The Virulent Chronicles Box Set

by Shelbi Wescott

  “My letter…” Grant said again and then he tumbled into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Her father looked exhausted when he came through their automated apartment door. His eyes were droopy and bloodshot; he hadn’t shaved in over a day and already the whiskers on his chin were thick, casting a dark shadow over his features. Despite his evident exhaustion, Scott smiled when he saw Lucy. She was lying flat against the floor, her arms and legs stretched out away from her body—her eyes still, examining the intricacies of the ceiling.

  “What are you up to?” Scott asked.

  “Thinking,” was Lucy’s reply.

  “Everyone else?”

  “Out.”

  He shed his white lab coat and draped it over the back of a chair. Then with one hand on the chair and the other shoved into his pocket, he stood without speaking, staring at her outline on the floor.

  “You not feeling communicative today?” Scott asked her, but he didn’t glance in her direction.

  Lucy rolled her body over and then sat up, crossing her legs in front of her body and placing her hands to her side. She didn’t answer. When her father was away, she knew he was down in the lab working with Grant. His list of betrayals against her was starting to stack up. No variables, her mother had told her in the Sky Room. Every time she looked at him she saw the blood on his hands. She had nothing to say to him.

  “Well,” her father continued without waiting for an answer. “I’m going to take a quick shower. Then…you want to take a walk? Get out of this space?”

  Lucy shook her head. “No.”

  “Think about it. I’ll be back.”

  His shoulders drooped as he headed toward the bathroom for his five-minute shower. Back home, Scott would take epically long showers, sometimes twice or three times a day. He’d stand in his master bathroom shower and let the water run cold. It was often a bone of contention with Maxine, who would lament her husband’s bad habit after finding that there was no water to run the scores of dishes through their dishwasher or start a load of laundry—which was just an endless parade of food and grass-stained shirts and jeans.

  The restriction on shower time must have been frustrating for her father.

  She wished that there were more things for him that felt uncomfortable, because shorter showers were not a big enough punishment.

  After the bathroom door shut behind him and locked, Lucy caught sight of the envelope. It would not have interested her or piqued her attention, but it was the image of a hot air balloon, two tiny stick figures standing together, that drew her eye. And immediately, Lucy knew.

  The water was running. Her father hummed and his voice echoed.

  Lucy scrambled forward and yanked the paper from the lab coat pocket. Her name was written in Grant’s childish scrawl on the outside. Without hesitation, she ripped the envelope open and unfolded the note that had been tucked inside. Scanning the words, Lucy let out a gasp. Then she looked to the bathroom door, looked at the letter, and then clutching it to her chest, she rushed to the safety of her bedroom. Crawling on top of the floral comforter, Lucy started from the beginning and began to drink in Grant’s words. It was difficult to understand, her brain fuzzy with the worry of being caught and the enormity of the letter’s first line. She read and reread, trying to hear Grant’s voice as he wrote down these words, his last words, to her.

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried again.

  Dear Lucy, the note began, if you are reading this note then I am probably gone. That sounds so dramatic. And also cliché. I tried to word it differently, but then it sounded really casual and stupid. Like: I hope you’re doing well and I wish I could’ve been there when you saw your family again. But you should know that I’m bad at writing letters. I’m not so bad at writing, per se. It’s just letters that I’m no good at. Because you are my only audience and I know that these are the last words I get with you and…well, it’s just so much pressure.

  Lucy stopped and stifled her tears. Her hands were shaking and they were turning wet with sweat. She clutched the letter tighter and closed her eyes, and wished for the strength to keep reading Grant’s words, even when those words told her a terrible and awful truth: Grant was gone.

  Your father isn’t at all like I pictured him. I thought he’d be more mad scientist-y with white frizzy hair and big plastic gloves up to his elbows laughing maniacally while lightning flashed around him. He’s just odd and kinda goofy. If it weren’t for the whole ‘killing the world thing’ I think I would like him. He’s been kind, if not distant. Sometimes I think he likes me and sometimes I think he’s just trying to make things easier since my time is short. Either way, he’s not so bad. I don’t know what’s been going on with you, but I can imagine that you’re probably all sorts of pissed at him. Don’t be.

  Lucy smiled. Leave it to Grant to find the best in her dad. She didn’t know if she could read any more.

  Look, I wanted to write you a letter mostly to tell you that I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend the apocalypse with than you.

  That’s a unique line—don’t get to use that every day.

  Of course, if I had a choice, I’d want to come back as a zombie in the zombie apocalypse with you…but clearly I was wrong about that whole thing, which is really a damn shame, because this whole cross-country story would have been FAR BETTER with zombies chasing us. Hiding in this damn hole in the ground would be better too if there were zombies outside trying to get in. But yeah, zombies.

  You’d be cooler if you liked zombies.

  No, I don’t mean to make it into a joke. I’m sorry. I’m bad at this.

  Your friendship has meant everything to me. So much so, that I wish you’d always been around. I could have used a friend like you when my mom died of cancer. Duhn-duhn-duhn. Big reveal. I know I never told you that—it’s hard to know when to bring it up with people. Especially in the face of so much loss, you know?

  The fact that Grant had been carrying around the memory of his mom, not talking about her or her death, during all the time that they were together made Lucy both upset and sad. He’d been so brave, she realized. So brave and so resilient.

  Cancer is this devastating thing. It rips you open. You have time to prepare for the death, but you’re never ready when it finally comes for the people you love. In some ways, I understand now what my mom must have been going through. It’s awful to know you’re going to die and know you can’t do anything to help the people you love work through it.

  After that though, it’s worse for everyone else. I’m gone. You’re still here, living, dealing with that.

  I know because I’ve been through it.

  I guess that’s what I really want to say. I want you to be sad. I mean, be a little sad. Give it a week. You can cry and bawl and be mad for three days. Four days, tops. Then…it’s okay. I’ve told you like a million times that I’m not afraid to die. I believe my mom is waiting for me. I know…insert Lucy crying here…but it’s true.

  Lucy laughed through her tears.

  She wiped her chin and smiled, then let her tears continue to fall.

  I’m in good company.

  But I’ll miss your company.

  That’s some good writing right there. I’m not trying to joke. You’re here, my mom is there—I don’t get to choose my fate, so I’ll embrace the one that was left for me.

  Please just know that I care about you, and of all the people left on the planet you’re the only one whose happiness matters to me. So be happy, Lula.

  Be happy for me.

  Then he had signed it. Complete with a crude cartoon of a mop-headed boy giving a thumbs-up.

  Your partner in crime and zombies. Grant.

  Lucy looked up. She had been so absorbed in Grant’s words that she hadn’t realized her father the water was off and her father was out of the shower. She folded the letter and started walking, pushing the paper against her leg as she walked. Flinging the door open, Lucy marched
into the open room and looked around. The bathroom door was open and her parents’ bedroom door was closed. Without a thought about her father’s potential level of undress, Lucy grabbed the handle and waltzed straight inside, slamming the door behind her.

  Scott King stood in his boxer shorts and a t-shirt, one leg balancing as he slipped on a pair of jeans.

  “Lucy, what are you doing?” Scott exclaimed and he stumbled backward toward the bed, hopping on one foot. He looked startled, but then when he saw her face, he looked confused.

  “Why?” Lucy seethed. “Why couldn’t you do the right thing for once in your life? You had the whole world…the whole world…and all I asked for was one boy. What was one more to you?”

  Her father dropped his pants to the floor and stepped out of them. Then he started to walk toward Lucy as she started to charge forward. She had never felt more full of rage. So murderous. As Scott put out his hands to embrace her, Lucy raised her fists and pounded his chest as hard as she could. He flinched, but did not retreat, and eventually he puffed out his chest in an attempt to absorb her blows.

  “Lucy, Lucy,” Scott repeated her name, calmly and firmly. “Stop. Sit. Stop!” He raised his voice and Lucy, breathless, sunk to the ground.

  “You killed him. You killed him! And you’re going to kill Ethan too? You’re nothing. You’re evil. I wish I’d never been born. That’s better than admitting that I’m your daughter.”

  Her words stung him. When she saw him flinch, she couldn’t help it—she wanted to keep going. Hurt upon hurt; she relished being able to tell him what she thought.

  “You’re a coward. And I hate you.”

  Her father wrapped his arms around her shoulders and tucked her into his chest. His arms were still damp from the shower, his skin warm. She tried to wriggle away, but he only increased his grip; still, Lucy struggled against him. Her tears dampened his shirt and she stomped her legs, hoping to catch his toes or his shins.

  “Lucy,” her father repeated. “Lucy. Stop.”

  When she wouldn’t calm herself, he raised his voice.

  “Stop!”

  “Why? Why do you have to be so horrible?” Lucy sobbed. “Why do you have to take away everything I love?”

  Her father killed Salem.

  Her father killed Grant.

  Her family was alive, but what did it matter?

  Lucy heard the bedroom door creak open and from the corner of her eye she saw her mother standing there holding two cloth grocery bags by the handles. Her eyes traveled between Scott and Lucy and then she set her bags on the floor and walked over to them, tugging Lucy by the arm.

  “I leave for twenty minutes and everything goes straight to hell,” Maxine muttered. She wedged herself between daughter and husband and went to move Lucy away, but Lucy would not be budged.

  “You were strong,” Lucy seethed. “You were my role model, my hero.” She looked straight at her mother.

  “Careful,” Maxine replied, her voice steeped in warning.

  “You’re nothing. You let him do this. You went along willingly.”

  Maxine raised her hand. “Enough,” she yelled in protest. But Lucy did not stop. She launched an even greater attack, screaming in hysterics until she saw her mother raise her hand and let her palm fly toward Lucy’s cheek.

  The sharp string of betrayal landed squarely on her face. Lucy was shocked into silence. She brought her hand up and placed it over her injury; tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over her hand and her other cheek—silently rolling down. But she did not say another word, or sniff, or dare to move.

  “The punishment for insubordination is the tank,” Maxine said calmly. “You’ve already been through that once before. Did you feel like once wasn’t quite enough? If you are so hungry to die, then I’d be happy to walk you down there myself.”

  “I don’t want to die,” Lucy mumbled after a period of silence. “No one else should die.”

  “Then learn to live. Here.” Maxine slid out from between Lucy and Scott, rubbing her right hand with her left. She then slipped the handles of the grocery bags onto her wrists and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

  When Lucy was certain her mother was no longer in hearing range, she turned to her father and lowered her eyes.

  “This is not a life,” she said.

  “It is the only life I can offer you,” Scott replied, and he sank downward, sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands.

  “I don’t want to be here.”

  “There is food here. Protection. An education. A hope for a better life. A plan for the future. My only other option was to let you die at the hands of a man who wanted to take that from us. Should I have let him?”

  Lucy was silent for a long time and then she thought of everything that had happened in the last few weeks, and she simply nodded. “It’s never the right thing,” she said to her father. “It was selfish.” The word popped out of her mouth before she had time to self-censor.

  Scott lowered his head. “It was selfish to want to save my family.” She was uncertain if he was asking her or tossing the statement out into the ether.

  “At the expense of everyone else?” Lucy nodded a reply to her own rhetorical question.

  “But you want to save Grant,” Scott answered and he raised his eyebrows. “What would you risk to accomplish that goal? What sacrifice would you make?”

  The tense was not lost on her. “Want to? As in, I still can?”

  He shook his head, “Lost on semantics. You’re missing the point. We do everything in our power to protect the people we love. The line between good and evil is not as black and white as you may think.” He raised his finger, but he looked defeated. “Especially when it comes to family. There are no rules.”

  That assertion defied everything she had been taught by her parents. They instructed her to be a good citizen and a good friend; to live according to the laws of the land. That there was a wrong thing to do and a right thing to do—things that hurt people were wrong things to do. Moral relativism was never part of their family creed and guidelines. While her father was a self-proclaimed atheist and her mother agnostic, she had been raised in one of the most moral, ethical, and responsible households: what’s wrong was always wrong, no matter what.

  She rubbed her cheek.

  “Dad—” she started, but she didn’t know what to say to him. There were no words. No greeting card canned sayings that helped her navigate these murky waters of their tenuous relationship.

  Scott looked up and his eyes were red. “Perhaps it’s time we go see Huck. You’ve missed it all. The explanations, the comfort. Huck will help you see…you are safe here.”

  “I never guessed you to be such a lemming, Dad.”

  Scott looked straight at her. “I’ve told you before that blind social behavior is not an actual trait of lemmings. It was manufactured, by a studio, for Hollywood effect. They flung those lemmings off the cliff to make it appear that they followed the first one. It’s false. A charade. There is an entire phrase, imbedded into the lexicon of our language that is a scientific lie. Perpetuating that belief by attributing my behavior to that animal is incorrect.” He tried to smile; tried to pass off his mini-lecture like a joke.

  Lucy wasn’t buying it.

  She raised her arms in disbelief. “Are you serious right now?”

  “Yes,” Scott answered quickly. “You see…think about the make-up of an animal whose instincts would instruct it to rather die than seek self-preservation…”

  With a sigh, Lucy hit her hand against her forehead. “Oh, Dad. How did you do this? You couldn’t have possibly known I was going to use the word lemming…but you’ve turned it around, to prove your point? You’re a mind ninja.”

  Under different circumstances, that might have been a compliment.

  This time Scott didn’t smile. “I’m serious. Monkeys, lemmings, ants. It doesn’t matter. All of our evolutionary instincts are to survive. And when humans are threate
ned we also naturally digress to that innate foundation as well…”

  “Dad—” Lucy couldn’t handle it anymore.

  “I’ve always taught my kids how to be critical thinkers.”

  “And yet we’re living in an underground apartment building,” she exploded. “With blind allegiance to some crazy old dude? Dad! You and Mom told me once that you didn’t want me to attend church with Salem because their religion was based upon a crazy, narrow belief system.” She paused and searched her father’s face for clues that he knew what she was going to say next. “And here we are.” She motioned around the room.

  “Huck could answer some of these things. He’s—”

  “If you tell me you did this because you thought it would save our lives, fine. But if you tell me you believe him, this…everything?” Lucy couldn’t even finish her thought; the idea that her father could get caught up in some cultish organization was so unbelievable she was afraid that hearing him admit it would cause her to shrivel up and no longer exist. More than anything she had seen or heard, that fact, alone, would unravel everything she had ever believed. It was too much.

  “There’s so much more to this than you could possibly understand,” Scott finally answered—it was a lazy move by a cowardly parent: expressing that she couldn’t understand and so therefore didn’t deserve answers. He had always been better than that. Always.

  “I want to see Grant,” Lucy stated and put her hands on her hips. “Please?”

  With a deep sigh, Scott looked at his oldest daughter and then scratched at the stubble on his chin. “You can’t.”

  “I have to.”

  “No.”

  “His letter says he’s dead. Is he dead?”

  “I can’t answer that—”

  She took a defiant step closer. “You owe me an answer. You owe me that much.”

  “Lucy…” Scott closed his eyes. “Grant is gone. Grant is gone and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  She hadn’t moved in over an hour. Her mother put away the food items—collections of grains and fruits that Maxine planned to use for a special family dinner—in the small cupboards and stepped over Lucy’s body on her way to make beds in the two bedrooms. It was like Lucy didn’t exist. She didn’t have any energy to cry or fight; instead she just stayed on the floor and hoped someone would kill her.