by Mark Justice
“Are you okay?” Jubal asked, not taking his eyes off Renee.
Fiona grunted assent, still sighting along the shotgun.
“You know,” Jubal said, sliding on his sunglasses. “It’s just a matter of time before the whole town ends up like her.”
Fiona turned her head towards him with an astonished look on her face. “Mr. Sensitive now, are we?”
“Just the facts, ma’am,” Jubal said in a monotone, lifting his Glock and taking aim. “Die, bitch.”
Jubal shot once and Renee’s head snapped back. She wobbled around a bit, as if beginning a waltz step, then toppled over onto her face.
Jubal had the sudden urge to blow the smoke off the barrel of his gun, like an old-time movie cowboy, but then thought better of it. He barely understood what he was doing; it was as if some cold, primitive part of himself was taking command of his actions. “Bullseye,” was all he said.
“Jubal, are you losing it on me?” Fiona said, sitting down on the passenger seat with the shotgun propped between her legs. “I need you.”
“Shoot ’em in the head. They go right down. Plop.”
Jubal knew he shouldn’t be acting like this, that he was freaking Fiona out a little, but he just couldn’t help it. Maybe he’d feel like his old self after a rest.
“I’ll get the additional weapons, then let’s go home, Fee. We need to plan shit out.”
Fiona slammed her door closed without answering.
Jubal turned towards the sheriff’s of?ce, saying, “Oooooh-kay,” under his breath.
He went inside and collected the weapons. He brought them out and threw them in the back seat of the cruiser.
Again behind the steering wheel, he?ipped on the car and revved the engine. “It’s okay Fee. We’re going home now.”
He put the car into drive and sped off down the street.
“Look out, Jubal. You’re going to run over…”
With a thump and a bump, Jubal drove over Renee and continued on.
“Dead bitch.”
“Jubal?”
“It’s okay, Fee. Everything’s going to be okay now. I can feel it,” Jubal said.
He even smiled.
They carried all the weapons into his mother’s house, laying them on the coffee table, and locked the doors and windows.
“I have got to sit down and rest,” Fiona said, plopping down onto the couch.
“I’ll get you a glass of water. Be right back.”
Jubal returned with two glasses of ice water. He pushed aside the shotguns and set them on the coffee table. “Some wedding we’re going to have, huh?”
She didn’t answer.
“Hey, we could have Renee bring the?nger food,” he said and immediately regretted it. Fiona kicked the coffee table, spilling both water glasses and knocking one of the shotguns to the?oor. Jubal hadn’t engaged the safety of either Mossberg and he prepared himself for a blast that never came.
He picked the gun up off the?oor and heard the slam of the bathroom door.
You’re an idiot.
He just had to show his?ancee how calm and cool he had become, how he was dealing with this unholy crisis like a wisecracking movie character. He wanted her to know he was strong and he would protect her, because if he could convince Fiona, maybe he could convince himself. And maybe he could erase from his mind the image of Damon Ortega’s head bursting like a melon.
He cursed himself under his breath. He was 22 years old, shouldered with huge responsibilities, and he still acted like a kid.
Jubal stood outside the bathroom door for several minutes. He expected to hear Fiona’s sobs, but she made no sound.
Finally, he tapped his knuckle on the door.
“Fee?”
She didn’t answer.
“Fee, I’m sorry. I…I’m an ass. It’s so hard to act like I’m strong when I’m so goddamned scared.” He swallowed. That had been a tough thing for him to say. Now that he had, he felt better. Fiona loved him. She would accept him just as he was. After all, she had known him longer than almost anyone.
Actually, he realized, she had known him as long as anybody left alive.
“Fiona, did you hear me? I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
The voice was very small and came from a place near his knees. He pictured her sitting on the bathroom?oor, her head against the door.
Jubal leaned against the wall and slid down until he was sitting by his side of the bathroom door.
“I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just stupid.”
“You’re not stupid. You’re a guy,” she said, as if that explained everything. Jubal supposed it did.
He pressed one side of his face against the door, hoping it was near Fiona’s. “Fee, we’ll get through this.”
“Don’t.”
“Just listen-”
“No, Jubal, you listen to me.” Her voice sounded on the edge of tears. Before yesterday, Jubal had seen Fiona cry two or three times in?fteen years. Now the sight and sound of her sorrow had grown too familiar. “I know you want to save me. To save Serenity, I suppose. But pay attention to what I have to say. Are you listening?”
“Yeah.” He pressed harder into the cool wood of the door, dreading what she was going to say, yet needing to hear it.
“You can’t save me. You can’t save this town. You need to leave. Just get in the car and drive somewhere else. Try to?nd a place where this disease hasn’t reached.”
“What? Fiona…no. We’ll stick it out together. I’m not leaving you.”
“You have to, Jubal.” She spoke slowly and clearly, as if addressing a child. Somehow that made her words sting even worse.
“It’ll be okay. You’ll see.”
Through the two inches of oak, Jubal heard her sigh.
“Don’t lie to me, Jubal. You’ve seen the blister on my neck, and now there’s one on my leg. Whatever this is, I have it. I’m sick.”
“No!” Now he was the one who was near tears. Again.
“I know it’s hard to hear, baby. But it will go easier if you accept it.”
Jubal turned the doorknob. It was locked. Still, he rattled it several times.
“No. You’re not going to die. We don’t know anything about this thing. Maybe it doesn’t kill everybody. Look at me, Fiona. I feel?ne.”
“I know,” she said. “And I think you’re right. Maybe it doesn’t affect everyone the same way. Like any other disease, it progresses at different rates in different people.”
He latched on to that. “See? You might-”
“And some are probably immune to it. I think one of them might be you.”
He opened his mouth but nothing came out.
”Jubal?”
His?rst thought was one that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
It won’t kill me. I’m going to live.
He felt the guilt slam down as if it actually had weight.
“You can’t know that,” he managed to get out.
What if it was true? What if he was immune to this awful plague? Would life without his friends and family be worth a good goddamn? Could he go on without Fiona?
“I know it, Jubal.” She began to cough, and while it wasn’t as wet or drawn out as the sounds Renee and Damon had made, it wasn’t a sign of good health either. When the coughing?t ended, Fiona said, “I don’t know how to explain it, but something is changing inside me. I can tell you’re?ne. You stand out like a splash of color in a black and white drawing.”
Jubal decided that Fiona must have a fever. She was starting to talk crazy. Of course that meant the stuff about him being immune was just bullshit. The brief disappointment he felt was enough to tighten the screws on the guilt.
He had to get her out of the bathroom and put her to bed. Maybe get her some Tylenol to bring down the fever. He thought there were antibiotics in the bathroom from that ear infection his mother had suffered through last year.
“It would have been a nice wedding,” she said.
Jubal stood up and moved to the small curio cabinet his mother kept in the hall.
“Still will be,” he said.
“I would have loved Egypt.”
The airline tickets were in the desk in his bedroom, but Jubal couldn’t dwell on that now. He felt like a mountain climber hanging by one hand over a bottomless precipice. If he allowed himself to think about everything that was going on-and how it was likely to end-then he just might think about putting the business end of one of the shotguns in his mouth. He could never do that to Fiona.
“Egypt will still be there when we get to it, Fee.”
He opened the drawer at the bottom of the cabinet and felt around.
“Sure, it’ll be there,” she said. “Full of plague victims and the dead army.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“Where are you going, Jube?”
He knew she meant why had he moved away from the bathroom door, but he couldn’t help but think of the question from a larger perspective.
Where was he going? Where Fiona was. That’s all that was important now. He had to keep them alive for another day, another hour.
His?nger touched something thin and metallic.
Got it.
He removed the bobby pin, black and shiny in the hall light. His mother had kept it in the drawer after a couple of moody pubescent episodes on Jubal’s part.
“Get away from the door, Fee.”
“What, you’re gonna shoot it open?”
The bobby pin had been bent into one long metal strand. Jubal slipped one end through the small opening in the doorknob and felt a satisfying click as the lock disengaged.
He opened the door and saw Fiona standing in the dark bathroom. Illuminated only by the hall light, she looked as sallow and insubstantial as a ghost. He thought he saw the shadows of small eruptions across her forehead and cheeks. He didn’t look too closely.
“Where did you learn to pick locks?”
“I used to lock myself in here when I was a kid. It’s how Ma and Dad got me out. Besides, it’s not a lock that’s really designed to keep anybody out.”
“I never had someone pick a lock for me before.”
“Come on,” he said, offering his hand. “Let’s go to bed.”
She smiled. It was a?eeting expression, gone as quickly as it appeared. “That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”
And the rest of the day, they made slow, passionate love. Jubal made a point of caressing Fiona’s neck to show he was not disgusted by her illness-to show that despite it all, he really cared about her and always would. But after a while, he no longer had to make a point of it. He was lost in the depths of a love so strong that nothing mattered but each other’s pleasure and happiness.
Sometime in the middle of the night, long after they’d fallen asleep, Jubal vaguely registered Fiona getting up and going down the hallway to the bathroom, coughing the whole way. Then he drifted back to sleep, afloat on the memory of their beautiful lovemaking.
3
September 3, 2048
When he awoke, Jubal looked over at Fiona, who had scooted to the other side of the bed. All he could see of her was a strand of hair sticking out from beneath the covers. He smiled, patted her bottom through the blanket and got out of bed. He wanted to surprise her with breakfast so he slipped on his robe and tiptoed out of the room.
As he scrambled eggs and brewed coffee in the little kitchen, Jubal wondered what their next steps would be. They could not go north to Carlsbad; that was for sure. Maybe they could go east through Texas or south into Mexico. Maybe the farther away they got from Serenity, the better Fiona would feel. Maybe there was hope somewhere, after all.
He set two plates of hot eggs on the table and poured two cups of coffee. He set one cup next to a plate of eggs and carried the other down the hallway towards the bedroom.
“Breakfast is served, my princess,” he called.
Fiona didn’t move.
“Lazy old cow,” Jubal said jokingly.
He went to her bedside and whipped the blanket off her head. He nudged Fiona’s shoulder with his?nger.
He stopped.
Her shoulder felt wrong. And she wasn’t moving.
Jubal dropped the coffee. The hot liquid splashed across his bare feet, but he didn’t feel it. He placed three?ngers against Fiona’s blistered neck.
“No…”
He took her shoulders and shook her hard. Her head lolled from side to side and back and forth, but she did not awaken. He did this for some time before he?nally made himself stop.
That’s when he noticed the empty vial of his mother’s sleeping pills on the nightstand next to a glass of water.
Jubal snatched the glass and sniffed it. Not water. Vodka.
She must have taken them sometime before he woke up.
“Wake, up, Fee, baby!” he shouted into her unresponsive face, knowing deep down that it was no use. “Please?”
Tears flooded his eyes; he could barely see. They spattered against his dead lover’s face.
Jubal took the pill vial and threw it across the room, where it ricocheted off the wall. Beneath the vial had been a small square of the scratch paper his mother kept next to the phone in the kitchen. There was writing on it.
Jubal read through tears:
Baby,
I didn’t want to burden you with watching me slowly die and turn into one of those things. I wanted us to end on a happy moment that we both could treasure forever, no matter where we were.
I dreamed again about the dead army last night and their leader in red. Their leader is not one of them. He is not dead. And he’s not from here. He’s from a darker world. I’m not sure how I know this, but I do. It’s as real and true as my feelings for you.
I hope this helps in some way, but I can’t imagine how. I wish that you would read this and flee. Go far from here.
I’m sorry it had to be like this, my sweet, sweet Jubal. But I had been thinking about it and knew it was the only way for me-and you.
Please forgive me. And I’ll see you again in some happy place.
I’ll be waiting.
All my love,
Fiona
Jubal pressed the note to his lips, dripping tears on it, and placed it on the nightstand.
He reached down and drew the blanket up over Fiona’s face.
Picking his clothes off the?oor, he put them on slowly as if performing a sacred ritual. Then he took Fiona’s note and slid it into his uniform’s shirt pocket, over his heart, patting it after he was?nished.
He went to the living room and strapped on his Glock. He arranged the shotguns neatly on the coffee table and stacked the ammo next to them.
He removed a stack of sewing magazines from the seat of an old wooden chair that had always sat next to the front door and set them on a chair in the living room. He carried the wooden chair to the doorway of his bedroom where he set it down gently and sat on it, facing the bed.
He removed his Glock from its holster, crossed his legs, and waited.
He wasn’t completely convinced it would happen, but it didn’t take long. As…
Fiona.
…the blanketed?gure on the bed began to rise with a muf?ed groan.
It only took one shot.
Hours later, Jubal emerged from the house carrying the shrouded?gure and a shovel.
He looked at the sky; the sun’s heat caressed his face. It was going to be another hell-hot day.
Jubal carried Fiona’s body to the backyard, and though the ground was dry and hard, he set her down gently and began digging near a cactus plant she had always admired.
A few hours later, Jubal was standing over the fresh grave, dripping sweat, grasping for a few words to say. But he really couldn’t?nd any except, “I love you, Fee.”
He heard a footstep in the yard behind him.
Swinging around, shovel in hand, he saw three zombies walking quickly toward him. He recognized all of them.
&
nbsp; One was old Pops Perez, his straw hat still perched jauntily on his head. The other two were a fat woman named Bertha Benson and her husband, Bob. They looked hungrily at him with their horrible red-yellow eyes.
Jubal reached for his Glock, but realized he had left it in the house, on the?oor in his bedroom. He had lost track of it after…doing what needed to be done there.
Charging the undead intruders, Jubal slammed the blade of the shovel against the side of Pops’s head, wincing as he did so. After all, this was the nicest old man in the world.
Was.
Pops did a spin on one foot and toppled to the ground.
The fat Bensons were still coming at him.
As the Bensons groped for him and Pops got back to his feet, Jubal ran around them and out to the front yard.
Glancing up and down the street, Jubal saw that the whole town had turned up for a visit. Old neighbors, friends and acquaintances shuf?ed about, some falling over as if not able to control their bodies. One or two noticed Jubal and turned towards him, moaning to others, who turned towards him as well.
“At least these fuckers are slow,” he said to no one, as he ran into the house, slamming the door behind himself. “And I’m talking to myself again.”
With reluctance, he went to the bedroom of tragedy for his Glock. Someone-some thing was pounding on the bedroom wall. He ignored it. He made his way back down the hall to the living room. He checked the shotguns-they were loaded and ready.
Multiple?sts pounded at the front door. It shook in its frame.
Jubal reloaded his Glock, holstered it, hung one shotgun from his shoulder and gripped the other one in his hands.
The front door, tearing from its hinges, slammed straight down against the?oor, as the crowd of undead fought to be the?rst one to get hold of Jubal. They wedged against each other in the doorway, blocking their own progress. Their antics reminded Jubal of a Three Stooges routine.
He put his back to the hallway. If things got real bad, he could always run down the hall to his mother’s bedroom, where there was a window into the front yard, giving him better access to his cruiser parked at the curb. He was thankful he didn’t have to go through his own bedroom. The sooner he forgot about that room, the better.
