Нэнси Кресс - The End Is Now

Ray took the framed envelope down, studied the return address, neatly written in Anderson’s beautiful, looping cursive. She was divorced, estranged from her only child. She could be alone right now, just like Ray. Her house was a thirty minute drive, in the direction of the bay, opposite the refugees fleeing the city, passing the virus between them.

Ray imagined Helen Anderson opening her door.

I’m your biggest fan, he’d say to her. Is there anything I can do to help you?

Right. Great plan.

But just imagining meeting Helen Anderson lifted the black cloud, the despair, if only slightly. What was the worst that could happen? She would say she was fine and thank him for his concern.

Ray already regretted his grand proclamation. He should have let Eileen pack up and leave.

He touched the glass over the spot where Helen Anderson had written her address. He knew she still lived there. He’d confirmed it on the county tax assessor website a dozen times over the years, each time he dreamed of driving over there on some pretext to meet her before talking himself out of it.

It was a crazy idea; Don Quixote on steroids. But chances were he was going to die very soon. Why not seize the day? Why not do something a little crazy?

Ray paused outside his car, considered going to the garage to say goodbye to Eileen. He might never see her again. They might both be dead in a week.

Then he remembered the look on her face, when he said he would leave. Masked joy and relief.

He climbed in, yanked the door shut.

Half a block from his house, Ray slowed.

A woman was lying on the sidewalk, twitching.

Until now it had all been on TV. This woman, lying right outside his car, made it real. Ray’s every instinct screamed that he had to stop and help her. Her forehead was bleeding where she’d hit it on the pavement. Her head was jerking up and down, her eyes round with terror.

If he touched her, he would die too. The symptoms wouldn’t show up for a week, but he’d be infected immediately.

Around the corner he passed a wreck—an SUV wrapped around a light pole. The driver was nodding so violently her chin was bleeding where it rubbed the airbag that pinned her to her seat. In the back, two toddlers strapped in child seats nodded in unison.

Ray’s chest hitched; he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the SUV. It was too much—he didn’t want to see any more pain, any more clear, terrified eyes.

He was surprised to see Walter and Lauren sitting on their front porch. He rolled down the passenger window.

Walter raised a hand in greeting. Lauren, sitting in the rocker beside him, was nodding wildly.

“Oh, shit,” Ray said. He raised his voice. “Oh God, Walter, I’m so sorry.”

Walter looked down at his lap. “It started an hour ago.” He touched her shoulder. “I brought her outside. She’d rather see grass and sky than four walls.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Ray asked.

Walter shook his head. “I’m just waiting for it to take me. I kissed Lauren on the mouth to make sure.”

Ray wasn’t sure how to respond. In a way he envied Walter. At least he and Lauren were going to die together.

“We’ve had a good life,” Walter called from the porch. “Please give Eileen my love, and Lauren’s love, too.”

“Eileen left me,” Ray blurted. “Or maybe I’m leaving her. She was having an affair.”

Walter’s head drooped. “I’m so sorry.”

A lump rose in Ray’s throat; this time he couldn’t stop the tears. “Thank you. You’ve been a good friend.” Then he remembered Lauren could see and hear everything. “You too, Lauren. I’m sorry.”

Lauren went on nodding. Soon the nodding would stop, and she’d be still.

Walter raised his hand in farewell. Ray couldn’t believe this was probably the last time he’d ever see Walter. No more listening to the Dodgers in Walter’s backyard; no more drives to the Green Leaf for a beer. Despite being thirty years older than Ray, Walter was still his best friend—the best friend he’d ever had.

Wilshire was chaos. The sidewalks were crowded with people humping backpacks, their mouths covered by surgical masks, gas masks, scarves, scuba gear. Each minute it seemed they had more victims to step over. The road was littered with standing vehicles, their drivers frozen at the wheel, heads nodding. Ray tried not to look at them as he weaved around. There was nothing he could do, he kept reminding himself. There was no cure, no treatment, no room in hospitals.

South Doherty was completely blocked. Ray pulled onto the sidewalk and inched through the crowd until he reached the intersecting street.

The traffic lightened as he hit the winding residential roads of Beverly Hills, where mansions were set back from the road on huge shady lots. He wanted to turn the radio off, because the news made his heart hammer and turned his mouth to cotton, but he had to stay informed.

Communications were down on the East Coast. States in the Mountain West were the only ones spared the plague so far. They were shooting refugees who tried to enter.

Ray pulled onto Cardiff Drive, glanced at the envelope in the passenger seat to confirm that he was looking for eleven fifty-seven Cardiff. He slowed in front of Helen Anderson’s house. It was smaller than the others, with sloping roofs and an alpine feel to it. Two big trees blocked much of the front, and the gardens and shrubbery around it were lush to the point of being overgrown. Wondering what the hell he was doing, Ray turned in and rode up the long driveway.

He took a few whooshing breaths at her front door, shifted from foot to foot. Finally he reached up and rang the doorbell.

It occurred to him that it might not be Helen Anderson who answered. As far as he knew she wasn’t seeing anyone. (And if anyone would know such a thing, it was Ray, because he read everything he could find about her online.) But what if a friend, or a housekeeper answered?

A lock clattered; the door opened six inches until a chain inside snapped taut. Helen Anderson’s face appeared in the crack. She was barely as tall as his shoulder. He’d known she was five-four, but somehow hadn’t realized how small that was.

“Yes?” Her hair was short and unkempt. She was wearing no makeup. She was beautiful, her eyes the light gray of misty mountaintops.

“Miss Anderson, my name is Ray Parrot.” His tongue clicked off the roof of his dry mouth. “I—” Suddenly the words he’d rehearsed seemed foolish. I’m your biggest fan? He couldn’t say that. “I’ve come to see if you need help.”

Helen Anderson tilted her head. “Do I know you?”

“No—I’m an admirer of your work.”

Helen Anderson gently closed the door. Ray waited, hoping to hear the chain rattle so she could open it further. Instead, he heard receding footsteps.

He waited a few minutes, then headed down the steps, his face burning. He felt like such an idiot. Had he really thought Helen Anderson was going to swing her door open to a complete stranger, maybe invite him in for tea?

“Excuse me?”

Ray turned. Helen Anderson was on her stoop in a blue sweater and jeans.

“Yes?” He took a step toward her, paused. “I’m sorry. It was rude of me to show up on your doorstep like this.”

“No, I’m the rude one. As usual. I don’t need any help, but, thank you for asking. That was kind of you.”

Ray nodded. “You’re going to ride it out in your home?”

Helen smiled. It was not her dazzling Batgirl smile, but the saddest, most heartbreaking smile he’d ever seen. “Something like that.”

“You have enough food? Water?”

She closed her eyes for a second. “More than enough.”

“Well, good luck, then.”