Fall of Venus

by Daelynn Quinn

  My hand cups over my mouth and I turn to Marcus, who is standing right behind me. He accepts me into his arms and holds me close while I surrender to my emotions. It’s not so much the knowledge that they are dead, but the fact that I’m forced to relive their deaths over again, as if seeing it for the first time.

  “I’m here,” he says, stroking the back of my head. Shivers trickle down my spine. After a moment, I pull away from Marcus, keeping my hands on his chest for comfort.

  “I remember,” I say through the streams of tears pouring down my cheeks. I push him aside and go back into the living room, crossing to the back door of the house. Marcus follows me as I unlock the glass door and slide it open. Outside the sky is darkening with a thick layer of clouds, the wind gusts are picking up, and all I can hear to break up the eerie silence that has pursued us these past few days is the piercing clatter of wind chimes.

  I dart out into the backyard, past a row of hedges that guarded the privacy of my mother’s garden. Her garden was a secluded oasis that she would go to when she was too stressed out to deal with anything. There were brightly colored blooms of roses, hyacinth and daisies, intertwined with the fragrance of lilac, jasmine and lavender, surrounding an intricately carved stone bench in the center.

  Now I stand at the threshold of what used to be my mother’s garden. Most of the plants had been scorched by last summer’s heat. Only a single rose bush had survived, and even it had seen better days. A plat of daisies my mother had bought from the local greenhouse to plant still sits at the edge of the garden, barely hanging onto life. In the center, just before the stone bench, are two large mounds of dirt and a rusty shovel protruding from the dirt to the side.

  I stand here, paralyzed, tortured by the sound of wind chimes. My mother loved listening to them as she sat out on the bench sipping her tea on a mild, sunny afternoon. But now, they are just a constant reminder of her death. Raindrops begin to fall and I’m glad. They can wash away the sticky tears from my face and disguise the fresh tears that continue to fall. In one final gesture to my parents I kneel at the graves, dig shallow holes with my hands, and plant the remaining daisies, six on each mound. My hands are covered in mud, my hair caked to my face, and I lower my head and sob.

  I vaguely remember digging the graves. There were so many sudden deaths in town that the funeral homes were overbooked and cemeteries didn’t have enough spaces or time to bury the deceased. Many people were forced to bury their own family members in their yards. The city held public bonfires for the poor and homeless and anyone else who couldn’t bury their loved ones. I remember the stench of death as the smoke wafted over our house.

  The day after my parents died, I told Evie to stay inside and watch cartoons for a while. Then I began the arduous task of digging. It doesn’t look like much, but digging a human sized grave is not as easy as it seems. It took me three hours to dig my father’s grave. By the time I’d gotten to my mother’s my arms were like jelly and the grave was not quite as deep, but I got it done. Just as I was scooping the last bit of dirt onto the mounds, I heard Evie’s voice behind me.

  “Are Grandma and Grandpa with the angels?” she asked.

  I jammed the shovel hard into the dirt so that the handle stuck straight up, and turned to Evie. “Yes, Evie. Grandma and Grandpa are with the angels now.”

  “Is that where my daddy is?” I had forgotten that my parents never told her about Drake. But I figured now is as good a time as any to let her in.

  “Yes, he is,” I said. I knelt down and squeezed her tight, fighting back tears. I couldn’t let her see me cry. It’s too much for a little girl that age to lose so many people who love her. I needed to be strong for her. I stood up and took her hand as we walked to the house.

  “I wonder if he’s with mommy now,” Evie said.

  “I’m sure he is,” I reply.

  Evie! I had been so caught up in melancholy I hadn’t even thought of her yet. Beyond the two large graves is a smaller mound. Oh god, no. Please don’t let that be Evie’s grave. But I don’t remember burying her. I trod through the space between my parents’ resting places and collapse on the ground, which the rain is now turning to mud. I desperately claw at the mound, pushing the dirt away. That can’t be Evie. Please tell me it’s not her. My dirt-caked fingernails scratch something hard and I brush the remaining dirt away. It’s an old shoebox. I choke on something between and laugh and a cry when I realize it’s not Evie. It must be Spooky’s grave. Of course I’m not thrilled that Spooky passed, but relief softens the blow. Now I know that Evie is still alive. She could even be hiding somewhere in the house.

  I barely notice that Marcus is still standing close to the house, presumably to give me some space to mourn. When he sees me charging back to the house, he opens the door for me and follows me in.

  “Evie!” I call out. No answer. I try calling for her a few more times, but still no response.

  Finally Marcus speaks up, “She’s not here, Pollen.” I can’t mask the hurt and disbelief in my eyes as I look back at him. I storm into Evie’s bedroom. Her bed is neatly made with a white, lacy, heart-shaped pillow on top. A few dirty clothes still lie in her hamper. In fact her sunshine yellow room looks perfectly put together apart from two dolls lying on the floor. I walk over and pick one up.

  The doll is a small wooden figure, not much bigger than my hand; the perfect size to live in her pink dollhouse with blue shutters. Evie named her Hazel because she couldn’t decide if her eyes were green or brown. Her red hair had become tattered and matted with age. This was Evie’s favorite doll.

  I remember sitting on the floor to play with Evie some time after my parents had passed. She asked me to play dolls with her, seemingly unaffected by the death all around us. Of course, I couldn’t say no to her and she handed me the black-haired doll named Isla.

  “Isla is sick,” said Evie. “I’ll get her some soup.” Evie walked Hazel to the dollhouse kitchen, placed a white apron on her and pretended she was making soup. It must have been a magic kitchen because the soup was ready instantly. Deep down I just knew that Isla was going to die. That’s usually how kids deal with difficult moments like death, through play and make-believe. But much to my relief, Isla made a miraculous recovery with her magic soup.

  “Mmm, this soup is delicious,” I said with a high-pitched girlie voice. “I feel better already!”

  Evie reached around the dollhouse and pressed a button that made a tiny ding-dong sound.

  “Someone’s at the door, let’s see who it is!” said Evie. Then we walked our dolls over to the front door when the real doorbell chimed. I turned around, wondering whom it could possibly be. Maybe some friends of my parents, stopping by to offer condolences? No, that’s impossible. With all the craziness going on with the virus, quarantines, and my obsession with protecting Evie, I never bothered telling anyone close. I only had the very busy coroner stop by and officially declare their deaths before I buried them. Perhaps they read it in the newspaper, the published list of the deceased. Possible. I excused myself, leaving Evie to play by herself for a little while.

  At the door, an older man wearing a long black trench coat and hat and holding a clipboard with a huge stack of papers, some of them folded over the top of the board. Behind him were three large men in unusual blue uniforms with matching caps.

  “Miss… McRae, Pollen?” asked the man with the hat, lifting an eyebrow. His voice sounded flat and cold, almost robotic.

  “Yes, can I help you?” I say.

  “We need you to come with us,” he says. Before I could eke another word out the man in the trench coat backed away and one of the men grabbed my wrist. I tried to wriggle away but his grasp was too tight. I swung my leg back and thrust it forward into his shin and he released me. But now the other two men were on top of me, pushing me to the ground, turning me over, and cuffing my wrists. As they were cuffing me I couldn’t help but resist and one man dug his knee into my back, causing intense pain, which forced me to cry out
. When they finally subdued me I lay my head to the floor, looking to my left where I saw Evie, standing at the corner of the hallway watching the scuffle. I silently mouthed the words “run” and “hide” to her, but it was too late. The other man in blue walked over to her and picked her up. He handled her more gently than the others did me. We were placed in the back of an enclosed truck with three other people, and then shuttled off. That was the last time I saw my house before today.

  I turn back, expecting to see Marcus there behind me, but he is not. I find him back in the kitchen looking through the cabinets. There are some candles lit, since it is getting dark, and several more unlit candles and flashlights on the counter.

  “Hungry?” he says. “I thought I’d fix us up something.”

  “Not really,” I reply. “I’ve lost my appetite. Anyway, in case you hadn’t noticed we have no electricity. Can’t cook anything.”

  Marcus closes the cabinet door and approaches me, placing his hand on my shoulder. “You okay?” His eyes soften with the sweetness of honey.

  I look into his eyes, my eyelids swelling up. I feel so vulnerable, but at this point I don’t care anymore. I’ve been through so much with Marcus in the past few days there shouldn’t be any secrets between us anymore.

  “I remember.”

  Marcus escorts me to the dining room table and pulls out a chair for me before bringing a candle in and sitting down himself.

  “What do you remember?” he asks. I tell him about my parents being sick, burying them, and the men that took Evie and me. “Do you know where they took you?” he asks.

  “Crimson, I think. I’m not sure. That part is still a little hazy. I remember being strapped to a table, my head in a vise. I remember pain. Agonizing pain,” I say as I rub my temple.

  “I was at Crimson,” says Marcus, staring off into space. “I remember the vise. And the tattoo. And I remember you. You were at Crimson. But I can’t remember how we met or how well we knew each other, but you were definitely there.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything before?” I ask.

  “I didn’t want to scare you off. And to be honest, I wasn’t really sure it was true. My memories are hazy, too.”

  “Do you know how I got this?” I ask as I trace the scar across my face with my fingertip.

  “No. Like I said, I only see bits and pieces. I can’t seem to put it all together yet.”

  “Being here must be triggering my memories to return.”

  I pause for a moment, hesitating because deep down I know he’ll try to stop me. I watch my hands as I rub them together furiously. “I need to go back.” Then I look up to check his wide-eyed reaction.

  “Not to…” Marcus starts, as if my eyes are projecting my thoughts into his.

  “Yes. To Crimson.”

  Chapter 11

  “Are you insane?” Marcus stands and paces the dining room like a caged lion, looking at the floor and shaking his head. “You heard Myra! You go back to Crimson you’ll be tagged again. What exactly are you hoping to accomplish by going back?” He stares hard, slicing into me with his penetrant eyes.

  “I have to find Evie. I can’t abandon her. I’m all she has left,” I whisper, looking down at my hands. Then I wonder why I never noticed my bare fingers before. I remember Glenn’s proposal, but there’s no ring anymore. Did I break it off? Did he contract the virus and die? Or did I simply lose it out in the woods? Marcus cuts off my unfocused thoughts and brings me back to the conversation.

  “There’s got to be another way. We should have gone with the COPS,” he says, rubbing his fingers and thumb on his forehead. “We can still find them again.”

  “Not yet. They’ll never let me go back to get Evie. Look, I’m not suggesting we just walk up to the front gate and surrender. There’s got to be a weakness in security somewhere. There always is. How else would we have escaped before?”

  Marcus grinds his teeth as he stares out the window to the darkened sky. The wind is howling and heavy raindrops hammer the roof. It’s getting late in the evening and the storm is right above us. “You know I won’t let you do this alone.” He looks back at me, frustration choking his stormy eyes. “But we will have a plan before we do anything.”

  Marcus walks back into the kitchen, leaving me alone at the table. Now that I have a moment to reorganize my thoughts I let them turn to Glenn and my naked finger. I don’t have any memories of breaking off our engagement or of his death. Maybe it was taken when I went to Crimson. I have to find out if Glenn is okay. But can I convince Marcus to go with me to Glenn’s house?

  Marcus comes back with a half-empty bag of stale potato chips and sits down across from me. He turns the bag to offer me some. I reluctantly take a small handful to nibble on.

  “I want to go to Glenn’s house, to see if he made it,” I say to Marcus, who is leaning back in the chair munching on his chips.

  “He won’t be there,” he says.

  “I know,” I say, “but right now I don’t know if he is alive or dead. I think if I look around his house, I should be able to determine if he survived or not. And if he did, I know where he is.”

  Marcus rolls his eyes and sighs deeply. “And I suppose we’ll have to rescue him too.” I sense a steel edge of jealousy in Marcus’s voice. I don’t know why. I’ve only known him a few days. I’ve been with Glenn for five years. He must have read too much into that kiss last night. Then again, maybe he didn’t. I don’t know if it’s the recent events or if there are actually real emotions behind it, but I feel more and more drawn to him every minute we are together. Like some unseen bridge has connected us to each other in an emotional bond. And Glenn is the river flowing beneath us. Regret overwhelms me as I try to erase the memory of the passionate kiss.

  “It’s getting late and we need some rest. If you really want to check his house, we’ll do it in the morning,” says Marcus. He rolls the bag of chips back up and tosses them on the table. The flickering candlelight accentuates his masculine features--his square jaw, strong brows, bulging biceps. The scruffiness on his jaw line makes him appear slightly older, more mature. How could I help but feel attracted to him? And being so lonely and vulnerable puts me in an awkward position. The only thing that keeps me from falling for Marcus is the undying hope that Glenn is still alive.

  “I thought you were going to eat,” I say, as he stands up the leave the room.

  “I’ve lost my appetite too,” he says, avoiding eye contact and stomping away.

  I stand to follow Marcus into the kitchen where he holds a flashlight in each hand, deciding which one to use. He flicks on a thin, silver one and hands it to me.

  “I think we should stay in the bunker tonight. Just in case there are any bounty hunters around,” I say.

  Marcus nods, “That’s probably a good idea. Where is it?”

  “You’re standing on it,” I say. In the middle of the kitchen floor is a thick, woven rug with an intricate knot work pattern. When Marcus backs up, I lift up the corner of the rug and shine the flashlight on a heavy steel trap door. There are no knobs or handles, just a thin slit in the metal, too narrow for fingers.

  “We’ll need to pry it up,” I tell Marcus. “I’ll go get the crowbar.”

  My dad kept the crowbar in the garage with all of his other tools. While Marcus gathers the candles and flashlights, I enter the garage, scanning the shelves with my flashlight. I pass by cans of motor oil, various sets of tools, and other metal gadgets that I am clueless about. Probably parts for the car. Beyond the shelves is an area to corral some brooms, rakes and other long handled yard tools. There it is, leaning against the side of the recycling bin. As I bend over and pick it up, a crumpled piece of newspaper in the bin steals my attention. My father always taught Drake and me to lay papers flat in the bin, so that we can fit more in there. Although a balled-up piece of paper may not look odd to someone else, it does here.

  I set down the crowbar so I have a free hand to flatten out the paper. Flashing my light on it,
I review the contents. It’s a special edition section of the Endmore Times, the local newspaper. They usually release special editions when there is a major local or worldwide event taking place, such as an election, memorial, or catastrophe. This particular section appears to contain a list of the deceased.

  Butterflies start colliding in my stomach and I start to feel queasy. My throat is beginning to close up and for about two seconds I consider crumpling the paper back up and throwing it in the recycling bin, without reading any further. But I can’t. I can’t stop reading. There must be a few thousand names on here. All in alphabetical order. And I find myself looking only for one name. I search the names beginning with M. My hand holding the newspaper is trembling so violently I keep losing my place. Frustrated, I turn around and hold the newspaper down against the hood of my father’s car. In my right hand I hold the flashlight, with my forearm holding down the paper, and with my left trembling finger I slowly descend the column of death. Dread coils around my soul squeezing the life out of me when I spot his name: Malek, Glenn – 22.

  I’m paralyzed. I can’t speak. I can’t think. Is this a dream? It must be a horrible nightmare and I can’t wake myself up. Inside, I’m a mad woman. I’m screaming, sobbing, crying out to a deaf god, “Why?!” But on the outside, I’m completely numb.

  The door squeaks open, awakening me from my catatonia.

  “Did you find it?” Marcus asks.

  I try to walk toward Marcus, but my knees give out beneath me and this time he is not close enough to catch me. I hit the floor with a thud. Luckily, my forearms cushioned the fall and it seems to have snapped me out of my trance.

  “Are you okay?” Marcus runs to me and helps me up.

  “I’m fine,” I say, still in disbelief. “I just got dizzy. Maybe I should eat something after all.” I pick up the crowbar and my flashlight and go back to the kitchen, leaving the newspaper where it fell on the floor. I hand Marcus the crowbar, and admire his sinewy form as he pries up the door to the bunker.