James Van Pelt - Summer of the Apocalypse

“They’re dying, you know,” said the dark-haired woman.

Late afternoon light cast a pale square on the wall opposite the window. Eric had been watching it crawl up the wall so he wouldn’t keep staring at the dead man. An hour or so had passed since he’d last heard noise from upstairs, and he’d almost forgotten someone else was in the room with him.

“It’s the sickness, isn’t it,” he said. “My mom… my mother…” He swallowed hard. “She died.” The woman nodded.

“You’re not sick at all?” she said. “No cough? No pain swallowing?” Her voice was still hoarse, throaty, but not unpleasant. It sounded weighty, the voice of someone competent.

“Uh uh.”

She stood on the stool legs’ crossbars and stretched her back. The rope fell across her chest and pushed her blouse part way open where the top button had popped off. Her bra’s thin white strap was twisted, and Eric wanted to straighten it for her, like when his mom would fix his collar in back if it was sticking up.

She sat. “I hope one of them comes down soon. I have to pee, and I’m thirsty.” She smiled and looked at Eric. He liked her smile; it seemed unforced, as if she didn’t care that she was tied by her throat to a wooden beam in some profoundly frightening people’s basement. Her eyes were deep and dark.

“Doesn’t seem right to want both, does it?”

Eric almost laughed, then he remembered the corpse. “I’ve got to go too,” he said soberly. A few more inches, and the square of light would be at the ceiling. It must be near sunset, Eric decided.

“It’s getting dark. When will they turn on the lights?” he asked.

“Hasn’t been any electricity for a week. Either that knock on the head rattled something loose, or you’ve been living in a cave.”

A door shut upstairs. Somebody walked a few steps, then there was silence. They both looked at the ceiling.

Finally, Eric said, “The second one.”

“Excuse me?”

“The second one. I’ve been living in a cave. Do you want to yell for them, or shall I?” Now that she mentioned it, he really had to go.

“I’ll do it,” she said, “but listen. They’re sick, like I said, and scared to death about dying, like everybody else, but most handle it with more dignity. I mean, they accept it. They watched the news, listened to the President, and followed the emergency procedures. And when that didn’t work, and they got sick anyway. They died in their homes.”

Eric remembered his mom lying on the mattress in the cave, holding Dad’s hand. The woman continued, “Some, of course, panicked. Riots, looting. But most people gave up the ghost sort of peacefully.” She leaned forward, as far as the rope would permit. “These two, though, these two plan on beating it.”

“How?”

“They think it’s in the blood. Everybody who catches the disease dies. Zero recovery. Not everyone catches it though. Doctors said some people may never get it, so you’re either dead, dying or safe. Not too many people left either. Lots of quiet houses with dead people in their beds. I drove from Aurora to Northglenn yesterday and went for blocks and blocks without seeing anyone, just houses with their drapes drawn. Then, there are a few homes like this, with the last of the living, but they’re sick. And there’s some, like you and me, not sick yet.”

“So what do they want to do with us? We might get it eventually.” I might get sick, Eric thought. He hadn’t considered that before. Maybe the whole world will die. He tried to picture his own illness, but he couldn’t do it. He thought, the idea is too ridiculous, and, like she said, we’re not dead yet. She seemed so unafraid that he began to feel better too.

“Transfusions. Meg was a nurse a long time ago, and she’s got this plan to round up the healthy and take blood from them to keep her and Jared alive. At any rate, they don’t want us dead as long as they believe we’re not sick and their plan might work, so if we cooperate, we might get out of here.” Eric looked at where the rope ran through the pulley in the beam above and continued to a ring bolted in the wall. He couldn’t see anyway, with his hands behind his back, that he had a chance to get loose. If they die or decide to leave us here, he thought, it will be impossible for us to set ourselves free, and if everyone is dead or dying, then we won’t be rescued. The feeling of confidence faded. “What good will that do? If it works, they won’t let us go, and if it doesn’t, we’re stuck.” She smiled again, her teeth bright in the now almost dark room, then said, “And the horse might talk.” Before he could ask what that meant, the door at the top of the stairs opened, and Jared and Meg started down.

“I need to go to the bathroom too,” said Eric. Meg had placed on a TV table in front of him a small pile of clear, plastic tubing, several plastic connectors, a syringe and a couple of l.V. bags. Meg recinched the woman’s rope to the ring bolt. She had untied it from the bolt and walked the woman into the bathroom while Jared gave her slack. He jerked the rope when the woman was almost in the bathroom, and she squawked. “Makin’ sure you know I’m here, dearie,” he said, but he didn’t do it again after Meg gave him a venomous look.

“You take him,” she said, and moved over to loosen Eric. She talked quietly, without opening her lips much. The chapping at the corners of her mouth looked worse. Big cracks deep with pus. “Undo his hands,” said Jared.

“Wimp,” said Meg.

“I’m not holding another man steady so he can take a piss.” The mechanics of how he was to go to the bathroom hadn’t occurred to Eric. He envisioned overpowering Jared, maybe beating him with his own bat and becoming the hero. Old, slow and drunk, thought Eric. I can take him. But the thought of trying the same with Meg made him reconsider. She’d moved like a prize fighter when she’d beat Jared earlier. Her upper arms were meaty. She probably couldn’t run a hundred yard dash, but underneath the weight lurked a perilous and strong woman. He’d better not.

As if reading his mind, Meg said, “I can haul you off the floor in a second, fellow. You’re not too big for that.”

When Eric stood, he realized what Meg meant. He was clearly taller than Jared, and had an inch or two on her. Jared referring to him as a man earlier, and Meg’s careful hold on the rope made him think about how they might see him. I’m not a kid to them, he thought, but I feel like a kid. Maybe if I keep my mouth shut, they won’t figure it out.

Any hope of finding a razor blade, or a shard of glass in the bathroom to use on his rope later vanished when he walked in. Jared pushed the door shut on the rope, and the thread of dim light through the door’s crack revealed nothing. Eric felt for the toilet. Then, as he went to the bathroom, he wondered if the dark-haired woman thought of him as a child or an adult. Maybe we’re just equal, he thought. Eric caught the dark-haired woman’s eye as he walked back to his stool, and smiled a little to let her know his spirits were up, that he wasn’t going to surrender. She lifted her chin slightly in acknowledgment.

As Meg tied his hands again, she said, “I’m going to take a bit of blood from you.” She yanked on the rope. Eric flinched. He’d been tightening his wrists, figuring that when he relaxed, the knots would be loose, but Meg must have noticed. It felt as if his bones were being pushed together. She continued,

“This’ll go better if you don’t fight me. If you move around, I might have to stick you a few times. I’m a bit rusty at this.” She slapped her thigh, as if she’d told a joke, but she didn’t smile, and her movements were sure and swift.

“Quit your jabbering and get on with it,” said Jared. He stood by the T.V. table, looking worse than he had earlier in the day. Could be the light, thought Eric, but he couldn’t tell. Black circles underlined Jared’s eyes, and his breathing seemed faster and more watery.