Krisis (After the Cure Book 3) (10 page)

Emma strained against the thick canvas ropes around her wrists and ankles. The muscles in her neck and shoulders jumped and pulled as she snarled. She turned red with the strain and her teeth snapped shut over and over with a nauseating click.

“It’s okay,” said Ruth, “Your daddy sent me. It’s all done. No more crying. You can rest now, Emma.” She took a step forward as she was speaking, the gun barrel brushing lightly against Emma’s forehead as she struggled to bite. Ruth pulled the trigger and Emma fell to the floor like a marionette whose strings had suddenly snapped. She put the gun away and wiped her hands quickly down the front of her shirt without even thinking about it. She pulled the picture from the doorframe and slid it back into her pocket. Then she picked up the bony girl, her arms and chin resting on Ruth’s shoulders, the way a sleeping toddler would.

Ruth tried not to look at her, fighting to keep the image from the photograph in the front of her mind. Emma seemed even lighter than Charlie had, though he had been just nine when Ruth had carried him down the stairs to the gaping hollow in her tiny lawn.

She placed Emma on the cool tile in the bathroom and removed her soiled clothes. Then she lowered the girl into the water and did her best to erase the damage of the past eight years. Now that the snarling rage had gone out of Emma’s face, she looked younger and pensive. But the rest of her body betrayed her. The scars on her hands where she had bitten them, the wound on her arm, the bruises from the restraints all shattered the peace in her face. Ruth drained the tub and gently dried the body before sliding the airy summer dress over it. She wrapped it in the dusty sheet and then looked around her. The light from the window seeped russet around the rag. Almost time. She blew out the candles and carried the stiff gray bundle back to Emma’s room.

There was no bed to lay it on; Emma had torn it to shreds years ago. Ruth laid the body on the floor, then she looked around for a moment at the wreckage of the room. The furniture was gone. The carpet long ripped away, leaving the bones of subfloor beneath. The dry wall was mostly pounded into dust in the semicircle that Emma had been able to reach in her restraints. The studs stood like matchsticks gleaming in the wall. She thought how close to Charlie’s room it must once have been and then tried to push the thought away. She wiped away a few slow tears and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. She fled the silent house as the sun disappeared below the far end of the street.

Chapter 7

Juliana was up to her knees in the pond outside the conservatory. A thick film of algae clung to her jeans at the water line and to the outside of the buckets she filled. Ruth picked up two more empty buckets and kicked off her hot shoes before wading in behind her.

“This heat is killing everything but the tropicals you revived,” said Juliana without turning around.

“Too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer. We’ve got to get out of this city. It’s the asphalt that does it,” said Ruth, pouring a bucket full of scummy green water over her head.

Juliana slogged out of the pond and set the full buckets onto the concrete, breathing hard. She sat on the warm walkway, her face lost in the twilight. “How can I leave?”

Ruth picked up her own buckets. “We could find a bus. One with restraints, like a prison bus—”

“Even if we could get one started, there hasn’t been usable gasoline in this city for years.”

“Sedatives then.”

Juliana shook her head. “Too risky. Besides, there’s a hundred of them and two of us. Can you imagine us trying to get them down the road before the sedative wore off?”

Ruth sat down beside her and was silent for a long moment. “No one could blame you if you just walked away tomorrow, you know. They survived for eight more years because of you. They aren’t even yours. You don’t owe anyone anything.”

“If I leave, I’ll have to either let them all go or leave them to starve. That’s monstrous. I can’t do it.”

“There’s another alternative, Juliana,” said Ruth quietly.

“You mean we could kill them.”

“It could be quick and quiet. The dried poppies we already have should be almost enough. Another month and this year’s will be ready. They’re in pain, Juliana. And you are wearing your life away to keep them that way. We can’t stay here, Julie. The city is dying. Another winter and there’ll be no food and nothing to burn. How many times have you chased looters from the vegetable garden already this year? And it’s not even enough to support the people that you already care for. Relatives don’t stop by to help anymore. They don’t have anything left to bring you. Things are going to get violent again, just like when the looters swept through six years ago. Are you going to risk being killed for a cucumber? Or starving with the Infected? Why? They’re just dying in slow motion. It can be over in one night, no more hunger, no more rage, no more agony. It should have happened years ago. Every day is just prolonging their misery and yours.”

Juliana scowled. “That’s the trouble with you Ruth Socorro. You think there’s no value in suffering. That we ought to spend all our lives without pain or fear or sorrow. I don’t remember hearing that an easy life was the only one worth living. We aren’t entitled to a painless existence,” she snapped. “Now come on, or all the plants will die of thirst and we’ll
all
begin to know real suffering.” She picked up her buckets and started into the steamy conservatory. Ruth followed after, wondering what had
really
caused her friend’s sudden fury.

The heat made it a struggle to breathe, so they splashed the neat rows of herbs, but didn’t talk. Every once in a while Ruth would stop to pull a stray weed, watching Juliana out of the corner of her eye. The conservatory was already filled with shadows and the solar garden stakes glowed dimly.

“Do the bandages on the red headed boy need to be changed?” Ruth asked, to break the thick silence.

“I can do it,” said Juliana, but her tone had softened. “Who was it today?” she asked, swinging an empty bucket toward the smear of dark blood on Ruth’s jean leg. Ruth blushed, ashamed that she had missed it when she cleaned herself up.

“You really want to know?” asked Ruth.

Juliana was silent, but didn’t move.

“Nick Fowler’s daughter. It was her birthday today,” sighed Ruth. She splashed another clump of plants so she wouldn’t have to look at the other woman. “I tried to persuade him to give her to you, but…”

“But he didn’t want to leave her behind when he killed himself, that about it?”

“Yeah, that’s about it.” Ruth turned around. “Look, I don’t need a lecture. We’ve been over and over this. We agreed to disagree—” She stopped, surprised to see Juliana sitting on a nearby stone bench, the soft glow of the solar lights making her face ten years older. “What is it? What’s happened?” Ruth asked.

“I consider you a friend, Ruth. My best friend. The truth is, I think you’d be my best friend even if the world weren’t as empty as it is. You know, if we’d met Before.”

Ruth set the half full bucket down and sat down on the bench. She could feel the heat radiating off the other woman even a few feet away.

“What would you do if I asked you to help me at the hospital?” asked Juliana.

“Then I would help you. I’m not a murderer, despite what you may think.”

Juliana sighed. “That’s not how I think of you. If anyone left in the world understands you, it’s me. I work with them every day. I know why you think you’re helping. But you overstep. You take something that isn’t yours to take.” She shook her head. “That isn’t what I wanted to say. I’ve been very tired these past few weeks. There isn’t anyone else to ask. Father Preston is busy with his Congregation—”

“Father Preston,” Ruth scowled as if she’d tasted something dry and bitter. Juliana ignored her.

“I just need a little help, in the mornings maybe. Simple things, laundry or meals or just reading to them.”

“Then I’ll be there tomorrow morning.” Ruth looked around at the dim conservatory. “We should both go home now, before the scavengers come out for the night.” She glanced at Juliana who looked more tired than Ruth remembered ever seeing her. “Why don’t I walk you back to the hospital? I’ll bring the bundle and make dinner.”

But Juliana shook her head. “Go home. I’ll see you in the morning.” She got slowly up and carried the empty buckets to the doorway and then disappeared into the warm, concrete night. Ruth stared after her for a moment. Then she left the conservatory by the opposite door, heading back to the silent police station. A sliver of moon broke the edge of the jagged line of dark buildings but it didn’t shine bright enough to change much. Ruth didn’t care, she knew the way back by feel now. All the breaks and dips in the asphalt, every recessed doorway, all the tiny alleys that she had never dared to walk alone in Before, now they were home. In the past eight years, she’d used them to hide from the Infected, scavengers, and packs of feral dogs. She’d outlasted almost all of them.

The police station was as silent as the rest of the world. She stopped and slid the photograph of Emma behind the plexiglass of the bulletin board, knowing which spots were bare without looking. She tripped over Nick as she entered the station. For an instant she feared he had killed himself right there. Then he rolled himself up with a groan. “Sorry Nick,” she whispered, “Want a cot to crash on?”

He grabbed her wrist. “Is it done?” he hissed.

“It’s done.”

He let her go. “I’m going home.”

“Do you want me to walk you there? It’s very dark.”

“Is it? It doesn’t matter. I know the way.” He swayed as he rose to his feet and Ruth held out an arm to steady him. He turned toward her and she could smell the sour despair on his breath as he spoke. “Eighteen years ago, there wasn’t a five foot stretch of darkness between here and my house. The traffic was bumper to bumper because it was a Friday. Even the sidewalk was crowded with people. I took my wife to the hospital on the subway because I didn’t think we’d make it in time if I drove. It was so hot, just like now. I thought Sarah would faint, but she made it to the emergency room. And the air conditioning slapped into us and the nurses scurrying back and forth—
so many
people. But they were just background noise.” His voice broke and he gripped Ruth’s arm. “The whole world was just background noise. There was just Sarah and me. And then, in a few hours, just Sarah and Emma and me. Alone in that electric, noisy world. And that was all right. It was all right. I know I’m supposed to say that I miss them. All those other people. That I’m sorry they died and left this stillness that covers everything. But I never missed them. I never had time to. After Sarah turned, I didn’t even notice the rest of the world. The ones that were left were just in the way. Just taking medicine that I thought might help my wife and daughter. Just eating food I needed for them or burning fuel that could keep them warm. I killed my neighbors after they turned. And I burned their furniture, and all the files in their desks. Birth certificates, taxes, photo albums. Didn’t matter. Hoarded their food for us, turned away healthy people who could have used it. I didn’t care. There was only us.”

“Why are you telling me this?” asked Ruth.

“So you know what Emma meant. So she’s not just a spent bullet in the world when I’m not here to remember her. When the house burns down and every scrap of her is gone, someone should remember. I can’t even make a stone marker for her. But you’ll remember. That’s why you keep the photographs, right? Because you think you’ll forget. Because you think you’ve already forgotten what your son looked like. But you didn’t. Not really. You know how much every one of them meant. Better than I do. You know how much people really loved them. You gave Emma the only thing that I couldn’t. You gave all of them what they needed most, whatever that crazy priest thinks. He says I’ll go to hell for turning to you. He thinks that scares me. The truth is, if that’s the price it costs to give Emma and Sarah some peace, then I accept it.”

“I’ll get there before you will,” mumbled Ruth.

“Then at least I’ll have a friend,” said Nick. “Goodbye, Ruth.” He let her go and pushed open the heavy glass door.

“Goodbye, Nick,” she answered. He was a shadow against the warm night. She thought she saw him raise a hand to her, and then he was gone, part of the stillness of the dead city. At last she turned and locked herself in the tiny reception area of the police station. She plugged the music player into her tiny solar charger, unbelted the heavy gun and lay down fully clothed on the cot, heartsick.

Chapter 14

The cord glowed red against Ruth’s hand. Like the blood of martyrs. More real than anything around it, more real than the boy or Ruth or the Congregation at Father Preston’s back. She draped it over her foul trophy board. He’d have to give a sermon on the pride of the wicked. That would encourage his reluctant flock to do something about it.

Ruth murmured something to the boy.

He was cheerful now that he’d won. The moment of triumph had been years in the making and it was all the sweeter when it finally arrived. Now she would see that he had been right the whole time. She’d hand over the hospital Afflicted and then leave. Not that it mattered, they’d be sloughing off this foul city as soon as Juliana passed anyway. He didn’t much care where Ruth went, as long as it was away. He smiled and said, “That’s not necessary Ruth. I assure you we’ll take good care of him. We can get him safely out of his bindings—” The words shriveled in his mouth as Ruth raised the gun in front of her. Father Preston didn’t even have time to understand what was happening. The boy was dead, his head dark with blood, the silver cart rolling farther from them.