When Clare and Jem got closer, Clare noticed that there was something bizarre about the picture. Sarai wore a dress that reached to her calves, a pair of hiking boots and a sequined T-shirt. Mirri had on jeans, but over them she wore a frilly pink tutu. Both were crowned with tiaras.
“They like to dress up,” said Jem. “But I figure there aren’t any more fashion guidelines. I never understood what those guidelines were about, anyway.”
“They were mostly about who was in and who was out,” said Clare. “And we’re all in now. Or out. I don’t know.”
Clare thought about what it must be like to take care of two people. She realized that she could barely take care of herself, although Bear had shaken her out of her lethargy. Yet Jem, at thirteen, had taken on these little girls. Sarai’s dark hair was drawn back carefully into a braid, and her brown skin glowed against her pale shirt. Mirri jumped off the swing, her shaggy badly cut hair gleaming red-gold in the light. She was certainly cleaner than Clare.
The instant the girls saw Jem and Clare, they stopped playing.
“Jem?” Sarai asked. “Is she okay?”
“Yes.”
“Her Pest rash isn’t very bright,” said Sarai, and Clare pulled Michael’s jacket close around her again.
“I like my Pest rash,” said Mirri. “It’s kind of pretty. I’ve decided it’s shaped like a fish. She looks old.”
“I’m fifteen,” Clare told them.
“This is Clare Bodine,” said Jem. “She was at school with me. She’s a cheerleader.”
Clare felt herself blush.
“You don’t need to be embarrassed,” said Mirri. “I want to be a cheerleader when I grow up. Now I’m just a little kid.”
“You’ll be a kid for ages, Mirri,” said Sarai. “I’ll be a teenager a long time before you are.”
“You won’t be a teenager for years,” said Mirri. “And by then Clare here will be grownup. If kids can live to be grownups.”
“That’s enough, Mirri,” said Jem.
“It’s okay,” said Clare.
“I didn’t mean to say you were going to be a grownup soon,” said Mirri to Clare. “It’s not as if you were sixteen. Fifteen isn’t so much.”
Jem sat on the curb near the swings. Mirri launched herself from the swing again and landed on her feet.
“I don’t know how she does that,” said Sarai admiringly. She and Mirri joined Jem on the curb. The four of them sat with their feet in the dusty street as the empty swings moved back and forth in the breeze. Jem idly started throwing pebbles and soon Mirri was doing it too. Sarai watched them intently.
“You’re the first people I’ve seen since my parents died,” said Clare. They all looked out at the silent town. The unkempt buildings loomed over the dusty street and here or there a door hung open or a sign had become detached from its moorings. Lawns were unmown and towering weeds were going to seed in a small graveyard next to the church. Grass was beginning to sprout up in the fissures in the street. Clare found herself thinking that wherever humans had left so much as a crevice, nature invaded.
In front of some of the houses, yellowed newspapers were piled in a heap. One door had a partial red ‘X’ on it, as if someone had made an effort to impose quarantine and then given up. Farther down the street was what looked like a small heap of clothes. Clare hoped it wasn’t another body.
“Did you see the TV spot that the grownup made at the end?” asked Clare.
“I heard about it,” said Jem.
“He said he had a cure,” said Clare.
“Well,” said Jem. “We’ve seen how cures work out.” He turned and looked at her and then looked more closely. She knew it was her eyes. She moved uncomfortably.
“What if he was telling the truth?” she asked.
“I want to hope so,” said Jem. “If there’s no kind of cure at all, Pest will pick us off one by one as we get older. ”
Clare pictured the emptied world. Everything would go eventually. The Golden Gate Bridge and the Eiffel Tower would join the pyramids and the Coliseum in the steady march towards ruin.
“There doesn’t seem to be much point in anything,” said Clare. “If this really is the end of the world.”
Jem considered her words.
“There would be a point to a lot more things,” he said, “if we could grow up.”
“Maybe we’ll make it.”
“I wouldn’t put any bets on turning twenty. Pest’ll come.”
“What about sixteen? Do you think I have a chance?”
Jem didn’t automatically reassure her or tell her not to worry about it or promise to take care of her. She liked him for that. He said,
“I don’t know.”
As they sat on the curb in the rich evening light, their stories began to come.
“I knew Sarai before Pest,” said Jem. “Our families were friends.”
Sarai took up the story.
“Our families were close,” she said. “Even though they were really different.” When it was clear that Sarai and Jem weren’t getting sick, their families moved in together so that the children could care for them more easily. The Cure had not yet been available.
“Thank goodness,” said Sarai. “Because some of them might have become Cureds. Our own families.”
Mirri threw a pebble into the street.
“I don’t like this story,” she said. Sarai put a hand on her shoulder.
“Moving in together seemed like the best plan,” said Jem. “We couldn’t know what would happen. That they would all die. Our parents. Our brothers and sisters.”
“We didn’t know anything that bad could happen,” said Sarai.
When the house was finally silent, Jem told Clare, when all the others were dead, they had waited listlessly for Children’s Services to arrive. But nobody came. Like Clare, after a while Jem and Sarai realized that there was no ‘they’ anymore. Jem and Sarai had stuffed two packs and two sets of bicycle saddlebags with clothes and supplies.
“But the most useful thing we brought is a can-opener,” Sarai said. “And we almost forgot to bring that.”
Then they had loaded their bicycles and slowly made their way out of the city and into the hills.
“We didn’t see any other children,” said Jem. “And we only saw one Cured. He was smashing every plate-glass window in a street of stores. He didn’t notice us, and we just slipped by.”
Clare listened with a kind of envy: these children had made plans. If her parents had died in the city, she might have been helpless. But Jem had taken charge. And Jem was only thirteen.
“We had to get out of there,” Jem said. “It was only a matter of time before other diseases broke out. With all those bodies lying around.”
Clare could feel Mirri getting restive as the story went on. Finally she broke in.
“I’m going to look in the store for some Pretty Ponies,” she said. “I only have two Pretty Ponies, and they’re both at the house.”
Jem waited until Mirri was out of earshot.
“Her story is hard,” he said.
“Tell it,” said Sarai. “But before she gets back.”
“Sarai and I found Mirri,” said Jem. “She didn’t talk much then.”
Mirri’s mother had come down with Pest first. She had gone to the hospital and never come back. Mirri’s father bolted the door against the pandemic, but Pest found the rest of them anyway. By the third day, Mirri found herself locked in with her father’s body and that of her older sister. Mirri’s sister didn’t have delayed onset Pest; she died of the disease in three long days, thus doing what Mirri found unthinkable and unforgiveable—she left Mirri behind. By the time Jem and Sarai found Mirri, she had become too afraid to face the outside world. She preferred the reek of decay. She told them, through the closed window, that she was waiting for her turn to go dead.
Jem had forced the door with his hammer. Mirri was dehydrated. She stank. They cleaned her up and took her with them.
“And here we are,” Sarai said. “What about you?”
But before Clare could begin, Mirri came running across the playground from the store, yelling. Jem looked alarmed and started up from the curb, but it was soon clear she was happy about something.
“Look what I found!” Mirri held up her arms. “I found these in the back of the store.” She had a Pretty Pony in each hand.
The three of them settled down around Clare. Mirri clutched the Pretty Ponies. Her eyes were on Clare’s face.
“Your eyes—” she started to say.
“Shush,” said Jem. “Clare’s going to tell her story.”
“My mother was a painter,” said Clare. She moved uneasily on the curb. She found it hard to talk about her mother. “But she died and my father married Marie, who’s an interior decorator. Who was an interior decorator.”
“What’s an ‘interior decorator’?” asked Mirri.
“Someone who decorates the inside of things, idgit,” said Sarai.
“My father wrote books,” Clare continued. “He won awards and stuff. The best book was called Bridge Out Ahead.”
“I’ve read that,” said Jem. “The end of it just about killed me.”
“Happy stories just stop in the middle,” said Clare. “That’s what he used to say.”
She told them about Michael, which didn’t hold Mirri and Sarai’s attention, although Jem listened carefully. Then she told them about Bear. Finally Clare told them about leaving Robin behind, and she felt grief well up inside her.
They did their best to comfort her, huddling close.
“My mother was a doctor, and my father was a sociologist,” said Jem. “If my father had lived, I bet he would have studied everybody’s reaction to Pest.”
“There’s nobody left to study,” said Sarai.
“There’s us,” said Mirri.
Sarai’s father had worked long hours at his grocery store, and her mother made Indian sweets for a bakery. Sarai’s grandparents had all come from India.
“My mother had black hair that went down to her knees,” said Sarai. “Really. Sometimes she would wear a sari.”
Mirri’s father was a fireman, according to Jem, but Mirri corrected him.
“A fire fighter,” she said. “That’s what he did. He fought fires. My mom took care of me and my sister, Liz.” Mirri grew thoughtful; she let her Pretty Ponies fall into the dirt.
“You’re with us now,” said Jem. And he picked up the Pretty Ponies, dusted them off and made them gallop on the curb. By and by, Mirri took the ponies from him and started brushing her fingers through their pink and green polyester manes.
“I miss Liz,” she said. Then she peered into Clare’s face.
“Your eyes are very blue,” she said factually. “That’s what I was going to say when Jem shushed me.”
Bear chose that moment to arrive. He bounded to Clare’s side and then paused, as if waiting for instructions. She had a strong and uneasy feeling that he would have cheerfully torn the others’ throats out if she had asked him to.
Jem, reacting to Bear’s sudden appearance, pulled Mirri to her feet and gave her a push. Sarai was already running for the swings, and when she got there, she stood up on one of them. Mirri joined her. Only Jem didn’t move.
“It’s all right, Bear,” said Clare. “Sit down. Now.” He sat immediately, yellow eyes fixed on her. Bear’s muzzle was tacky with blood, and some of it came off on Clare’s arm as she scratched his ears.
Jem didn’t move away but gently reached out his hand. Bear sniffed Jem and then, after a look at Clare, nuzzled his hand, leaving a smear of blood on his palm. Mirri, on the swing, began laughing, and Clare recognized the laughter of relief. Mirri pumped the swing up higher and higher and then leapt through the air, landing lightly on her feet.
“We’re alive!” she cried. She threw her arms up in the air, as if she were a winning athlete. As if she’d won Olympic gold.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BONDS
THEY FINISHED SCAVENGING and sorted through the food that was left in the general store. Jem seemed uneasy and, every now and then, he stood and scanned the area.
“What are you looking for?” asked Clare.
“Cureds,” said Jem. “They’ve had time to make their way here from the city; I don’t want to be taken by surprise.”
They divided up the supplies with Jem making sure that Clare got her share. Clare, for her part, found herself wondering what Michael would think if he saw her now, scrabbling for whatever food she could get, her long hair tangled into a rat’s nest.
Jem put some last things into her little wagon: a small sack of flour (“it has weevils,” he warned), some cans of soup, some withered potatoes. The wind had picked up, and fallen leaves danced in the street. After Jem helped Clare with her wagon, he showed her how to attach a tent and a sleeping bag to a backpack.
“I didn’t think of you as the outdoors type,” said Clare. “You know—chess club.”
“My lore of the wilderness is mostly theory, not practice,” said Jem. “And I watched one of my brothers. That helped.”
Clare suddenly felt Bear come to attention by her side, and she realized something was wrong. There was a noise on the wind.
It was a peculiar sound, the sound of something being dragged through sand. It started and stopped. Clare reached for her heavy flashlight. At the edge of the playground, she saw the misshapen form of an adult. He was half naked. They heard a low moaning.
Sarai was incredulous. “I thought they were all dead.”
“They are,” said Jem. “It’s a Cured. Don’t move.”
“He’s already seen us,” said Mirri.
The man began to make his way closer to them, and Clare could see the weeping sores on his face, the redness of the pustules on his neck.
The Cured looked up at them, his eyes almost closed by swollen tissue.
“It’s horrible,” said Mirri. “It’s a thing.”
“We have to get out of here,” said Jem. “We need to get the supplies out too. If we can.”
They hoisted their packs to their backs and pulled the wagons into the street. The Cured moved restlessly, and Clare saw something in his hand.
“He has a knife,” she said.
“Leave the stuff,” said Jem. “Let’s get out of here.”
But before they could move, the man was running. He was fast, and the distance was not great. Even so, Clare thought that she would have been able to outrun him—but Mirri and Sarai wouldn’t have been able to keep up. And maybe Jem wouldn’t have been able to either.
Jem grabbed Mirri and pushed her behind him, but Sarai was still out in front. There was no time to think, no time for Clare or Jem or even Bear to reach Sarai, no time to do anything but watch in horror as the Cured crashed into her and brought her down.
Clare saw the gleam of the knife as the man pushed it into Sarai’s side.
“No,” said Jem. “No.”
Mirri slipped out from behind Jem and ran to Sarai.
“No,” cried Jem again, but Mirri was already kneeling by Sarai.
The man yanked Mirri to her feet and held his knife to her throat. Sarai, at his feet, gave a thin cry.
At least, Clare thought, Sarai’s alive.
A trail of blood began to trickle down Mirri’s neck, and Clare had the weird feeling that she had seen this before. Déjà vu.
The Cured howled at them.
Clare looked down at Sarai and saw blood pulsing out of her side and opening out onto the dirt like a dark poppy.
Jem and Clare didn’t dare move. Clare whispered “down” to Bear, but she could feel his desire to leap at the Cured. If only she could let him. If only the knife weren’t at Mirri’s throat.
“He’s going to cut me,” said Mirri softly. “I can tell.”
The man spoke, and his voice was a croak, a rasp, a strangle of sound. Clare could barely make out the words.
“I’m going to kill her. I am. Going to.”
And Clare knew that, knife or no knife, it was up to her and Bear, or it was over for Mirri and Sarai. Clare, without knowing precisely what she was doing, touched the dog. Bear stood and shook himself. She sent a command to him, and, as she felt Bear’s response, she thought that this felt right. This was how it was supposed to be.
For one moment, Bear looked up at her with his strange yellow eyes. Then he leapt at the man, the knife, Mirri.
Clare would never be entirely sure of what happened next, but, in a moment, Mirri was free, and Bear and the man were tumbling over and over. Clare looked for the gleam of the knife, but she couldn’t see it. Bear’s mouth was closing over the man’s throat. Then Clare stopped watching.
Bear loped back to Clare. There was no question that the man was dead.
Jem rushed to Sarai’s side. Mirri stood weeping, and Clare walked over and put her arms around her. Faint moans came from Sarai, and, as Clare held Mirri close, she looked at the rich deep stain marking the earth.
Then the moaning stopped.
Clare was engulfed with misery and surprised at its depth. She hadn’t thought she could feel much of anything anymore. There had been so much death.
Jem, who had been blocking Clare’s view of Sarai, sat back. Clare could see that he was holding the wound in Sarai’s side closed. The blood stopped flowing quite so freely, and Sarai stirred. Mirri ran to her, and knelt in the dirt beside her friend.
“I thought she was dead,” said Clare.
“She’s not going to die,” said Jem. “I need a needle and thread, alcohol and some matches.”
“I’m on it,” said Clare. She and Bear ran towards the store; behind her she could hear Jem soothing Sarai.
“You need to stay down,” he said. “You’re not going to die.”
“I don’t feel that good,” said Sarai.
“You’re going to be all right.”
When Clare got back, Sarai was unconscious.
“She lost a lot of blood,” said Jem, “before I could get pressure on the wound.”
Clare looked down at Jem, who was pale and dirty, but who flushed under her gaze, even though she said nothing.
He sterilized the needle with the matches and the thread with rubbing alcohol from the pharmacy. As Clare watched, Jem sewed Sarai up quickly, before she regained consciousness.
The Garden of Darkness Page 5
