Dustin Thomason: 12.21

Stanton made his way into the living area of the tent, put on dry clothes, cracked a Cerveza Sol, pulled out his laptop, and logged on to the satellite Internet service. He quickly skimmed hundreds of emails. There was an update from Monster: Until the Freak Show was reopened, the menagerie of two-headed animals he and the Electric Lady had rounded up from all corners of the Walk were living with them in Stanton’s condo.

Continuing to sift through emails, Stanton found the latest from Nina—a picture of Dogma on Plan A , somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico. She too was inundated with interview requests, whenever she came to shore. She just laughed and said she had better things to do than lionize her former husband. She sent a picture every week from wherever she and the dog went.

“Are you on the computer again ? Haven’t you heard? Technology’s dead. Timewave Zero and all that.”

Stanton turned toward the sound of the mellifluous English accent. Alan Davies was removing his safari jacket. He laid it carefully across a chair, treating the garment as if it were the one Stanley had worn when he found Livingston. His white shirt underneath was soaked with sweat, his hair frizzed. The Englishman hadn’t taken well to the humidity, something he reminded Stanton of daily.

“Can’t believe you’re drinking that pathetic substitute for a beer,” Davies said, settling into a chair. “What I wouldn’t do for a pint of Adnams Broadside.”

“London’s just a fifty-hour drive through the jungle and four planes away.”

“You wouldn’t survive a day out here without me.”

As Davies opened a bottle of wine and poured himself a glass, Stanton dashed off a quick response to Nina, then glanced at the wires and the news sites. Every day now—six months out—the same stories about the disease were recycled, with only tiny details changed, and there was rarely anything of interest. But when he got to the Los Angeles Times website, something stopped him cold. “Holy shit.”

“What?” Davies said.

Stanton hit print on the computer screen, stood up, and grabbed the article off the tray. “Did you see this?”

Davies scanned it. “Does she know?”

THE GUATEMALANS HAD bulldozed a path back to the major roads so they could ship supplies in and out by truck. In a health department Land Rover, Stanton reached the entrance, which was manned by the security detail now watching the entire perimeter of Kanuataba. Once they let him by, he found himself in the middle of the circus that the surrounding area had become.

Hundreds of people were camped out in tents, trucks, and motor homes just beyond the border. Early on they’d been able to keep the location of Kanuataba a secret, but now dozens of news trucks were parked along the side of the road, and helicopters circled constantly, taking aerial shots of the city and broadcasting them all over the world. It wasn’t only journalists who’d come down here; the area had become a kind of religious outpost in the post-2012 age. Even though the Believers couldn’t get inside the ruins, Kanuataba was slowly becoming their Mecca.

Stanton passed the sea of tents where men, women, and children of all colors and ages and nationalities now lived, bound by their strange, heterogeneous faith. That the world hadn’t been completely destroyed hadn’t hurt their cause at all.

Indeed, the events leading up to 12/21 and the discovery of the cure here had ignited a fervor for all things Maya. More than a third of people in the Americas said they believed that a prion outbreak happening at the time of the calendar turn wasn’t coincidence. In L.A., thousands attended Fraternidad meetings, and vegetarianism, Ludditism, and “spiritual Mayanism” gathered more and more followers, especially in the communities to which city-dwellers had fled. They argued that prions—from VFI to mad cow—were the ultimate result of manipulating life in ways that nature never intended.

Two hours later, Stanton made it to Kiaqix. So much of the village had been destroyed, and, along with its connection to the outbreak and patient zero, that meant very few gawkers were inclined to make the trek. A dedicated group of NGOs and villagers who’d escaped the plague were rebuilding here, with the help of foreign donations flowing in from around the world. But, as with everything in the jungle, it was a slow and painstaking process.

Like the hospitals in Los Angeles, the old medical clinic had been leveled, by a team sent from the States, and a new temporary one constructed in its place. Stanton parked the Land Rover and headed inside, waving at now familiar faces. Some were members of Fraternidad who’d volunteered to come down and help rebuild. In all there were almost four hundred people living in the village now, and everyone had taken on a role in the reconstruction.

In the pediatric area in back of the clinic, Stanton found Initia tending to the babies orphaned by the outbreak. Most were in hammocks, and a few others were in tiny cribs constructed out of small pieces of wood and thatch.

“ Jasmächá, Initia ,” Stanton said.

“Hello, Gabe,” she replied.

Stanton quickly checked the babies’ eyes. Even the youngest were now six months, which meant their optic nerves would be fully developed soon, and he was vigilantly watching them for any signs of Thane’s disease.

“Welcome back, Doctor.”

Stanton turned. Ha’ana Manu stood in the entryway, carrying the eight-month-old they had named Rolando, who was screaming in her arms.

“Are you ever going to call me Gabe?”

“You went to medical school for four years to be called Gabe?”

CHEL CROUCHED BENEATH the A-frame of a new structure in the eastern housing group with four other Fraternidad members, preparing to lift another tree trunk upright. Before she could start counting, she heard a whimper.

“Hold on,” she told them. She hurried over to the small bassinet hidden in the shade beneath a nearby cedar tree. Volcy’s daughter, Sama, now almost seven months, lay inside with her eyes wide open and alert.

“Chel, look what I found.”

She turned back to see her mother standing with Gabe.

For weeks, Ha’ana had continued to deny she’d written the prison letters or that she’d ever been a revolutionary. Even now she clung to the story that she and Chel’s father had written the letters together. Still, Chel considered it a victory when she’d convinced Ha’ana to come down to Kiaqix with her for the first time in more than thirty years. Ha’ana claimed she had every intention of returning to America soon and complained about not having TV or a proper stove. But Chel knew her mother would stay as long as she did.

Stanton walked over and kissed Chel. They’d been finding excuses to visit once or twice a week since January, and it hadn’t been long before they started talking about their future. They’d been cleared of wrongdoing by their respective institutions, and had both been invited to keynote at symposiums all over the world and offered faculty positions at various universities.

The fact that they’d gone to Guatemala on their own and found the cure for Thane’s disease had shaken up the CDC; Director Kanuth had resigned his post. Cavanagh was the heir apparent, but rumors circulated that the president intended to offer it to Stanton. He wouldn’t accept, and Chel knew she was a big part of why. She wasn’t leaving here anytime soon, and if they did eventually return to the States, it would be together.

Stanton reached into the bassinet to offer Sama a finger, and the little girl lit up. Chel almost never let her out of her sight. She and Stanton had spent many nights in her wood-and-thatch house, feeding the baby bits of tortilla beside the hearth, until she fell asleep, after which they’d taken full advantage of their privacy.