Forever Between (Between Life and Death Book 2) (22 page)

He grins back and says, “Let me just get you set up and then I’ll be back before you know it.”

Two Weeks Ago - Holding On

We think it’s chicken pox, but it could be measles. We don’t have any books that contain good information on those two diseases, just a pamphlet or two that tell us the general symptoms: rash, fever, stomach upset and all the rest. Charlie has taken to calling it “The Pox” like it’s some medieval curse or something. I tried to tell him that used to be what people called venereal disease, but that only made him laugh.

There’s no way to know for sure which disease Jon has, which is weird and terrifying considering what else we could come up against given time. While we don’t know with any exactitude how Jon got it, the likely culprits are the coats, blankets, and clothes we gathered during one of our recent scavenging runs.

We don’t, as a general rule, take anything from places where deaders and in-betweeners have been trapped for any amount of time. Mostly, that’s because of the smells that seep into anything made of fabric in such situations. But when we come upon a cache left behind by people who died elsewhere or item left in places they managed to escape from after turning, we take them without much thought. We make exceptions if animals have made obvious nests in them. We don’t touch those, vague folklore about plague and rats making us leery of such—not to mention that fleas are a nuisance—but none of us ever considered actual real diseases. And that appears to have been a huge mistake.

Jon’s fever is gone at last. His temperature has been normal since last night and he slept deeply and well. His spots have changed from itching, horrible blistery things to equally itchy scabs. Keeping his hands away from his scabs is a full time job. He’s still got a touchy stomach, and diarrhea keeps rearing its ugly head, but I know he feels better because he’s getting bored. That’s the best sign.

I’m not being swayed by it though, and we play together in the office, staying away from everyone else except Charlie. Since we were both still in middle school—or going into high school in Charlie’s case—we’re reasonably sure that our vaccinations were up to date, including the one for chicken pox. Savannah isn’t at all sure about her status and Matt and Gregory are both sure they’ve had the pox, but descended into arguing about it so we’re keeping them away just to be sure. Maribelle is just a wild card and she’s been scrubbed down from head to toe every single day since Jon got sick. So far, so good.

Poor Savannah has had to do more laundry than any of us ever imagined because of this incident. Every sleeping bag, blanket and piece of cloth we have squirreled away is being washed. Lines are strung like an obstacle course between the buildings and for days our things have flapped like celebratory bunting in the breeze. Her hands are so red and chapped they’ve started to bleed, so Gregory is taking over the last part of the laundry while she sits with her hands wrapped in cream covered gauze and complains about how he does it. Back seat driving, washer-woman style.

But all in all, and pain-in-the-butt workload aside, Jon’s on the mend and we’re all breathing a sigh of relief. Except for Emily, that is. Charlie and I are taking turns watching her while the other is with Jon. And now, he’s even sleeping just outside the visual range of the cages in case something happens.

When I told Emily what was going on, she was still fairly aware. She made an almost-laughing sound and squeezed my hand. She’d said, “Things happen like they’re supposed to. Jon needs you.”

I’m pretty sure she was telling me that it was okay to let her die. Time has gotten away from me. I had so hoped to get to the hospital before she died. I wanted to save her like she saved me. It’s not going to happen. That was the last time we spoke to each other. I’m so glad that I got to tell her how much I loved her then and equally glad she told me the same.

This morning Charlie told me that her breathing is hitching and uneven, like he’s not sure if she’s going to take another breath, and her eyes aren’t blinking anymore. He had to tape them closed last night so they wouldn’t dry out.

It’s time.

I think she is beyond suffering at this point, but I’m very sure that I’m not going to make it to the base in time to help her while she’s alive. She’s afraid to die, but she’s more interested in finding out if there’s a cure that will work for those who have already died than in saving her own life. She’s never outright said to kill her. She’s never said the suffering is too much. Now, she can’t say one way or another and the decision is left to me.

That means I’m going to have to minimize the damage when she dies, rather than hope she won’t before I can work up enough support for the long trip to the base. I have no way of knowing if she’s truly infected with the nanites, but her bites and scratches since she found me has made me believe she has to be. And she believes that nanites are what let her live so long, that they are responsible for slowing the progress of her disease. That makes sense, so I’m trying very hard to convince myself she has a nice load of nanites in her blood. I don’t want to do this, but I have no choice and the thought of her dying without me being there with her is just not acceptable.

Jon bounces around tossing blocks over his shoulder while he sings a nonsense song. He’s been repeating the same silly phrase for about fifteen minutes and I’m ready to divert him onto something new. He doesn’t want to be entertained. He doesn’t want to play with another toy. He wants out of this room, to go play outside, to be in the sunlight even if it is too cool outside for a kid just getting over a fever. Spring is here, and summer should be coming, but it’s a fickle thing and today is positively brisk.

Charlie walks in just about the time my patience has run out and I’m about to give in and let Jon have a good run-about outside. He takes in the scene and grins at me, while Jon gets a running start straight for him.

“
Oof
,” Charlie grunts as Jon slams into his legs, a little boy grin shining on his scabby face. “I think you’ve got a future in football!”

“What’s football?” Jon asks, raising his arms to be lifted.

Charlie obliges, giving Jon a tickle once he’s settled into his arms. He looks at me and says, “And this is why I support you going to the base. What’s football? Civilization is falling, I tell you.”

I can feel the smile sliding off my face, thoughts of Emily pushing in again. Charlie must see it too, because he puts Jon down and swats him on the butt playfully.

He crosses the small room in a few steps and pulls me to my feet, his hands staying wrapped around my upper arms, as if to give me strength. “I can do this with you. Savannah can watch him from the hallway for a little while.”

“How did you know? That I’m going to do it today, I mean,” I ask.

“It’s written all over your face, Veronica. You’re not exactly cagey,” he says, his tone teasing and light, trying to minimize the seriousness for a moment.

I appreciate it. I really do. But, it doesn’t feel right at all. We should have horses draped in black and people wailing in mourning. That’s how I feel.

“Sorry,” he says. “How do you want to do this?”

*****

I can feel Savannah’s eyes on my back from the platform as Charlie and I walk across the warehouse floor and out the door. Gregory peeks over from the roof above us, giving me a solemn nod, knowing where we’re going. Matt is at the fence, looping deaders in our time-honored daily fashion and doesn’t look over. The air is crisp, but with a promise of warmth later on that feels good. It’s been a long spring and today, it’s showing me its colors. The field outside the fence is a riot of color as early spring wildflowers greedily poke their faces up toward the sun and the trees beyond are so green that they almost hurt my eyes.

It’s a short walk that feels eternal. I’ve got a bag with what we’ll need inside it, but this is completely new territory for me. I’ve never committed murder with the intention of having it be as brief a death as possible before.

My hands are sweaty and damp by the time we get to the barrier around the cages. Charlie pulls open the door and we step in to a sudden cacophony of hungry groans and squeals from the in-betweener cage. As always, my blood pounds in my ears when I hear them. The fear of them is as instinctive as any human fear. But, I don’t flinch and Charlie barely spares that cage a glance.

Emily’s cage is silent and still, her form so slight on the pallet she lays on that she almost looks like a child of Jon’s age. Whatever weight she managed to put on, knowing there would come a time when it would be harder to eat, is long gone, and her bones are now sharply defined. She doesn’t move at all as we open the cage door, the rattle of locks and chains not breaking through whatever purgatory she’s in.

The medical tape over her eyes doesn’t move and her breath hitches in terrible strange groans that I think might be what people call a death rattle. Her cheekbones are sharply defined blades with hollows so deep beneath that they are black with shadow. I once thought those her best feature, reminding me of an old-school glamorous movie-star I saw now and then on old TV movies. It’s hard to see her like this.

“How could I let it go this far?” I ask in a whisper.

Charlie’s hand finds my shoulder and rests there, heavy and comforting. “Because once it’s done, there’s no going back. It’s hard to let go.”

The pain behind my jaw is growing, the tears no longer held in check. His hand falls away as I kneel next to Emily, taking one of her chained hands in mine. It’s so light, all I feel is the weight of the metal. I rub my cheek across her limp palm and whisper, “I’m here, Emily.”

Her skin is warm, unnaturally so, but no color flushes her skin. She’s burning up from the inside and there’s nothing I can do about it anymore except make it stop.

Charlie kneels at her other side and looks at me, waiting for me to be ready. I’m not and never will be, but the more I delay the harder it will be. I carefully lay Emily’s hand back down, drop the bag from my shoulder and open it up. I hand Charlie one of the two ropes I’ve packed and nod toward her feet. I take the other and unroll it until I’ve got it laid out so that the halfway mark is just above her head. Then I give a nod to Charlie where he waits for the okay and lean down close to Emily’s ear.

“Emily, we’re going to tie you now. Don’t be afraid. I’m here with you,” I say into her ear. Her hair is dirty and smells of sickness and sweat.

One at a time, I bring her hands up and loop the end of the rope through the chains at her wrists. They aren’t too tight, but tight enough that she can’t pull her hands out of them. Still, they’re snug enough that getting the rope through them makes me worry about her circulation. We won’t have her like this long, so I push past the feeling and rest both of her hands on the ground above her head.

Charlie does the same at her ankles and we both leave the cage just long enough to grab the ends of the rope that we’ve threaded through the chain-link fence. I hate to do it, but I pull the two ends of rope until her hands lift from the ground and then ease it back enough to let them rest on the concrete again. Then I tie the rope to the bar along the outside bottom of the cage, where the chain-link is secured.

When we’re done, she’s stretched out, but not being pulled. There’s no way she can stand or get her hands on either of us. I avoid Charlie’s eyes when we go back in. This feels wrong. Dirty.

He hands me the mask as I settle down next to her and he gets into position on her other side. I’ve worked this out, practiced it as much as possible without a body to practice on, and I briefed Charlie before we left the warehouse. We both know what to do. I slip the leather piece I cut from a Lincoln SUV seat over her mouth and tie it around the back of her head, leaving the long strings that remain to the side where I can reach them. It will keep her from biting afterwards and I’ll be able to pull the tie loose with the strings without coming close to her mouth.

I won’t be able to do this later, so I ease the pieces of tape off her forehead and cheek and do my best not to harm the delicate skin of her eyelids. A blue vein runs down each lid, plainly visible, because her skin is so thin now. I don’t want to tear her skin, so it takes a few minutes to ease the tape off, using a damp cloth to help. She doesn’t move at all during the process. And once I’m done, her lids open slightly, but only the bottom curve of her iris is visible and she’s not looking anywhere anymore.

I pull the plastic bag out last and finally look at Charlie. He places the end of our stethoscope—liberated from the animal hospital—on her chest and nods after a moment to let me know he’s got a heartbeat. I suck in one deep breath, as if it’s me that’s taking my last breath, and then I slip the bag over Emily’s face, pulling it tight so that there’s as little air as possible trapped underneath.

I’m not sure what I expect to happen, really. Some sort of primal instinct to keep living at the very least or one last clear look from her eyes, but nothing happens at all. The bag sucks in under her attempts to breathe…one, two, a harder one at three, and then a deep and shuddering attempt at a fourth…and then, nothing.

Charlie holds up a hand while he listens through the stethoscope, one finger pointed to the sky for another, eternal minute, and then he says, “Nothing. Go!”

I whip the bag off her face and he starts chest compressions. Whatever oxygen she has in her system, we want it circulating. I clamp our rescue mask—one meant for dogs also taken from the vet hospital—over her face and start squeezing the bag for all I’m worth.

“Come on, Emily! Please be infected!” I urge her still form.

It’s exhausting. I never knew that. On the vague bits of TV I remember, all I recall is everyone laughing and high-fiving or what-not after someone immediately comes back to life with a witty comment. It’s not like that at all. I’m sweating and my hand is cramping like mad after no time at all.

I’m not sure how long we do this, but Charlie backs away very suddenly and scrambles back toward the cage door. Below the clear plastic of the rescue mask, I see that Emily’s eyes are open. And they are fixed on me.