Sophie Littlefield - Aftertime

Bess had undoubtedly given up her dog in exchange for safety; everyone did. Some of the most hard-core people thought that all animals brought to the library ought to be relinquished for food, but in that regard Bobby showed one of his infrequent moments of public compassion. He himself would offer to take the pet to the edge of town, where dogs could join the feral pack sometimes seen scavenging there, and cats could climb the shredded bark of dead eucalyptus.

“Were you married…? I mean, were you living alone during the Siege?” Cass asked, fascinated.

“No, luckily my last wife took on out of here a couple of years ago, back when you could still buy a bag of flour for under ten bucks. Better for her, I imagine. She hooked up with this guy from Sacramento, had a boat dealership up that way, I expect he was able to set her up pretty well, maybe take care of her during…everything. Hope so, anyway.”

For the first time a troubled look crossed his face, a flicker of sadness. “I was fond of that one,” he added softly.

Smoke shook his head, smiling. “Well, my hat’s off to you, keeping yourself busy. I can think of worse ways to spend the apocalypse.”

“This ain’t the apocalypse, buddy, we already done lived through that,” Lyle exclaimed, smacking Smoke on the shoulder and bellowing out a laugh. “We’re the survivors, man. You got to remember that. Don’t know how much longer we’ll be around, but every day I walk outside and I give those hell-creatures a big fuck you and I figure I’m still ahead.”

“You know what some people say,” Smoke said, his voice oddly hollow. “Stamp out the blueleaf, we can end this in one generation. I haven’t seen any sign of it since late June. It can’t survive the heat.”

“ I’ve seen it,” Cass said. “Not nearly as much as…before, and it’s kind of dry and there’s dead leaves on the plants, but it’s out there.”

Smoke stared at her, his brows knit, his expression opaque. It was almost as though he was trying to decide if she was lying.

“If it’s out there, it won’t be for long,” he finally said. “They were invented in a lab. Kaysev’s thriving, blueleaf isn’t-what that says to me is the blueleaf’s not going to stand up to evolution.”

“Careful, friend,” Lyle said gently. “You’re back into theories now, and ain’t any knowing when it comes to theories. You’ll drive yourself crazy, you go down that path.”

“All I’m saying is, you make shit in laboratories, it’s probably pretty easy to get it wrong. People aren’t God.”

“Or else the blueleaf will develop a resistance,” Cass said. She didn’t like the edge in Smoke’s voice. It made him seem more vulnerable. “Evolve into a new strain, a stronger one. A super-blueleaf.”

“Super-blueleaf?” Smoke repeated, his voice laced with sarcasm. “That a technical term?”

Cass pressed her lips together, stung. This was a side of Smoke she hadn’t seen before, an unkind side.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I’m sorry, Cass, I didn’t mean that. I just…I don’t know, I didn’t think first.”

Cass waited only a second before she nodded, biting her lip. Maybe he was right, maybe the blueleaf was already dying out.

Blue Means Trouble . That was the frantic cry that went up around town, even before anyone understood the full horror of the disease. In the first weeks after the smaller, blue-tinged plants appeared among the sturdier kaysev, a quarter of the town’s remaining population died, dark bile bubbling at their lips as they went into convulsions. The old and sick and very young had to be buried in trenches; the last of the fuel that hadn’t already been raided went to powering the earth-moving equipment, and nearly every healthy young person helped out with the task.

Then they found out what else the blue leaves did to you.

Blue Means Trouble . The children who survived learned to run screaming for an adult when they saw the distinctive leaves with their slightly feathered edges; the adults learned to gather and burn the plants. The blueleaf strain was susceptible to the sun and heat, unlike its stronger cousin; by late May it had begun to die off on its own, unable to tolerate the Sierra summer climate.

“You’re right,” Lyle nodded. “Nobody’s seen a one of them things since summer ’round here. But how do we know they’re not thriving up north? Even if it can’t root down south now, what’s to prevent it from adapting, like Cass here says? The government’s been up to some crazy shit-you can’t tell me kaysev’s not a whole new branch of botany or whatever the fuck science it is. You can make a plant like that, you can make a fucking variation for every climate.”

“But nobody would-no sane person would eat the blueleaf now,” Cass protested. She was something of an expert on self-destruction, and in A.A. she’d seen just about every variety of desperation, but surely no one would choose the Beater’s fate on purpose.

Lyle shrugged. “That’s not the only way it’s spread.”

“Anyone who’s attacked now ends up dead in forty-eight hours,” Smoke said, almost angrily. “It’s not like early days.”

Early days, when the Beaters would occasionally attack their quarry in the streets, they could be overpowered-shot or cut or bludgeoned, if not to death at least into submission-and the victims brought home with a few bites, only to start to go feverish hours later. Soon the Beaters changed their tactics and started carrying their victims back to their nests.

“You’re sure about that?” Lyle asked. “What if they get close, but you get away? Maybe you got a scratch or two, but you think you’re okay. You going to be willing to wait and wonder?”

“It’s only spread through saliva,” Smoke said. “A scratch can’t hurt you. And their blood can’t infect you.”

“You gonna stake your life on it? Only, it wouldn’t be your life, now would it…it’s everyone who gets left behind. Lemme show you something.”

He dug into his pocket and showed them his open palm, on which they could see a small brown pill. “Potassium cyanide,” he said matter-of-factly. “Got it from a buddy of mine was in the service, he picked ’em up overseas somewhere. Gave one to Travers across the street. If the Beaters get too close to me someday, I’ll pop this sucker-I’ll be out of my mind before those fuckers get their teeth in me, dead quick enough to spoil their party.”

“That’s noble, I guess,” Smoke said, in a tone that clearly said otherwise.

“Hey, I never claimed to have all the answers,” Lyle said, holding up his hands in surrender. “But if there’s even a chance I could end up being a carrier or something, if there’s Beater blood messing up my DNA, I’d rather be dead than accidentally spit on someone. I mean, I’ve heard the same things you have. About the spit being the only way. But let me ask you something, how exactly can anyone be sure since there hasn’t been any research done since long before the first Beater took its first bite?”

No one spoke for a moment, and then Lyle dropped his hands and gave a crooked smile. “Aw, don’t listen to me. I’m just a dumbass making the best of it out here in the trenches. I didn’t mean to pick any fights, either. Truth is, I’m glad for the company. Don’t know about you, but I believe I’ll turn in for a while. I hardly ever sleep a night through anymore, but I get a few hours now, then a few hours in the afternoon… Anyway, let me show you where you can bunk up.”

He was already on his feet, closing the cover on his stash and setting the Tupperware box on a shelf next to a box marked Christmas Decorations.

What he’d said… Cass reeled from the horror of the possibility that she carried within her the seeds of the disease, that she could infect others. But she would know, her body would tell her. She had become a scholar of her own body, fine-tuned to its needs, the cycle of craving and release and addiction and recovery. She knew exactly when her period was coming, when a tendril of pain would bloom into a full-blown headache, when a twinge signaled a simple muscle pull and when it was something more serious.