Z for Zachariah

by Роберт C. О Брайен

  What I had feared was true. There were three holes, spaced about two inches apart, across the middle of the chest. They had been patched—that is, new plastic had been welded over them so that they were airtight—but from the inside you could see that they were bullet holes, round and quite large. If Edward was inside the suit when they were fired, then he had certainly been killed.

  Night

  It is about ten o’clock. I am in the bedroom, sitting by the window with the lamp. His dreams seem to be over; he is peaceful, but I do not know if he will live through the night. His hands and feet are ice-cold; his breathing is faint, almost undetectable. I have not tried taking his temperature again. It would only disturb him, and would do no good. There is nothing more I can do for him.

  I realized that later this afternoon, an empty despairing feeling. There was not even any use in my staying with him continuously, since he could no longer get out of the bed, or even fall out. His hands were already turning cold, so I got another blanket and the hot water bottle. I lifted his head on my arm and tried to get him to drink more of the tea. He may have swallowed a little; I could not be sure. He did not open his eyes. His face was pale blue, his eyelids almost purple, and translucent.

  Then I had a thought, something that might do him some good. I checked his bedroom one more time, and then I went out and closed the door, left the house and walked to the church, taking the Bible with me. I do not want to make it sound as if I am extremely religious, but I did not know what else to do, so I thought I might pray. I said it might do him some good; maybe what I really thought was that it might do me some good. I cannot be sure. But I knew he needed help, and so did I.

  The sun was setting, and it was pretty again, but I could not admire it. I felt too bad. Faro came with me, and I was glad at least to see him. When I got to the church he wanted to come in with me, and I let him but made him lie still.

  The inside of the church is painted white, though the paint has faded somewhat, and in the late evening light it looked pale grey. It is very small, a square single room; there are seven pews, but only two of them have backs; the others are really just benches. There are two narrow windows behind the altar (there is no pulpit, but just a high oblong stand to read from), and two more set in the side walls, also narrow, so that it is always dim inside, and quiet.

  I sat in the front pew, where the light is best, and read the Bible for half an hour, and I prayed for Mr Loomis. I prayed just for him to live through the night. Even though he may be a murderer, I do not want him to die.

  Chapter Twelve

  June 5th Morning.

  He has lived through the night.

  Once I was sure he had died. I slept on the sofa in the living room, and all night he did not make a sound. I could not really sleep for any length of time, but dozed now and then, and in between I would go in and see how he was. At about two in the morning I went in, listened for his breathing, and did not hear it. I felt so frightened I thought my own heart was going to stop. I said a prayer, and crept closer. Finally, from about a foot away, I did hear it, terribly faint and fast. Each time after that it was the same, but it did not stop. I kept the fire going and changed the hot water bottle every hour, putting it next to his feet. They are so cold I am sure they are not getting any circulation.

  Morning finally came, and I made myself some breakfast and coffee; though I have no appetite I must eat. I also went and milked the cow; I am afraid of her going dry immediately if I neglect that much more, since the calf is now beginning to graze. When I came back the room was light, and I looked at him: He was so pale it was frightening. I did not try to take his temperature, but I did count his respiration. He was breathing almost fifty times a minute; I recall from my high school course that normal is about sixteen. His lips looked puffy, grey and cracked, and when I touched them they felt as dry as cardboard. I got a clean cloth and soaked it in water; I held it to his lips and moistened them, squeezing the cloth gently so that some of the water might trickle into his mouth. I did not dare try to give him water from a glass, for fear he might strangle. I washed his face, which was cold and sticky.

  Then I fed Faro and walked to the church again. This time I knew it was mostly for my own benefit; I was so worried I could not think clearly; I felt dizzy and ill, I suppose partly because I had had next to no sleep. But there was nothing to be gained by sitting in the house and watching. Either he was going to die or he was not. My being there would make no difference.

  Anyway, I was worried not just about whether he would live, but about what had happened in the laboratory—what I had heard happening in the laboratory—because that is what I had done, just as surely as if it were a recording. And that was a reason I needed to be able to think clearly.

  Faro bolted his breakfast and caught up with me. We went into the church together, and I was just realizing that I had forgotten the Bible, and considering whether I should go back for it, when I noticed that he had come to a point, and was inching along the church floor towards the altar. I could see nothing there, and it gave me an eerie feeling—in the stillness, for a second I thought he might be stalking a spirit or an angel.

  I motioned him to lie still, went forward myself, rather fearfully, and then I saw it: a small, rumpled black thing—a baby crow, no bigger than a sparrow, its furry down just beginning to sprout feathers that would be wings and a tail. It fluttered away from me when I came near, but it could not get itself off the floor. Where had it come from? And how had it got into the church? I looked up, and above me rose the square opening that formed the inside of the steeple, actually more like a high cupola. Near the top there was a criss-cross wooden framework of two-by-four built to support a church bell, though no bell had ever been brought here. On one side of this, just inside the eaves of the roof, I saw a rather untidy collection of sticks, leaves and straw, a nest. A pair of crows had built there, and one of the babies had fallen out.

  I watched it and it watched me, with very lively small black eyes. I moved a step closer; it fluttered a step further away, until finally it was against the wall behind the altar. Then it just gave up and sat there.

  I had found baby birds before, of course. All of us had, and my father told us that we should always leave them where they were, since the parent birds were usually watching from a nearby tree, and would rescue the baby if we stayed away. He was right. I have seen them do it. But I did not think it likely that the adult crows would venture down the steeple into the church, or that they would even realize that was where the baby had fallen.

  So I picked it up, holding it as gently as I could in both hands. It did not struggle but sat there quite trustingly. I was tempted to take it home and feed it, but realized that I had enough to think about without a pet to take care of. Also, as soon as I carried it outside I heard a raucous sound, looked up, and there were two big crows flapping overhead. One of them came to rest on the steeple, so I knew they must be the parents, and had seen what I held in my hands. I set the baby down in the grass where they could not miss finding it, and when I had retreated up the road a short way (calling Faro with me—he was intensely interested in the whole procedure) I saw that they had already flown down to it. I never heard of crows’ nesting in a steeple before, but I suppose they change their habits when there are no other birds around.

  As I walked back to the house I thought, it might be a good omen. I am a little superstitious, and have always thought that birds bring good luck; when I wake up in the morning, look out of the window and see a bird the first thing—especially if it is close up, and looking towards me—I feel as if it is a symbol, and that something good will happen that day. I suppose that it is because when I was about four, and first heard about prayers, I was told that they flew up to heaven. So I thought of them as rather like birds, with wings, flying upward, and when I saw a bird flying after I said my prayers I would think, maybe that was mine.

  This one, of course, flew (fell!) downwards from above, the wrong direction for
a prayer. Still it made me feel a bit more cheerful as I walked back to the house, even when I remembered that I had forgotten to say any prayer at all.

  Evening

  He is still the same. I do not know what keeps him alive. I do not dare to try to move him; I have the feeling that the least disturbance, even a loud noise, might snap the thread. So I still have not changed the bed, though it is soiled.

  When I came back from the church I spoke to him, very softly, I just told him I was there. He did not wake up, or even flicker his eyelids. Yet I had a feeling he heard me, even if unconsciously, and that it was good for him to know someone was there.

  In fact I was so convinced of this that I decided to read to him, quietly, sitting by his bed so he would sense where I was. I thought of the Bible, but in the end decided poetry might be more soothing, so I brought an anthology from my room and read Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”. It is sad, but I like it. I realized it was about death, but I was sure he could not understand the words at all; I only hoped he might hear the sound.

  Again, I am not too sure for whose benefit I was really doing it. Reading the poem certainly made me feel less worried and confused. I thought that later I might also play the piano, something quiet, and using the soft pedal. It is, after all, in the next room, and he did like it when I played before.

  After I finished Gray’s “Elegy” I sat in the chair thinking about him and Edward.

  I suppose I have to accept the idea that Mr Loomis shot Edward and killed him, and that is a terrible thought, because of what I hoped and because he is the only other human being I am ever likely to know.

  But I do not know just how bad it is, or was.

  From what he said in his dream, and from the holes in the suit, I cannot help believing he did it. But from what he said, too, I cannot be sure how wrong it was. In a way, it was self-defence. If Edward had taken the suit, and left, and had never come back, he would, in effect, have doomed Mr Loomis to stay in the laboratory—perhaps forever—-probably forever—and there he would eventually have run out of food, or water or air, and died. So in a way Edward was, when he tried to steal the suit, threatening to kill him.

  Also, Mr Loomis may have been concerned about more than just staying alive. In his dream he said that the suit was too important to waste. He called it “the last useful thing”. He may have been thinking not just of himself, but of human survival. At that time he surely still believed that there might be groups of people alive in shelters—underground Air Force bases, and so on—and the suit, the only one of its kind, might be the only way to contact them, and eventually for them to contact each other. It was too important to waste. If he was thinking about that, and if Edward would not consider it, if Edward was being selfish and foolish, then Edward was wrong.

  In a way it depends on what Edward was like. If he was honest and sensible, and really meant to return the suit, and would have returned it, then maybe Mr Loomis should have let him borrow it. Except, of course, as he said—suppose something went wrong? But if Edward was just being thoughtless and trying to sneak away, then I cannot blame Mr Loomis so much.

  But suppose, on the other hand, Mr Loomis was trying to keep the suit for himself? Suppose he meant to take it, when the time came, and strike out on his own, hoping to find civilization surviving somewhere? That was what he finally did.

  So in a way it also depends on knowing what Mr Loomis was like—is like. And it is true that I really do not know that, not yet.

  I keep wondering. If he lives and becomes conscious again—should I ask him about it? He obviously did not want to tell what happened, since in his own story of the laboratory and the suit, and his trip to Chicago, he never mentioned Edward at all. And yet it would be hard, with only two of us, for me to know this secret and try to hide it.

  I will have to decide.

  June 6th

  This morning I went to church again. I had just about given up hope. He had lain absolutely motionless, with no flicker of life except the faintest of breathing, for more than thirty-two hours. I began to feel as if I were alone again after all. It was hard to think of him as a person; the belief that he could talk and think began to slip away. Yet I did not want to give up; I felt that if I did, he would too. That is why I went to church.

  The day was cloudy, with a fresh, wet smell in the air. It had rained a little during the night, and would rain again. When Faro and I reached the church Faro ran and sniffed around in the grass where I had left the bird, but it was gone. I am sure the parents got it back into the nest.

  This time I remembered to take the Bible with me, and also to say a prayer.

  On the way back I picked some flowers, some wild roses that grow beside the road, and at home I put them in a vase and took them to his room. The apple blossoms had wilted and fallen off. He cannot see them, of course. Again, for my benefit.

  Then I sat by his bed and counted his respiration as well as I could. I did it over three times, and as far as I could tell it had fallen from fifty to about thirty. It seemed also a little deeper.

  I am not sure whether that is a good sign or not, but it may be.

  I played the piano for half an hour, hoping it would penetrate to wherever he was.

  Chapter Thirteen

  June 7th

  He is definitely better.

  He still does not wake up, but his respiration is down to eighteen per minute, almost normal, and his colour has changed from blue to white. And he looks better. I have not yet taken his temperature but I can tell, from touching his forehead and then my own, that it is still high but not as high as it was.

  Taking advantage of this improvement (which may, I know, be only temporary) I changed his sheets, blankets, pillowcase and pyjamas. To get the old sheets off and the clean ones on I had to roll him from one side of the bed to the other (this was one thing they had taught in the hygiene course), and I did that very cautiously; it did not seem to harm him, however, nor affect his breathing.

  Altogether it was quite a messy job. I have a big wash to do, and I know now that I was not cut out to be a nurse. I did consider it at one time; from a distance it seemed like a good profession, since your whole occupation is helping people who need help, and if you are trained you get paid for doing it. But I had decided on teaching instead; it is also a job of helping people, though perhaps not as much as nursing.

  It is still hard for me to realize, even after all this time, that I am not going to be anything, not ever have a job or go anywhere or do anything except what I do here. I had chosen teaching because I liked specifically the idea of teaching English. I like books and reading more than anything else, not just poetry but any good writing. My plan was, as I taught, also to study, to take graduate courses in English literature and possibly writing. You can do that quite easily and cheaply if you are a teacher.

  That whole idea is over now, there being no more schools and no one to teach. I know that; yet I keep thinking about it. Another part of my plan was to live at home, save money, and spend my entire first year’s salary on books. I have so few that I have read them all twenty times or more.

  Thinking about that set me to wondering. A lot of the books I would like to buy—would have liked to buy—are in the Ogdentown Public Library. There is also a gift shop in Ogdentown which has a small bookstore in it. For that matter, there are some pretty big houses there that probably have book-shelves in them, with books that nobody else is ever going to read. What I wonder is, what would happen if I could bring some of them here?

  I am thinking of the safe-suit of course. Having travelled all this way, Mr Loomis could easily—I should think—make a trip to Ogdentown to get some books.

  But would they be dangerous to bring in to the valley? Or would it be possible to set them out somewhere—up the hillside, with a cover over them to keep the rain off”—until they lost their radioactivity? I think we could test them (like the creek) once a week with the Geiger counter. I don’t know enough about th
at, but Mr Loomis would. Though he might not be too interested, being, apparently, not much of a reader.

  Thinking about that I got really excited. I thought: if it could be done, if the books would become safe to handle, and Mr Loomis did not want to go, I could go. That is, if he would lend me the safe-suit.

  And that brought me back to Edward with a jolt.

  June 8th

  He opened his eyes this morning, but they were blank and unfocused, the eyes of a new-born animal. He was not seeing anything at all.

  He also seemed to be trying to speak, or make a noise, but all that came out was a croak. I guessed he was asking for water. I got some, and fed it to him with a spoon. He wanted it all right; I gave him half a glass and then stopped, afraid he would get sick if he drank too much too quickly. The best thing was that he could swallow it quite well, though some did run out the corners of his mouth and down his chin.

  I knew he was not really conscious. But it was progress and I felt better. A little later I also took his temperature. I had to sit and hold both the thermometer and his chin (which has grown whiskery), but it worked. He has a hundred and three—much better.

  But he is skin and bones. Now that he could swallow, at least liquids, that was the next thing to work on. I thought about the most nourishing liquids I could concoct. Soup, of course. But even better, I decided, boiled custard. I made some—milk, egg-yolks, sugar, salt. While I waited for the milk to boil I wished again for the stove.

  And I thought—well, why not. I had the tractor now.

  When I dismantled the stove I had planned to haul it, piece by piece, on the small and rather rickety old hand cart. I had not even thought about it since I—we—got the tractor running. With the tractor cart I could move the whole thing in a matter of minutes. And it would not take long to reassemble it in the kitchen; I knew exactly where I wanted it to stand.