed, ignoring the “Even doorknobs can transmit HIV-6 and HIV-7!” sign above it. Her mother hadn’t had this many gray hairs when she was thirty-seven. Kathleen wondered how much longer she’d be able to live with this constant fear before the stress completely destroyed her. Her gaze traveled down to the lump under her shirt, and she pressed it against her chest, the warm metal of the ring stinging tears from her eyes. She took a tissue from a dispenser, carefully shifted her goggles and dabbed her eyes dry, then tossed the tissue in the medical waste receptacle.
Kathleen palmed the door to circulation open, the squeak of the hinges echoing through the large, mostly-empty space. At the circulation desk near the back of the room, a similarly protected Anna waved and smiled, although Kathleen had to glean the smile from the way Anna’s eyes crinkled up behind the goggles. “HIV testing today,” Anna said.
“Oh good,” Kathleen said, resisting the urge to sag against the desk.
“The pay may be awful, but no one can say that Harvard has poor benefits,” Anna said. “Although I wish they’d do it weekly instead of biweekly.”
“If they did that, they’d have to fire some of us to pay for it,” Kathleen said. “I can’t afford to be unemployed.”
“None of us can,” Anna said. “We’re closing the library and postponing stack duties until the testing is over. They should be here in ten or fifteen minutes, so we’ve got a little time to kill.”
Kathleen nodded and bit her lip, but not too hard. She didn’t want to open a break in her skin. “I think I’ll do some reading,” she said.
“Sounds good.”
She walked behind the circulation desk, pulled a sanitary keyboard guard from the dispenser, and called up CNN.com on the computer. There were no books in the circulation office anymore. Even if there had been, she wouldn’t have thought to read one. Library books were too dangerous to leave lying around. Yes, patrons were always required to wear gloves and masks and be supervised by a librarian. But gloves
could tear, and masks weren’t foolproof. Books went from patrons, to twenty-four hour quarantine, to the stacks.
Kathleen had gotten a degree in library science because she loved books. Now she was afraid of them.
* * * *
Father Moran doubled over with wet, wracking coughs, and Tessa could hear the blood and sputum splatter on the floor. She turned and ran up the frozen escalator to the turnstiles so she wouldn’t have to smell the diarrhea that she knew would follow. “I’m saved, I’m saved, I’m saved,” she mumbled to herself, scrubbing a hand across her breastbone to try to calm the wild stuttering of her heart. She wasn’t ready to watch. She wasn’t strong enough to watch. Oh God, that would be her in a few months.
Tessa jumped as a voice came from directly behind her. She whirled to face Maureen, who said, “And men blasphemed God because of the plague of the hail; for the plague thereof was exceeding great.” Maureen gave a half smile, her lip cracking and bleeding from the herpes lesions that had spread over most of the left half of her face. “You’ll get used to it. As you get sicker, it’ll be easier to bear.”
“I know,” Tessa whispered. In the background, she could hear someone having a seizure. David? That would be his second one today.
Maureen took Tessa’s hand and squeezed it, and Tessa started to jerk back reflexively before stopping herself. Maureen smiled and said, “One of the joys of being saved is being able to touch people again, isn’t it?”
“I’ve missed that,” Tessa said. Her old priest hadn’t touched anyone with bare hands in years, but what did he know? He wasn’t saved.
“So, today’s your big day.”
Tessa nodded and wrapped her arms tightly around herself.
Maureen laid a gentle hand on Tessa’s forearm. “The first time’s always the hardest, but remember, you’re bringing them to God.”
“What if they run, or fight?” Tessa asked. “What if I fail?”
“Then you’ll try again another time,” Maureen said. “There is no failure here. You simply have to try your best. God will know if you do.”
And if I don’t, Tessa thought. Aloud, she repeated, “And the seventh angel poured out his vial into the air; and there came a great voice out of the temple of heaven, from the throne, saying, It is done.”
“Those verses are a great comfort to you, aren’t they?” Maureen said.
“They’re all I’ve got. You’re all I’ve got.”
“Then bring more to us,” Maureen said. “Make the family bigger.”
Tessa nodded and tried to ignore the panicked voices screaming in the back of her head. God wouldn’t have made her sick for nothing. God wouldn’t have made her watch her family die for nothing. She had to believe. She had to.
* * * *
Kathleen looked up from a news story on the Pittsburgh school system shutting down for lack of students, and glanced at the countdown clock in the top right corner of the web page. “The moment of silence is coming up.”
Anna rolled her eyes. “Great.”
“Don’t you want to—”
“No,” Anna snapped. “I don’t need a moment of silence to remember how awful things are.”
“That’s not what it’s for,” Kathleen said.
Tim and Reyna walked in from the stacks and glanced up at the clock.
“I don’t care! A third of the country’s dead, and half of the rest of us are going to join them in a few months. I’m sick to death of thinking about this!”
“Anna!” Tim shushed her sternly with a finger to his masked lips, then added, “Show a little respect.”
Anna shot him a glare and marched into the hallway.
Kathleen looked up at the clock on the wall as it ticked over to 9:15. She pressed the ring against her chest again. The ring was all she had left of Kevin. He’d left her a year ago, right after he’d buried his sister and his nephew. Kevin’s brother-in-law had brought the disease home to his wife and child. He’d taken every precaution, but he’d still managed to bring the disease home. And that had scared Kevin so much that he’d run off to live alone.
It hadn’t saved him. Kathleen had gone to his funeral just this past July.
God, she missed him. Missed having someone to come home to, to talk to, curl up with, make love to. Missed being touched by someone she loved and trusted. Missed being touched at all.
She’d never have someone to hold again. They’d never find a vaccine in time.
The clock ticked over to 9:16. She blinked hard, fighting back the tears that were too unsafe to shed here.
“I need the locker room,” a tearful Reyna said, dashing out into the hallway.
Kathleen let out a shaky sigh. She peeled one surgical glove back from her wrist, pushed up her goggles, dabbed her eyes dry on the newly-exposed skin, then carefully covered the tear-stained skin back up with the glove.
She startled back as the doors banged open and several nurses in full biohazard suits wheeled the HIV testing cart into the circulation office. They began setting up their testing station in the empty space where the reading tables and card catalogs had once been.
Anna walked back in, her eyes puffy and red behind her safety goggles. “I wish they’d do this every week.”
* * * *
Tessa pulled on gloves and a mask as she emerged from the Porter Square T station. She’d blend in better that way. And the gloves hid her rash. She fingered the sprayer in her pocket —the “golden vial.” It looked like a can of Mace, but it was filled with her own fresh piss and blood. Her HIV-7-laden piss and blood. Next to her, Adolfo was feigning confidence, but she could tell he was just as nervous as she was. Maureen seemed calm, but it was tough to tell behind the full gas mask she wore to cover her lesions.
“No one’s going to be out on the streets now,” Tessa said, digging her hands deep into her pockets to ward off the December chill. “They’ll all be at work. We won’t be able to infect anybody.”
Maureen pulled her mask slightly away from her face. “Not infect. Save. And here.” Maureen handed them each an ID card. “Congratulations. You’re now Harvard students.”
Tessa looked at the photo on the ID. It was her, all right: her old high school ID photo. “Will these really work?”
“They should,” Maureen said. “They’re gifts from a newly-saved member of the congregation. She worked in ID Services until yesterday.”
“So what’s the plan?” Adolfo asked.
“Once we get inside the Yard, we’ll split up so we can save as many people as possible. Tessa, you take the library; Adolfo, you take the Memorial Church. They’re having morning services right now. I’ll go to the Science Center.”
“We’re going to save a lot of people!” Adolfo said, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he walked.
“Amen,” Tessa mumbled underneath her mask. The voices in the back of her head started screaming louder, but she silenced them by mentally repeating, “…and no man was able to enter into the temple, till the seven plagues of the seven angels were fulfilled.” Father Moran preached the truth. She believed that. She had to.
* * * *
Kathleen paced nervously in the cavernous hallway as she waited for her test results to come back. Her results had to be negative. She hadn’t done anything stupid these past two weeks. Wait, there’d been someone coughing hard on the T last week. Oh God, what if she were positive?
She shook her head sternly and forced herself to abandon that line of thought. The coughing person had been wearing a surgical mask, and Kathleen had been wearing her goggles. True, they weren’t as safe as a good gas mask, but she hated the way gas masks limited her peripheral vision. If the crazies came for her, she wanted to be able to see them coming and get a head start.
Kathleen let out a long breath and rubbed her gloved hands together. No, she probably wasn’t positive. She’d worn protection outside her apartment at all times. Anything she’d brought into the house, she’d quarantined in the hall closet for twenty-four hours before mo
ving it into her living space. Even food. She’d bought a second refrigerator just for that purpose. And she hadn’t touched the skin of another human being in nearly a year, no matter how much she ached to.
She pressed the ring to her chest again.
One of the nurses popped his head out of the circulation office and said, “Congratulations, you’re negative.”
“Oh good,” she said, the words coming out in a rush of air, and she closed her eyes and just let herself bask in the moment. Still negative. She’d beaten the odds.
A piercing scream came from circulation. “I can’t be positive! I can’t be!”
“Anna,” Kathleen whispered, splaying her hand across her breastbone, across the ring. “Oh God, Anna.”
She could hear voices speaking in soothing tones, but Anna keened and wailed, and Kathleen tried not to imagine the scene on the other side of the door. What had she seen Anna touch today? What was Anna touching now? Was she even still wearing her mask, her goggles, her gloves? Had she ripped them off in her despair, spreading tears and sweat all over the room? Kathleen belatedly realized she was inching backwards, slowly increasing the distance between herself and the circulation office’s door.
The cries faded, then stopped.
The door opened, and two of the nurses carried Anna’s unconscious body out, enveloped in a biohazard suit. The third nurse stepped into the hallway and beckoned the employees still in circulation to come out and join her. Reyna’s normally warm brown skin was an eerie beige, and Tim had gone chalk white. “They had to sedate her,” Reyna whispered.
“It’s not safe to stay here,” the nurse said. “Get your things and go home.”
“Where are you taking her?” Kathleen asked.
“The Cambridge Hospice.”
“But she’ll die there!” Reyna cried. “The news said there’s an epidemic of antibiotic-resistant staph there!”
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