Suffer the Children (38 page)

The lights switched on.

The room was empty except for a cardboard box.

“Please don’t do this,” he begged.

“Get dressed,” said the cop. “Put your clothes on.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m taking you home, Dr. Harris.”

“Home?” David didn’t believe it.

“I checked up on you. You don’t belong here. Your clothes are in the box.”

“Home,” said David, thinking of Nadine. He began to cry.

“You’re going to forget all about this.” The cop slapped him lightly on the face. “Listen up.” Again. “This is important. If you call the police and try to report what we’re doing here, just remember,
we are the police
. We’ll answer the phone, take down your complaint, and then come back and get you. We’ll come and get you and every person in your entire family. Then there’ll be no pardon from the governor. Follow me?”

The threat had been very clearly spelled out for him. “I won’t say anything.”

“Just so we understand each other. I’m taking a serious risk here. You say a word, and you’ll be back, I guarantee it. And I’ll be in the bed next to you.”

Officer Smiley dropped a black hood over his head.

42 days after Resurrection

Ramona inspected her naked body in the mirror.

She’d always been thin, but her collarbones and ribs were pronounced now. Blood loss and a subsistence diet over the past few
weeks had done wonders for trimming those extra pounds that always plagued her. She thought somebody should name a diet after it.

Her eyes paused over the bruises where Ross had hit her. Already the discoloration was fading, but she hated the sight of them. She’d been right to end things with him. In the end, he’d been just another man who couldn’t handle the idea of sharing responsibility for raising her son. Who couldn’t accept that Josh required 100 percent of her.

She picked up her glass of wine and gulped half of it. “Men are pigs,” she muttered.

She heard a crash downstairs. Howling. She sighed.

“I didn’t mean you, Josh.”

Ramona leaned forward and put a little more eyeliner on while her mouth hung open. Just a few touches here and there; she believed a little makeup went a long way to call attention to a woman’s features. It also did wonders for covering up blue lips and fingernails.

She put away her makeup bag. “There,” she said.

Then she practiced smiling.

Ross had taught her an important lesson. She no longer cared what people thought of her. All the people who’d judged her or compelled her to judge herself. They didn’t exist anymore in her world. Nothing mattered except keeping Josh fed.

She found it liberating. There was purity in such targeted clarity.

The doorbell rang. Her guest had arrived. She finished her wine and smiled again. It looked almost real. Then disappeared just as fast, leaving a hard red line.

“Coming,” she called.

She walked into the kitchen, put on an apron, and checked the oven. Then she walked to the front door and opened it.

An overweight man stood in the doorway. Her eyes prowled his girth while his shifted nervously before settling on her chest.

“I’m George.”

“Hi, George,” she said. She remembered to smile. “I’m Ramona.”

He fidgeted and smiled back. “You look even hotter than your picture on the site.”

“Aren’t you charming?” she said. “Come in.”

He took off his coat and sniffed the air. “What’s that I smell?”

“Macaroni and cheese with chopped bacon and caramelized onions,” Ramona told him. She put her hand on her hip and turned a little so he could see she wore nothing under the apron. “Why don’t we eat a little something before we get down to business?”

George chortled at his good fortune. He followed her into the kitchen.

The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

To get into a man’s stomach, Ramona knew, a knife would do nicely.

In the kitchen, she had a lot of knives.

44 days after Resurrection

Joan and Doug sat in their dark living room watching the news while their children lay wrapped in plastic in the garage, awaiting resurrection.

The TV showed the shaky image of a squad of soldiers standing against the wall of an old red brick building. The first in line leaned past the corner and fired a few rounds at some distant target. The camera panned to reveal a row of dilapidated homes, one of them on fire and pumping smoke.

The caption read: F
IREFIGHT IN
D
ETROIT
.

In cities like Detroit, National Guard units had moved into the poorest neighborhoods to destroy the blood trade, which had caused thousands of deaths and disappearances.

Joan couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The U.S. Army fighting street gangs on American soil in a massive operation involving thousands of troops.

The firepower on display was impressive, but the whole thing struck her as pointless. As if they would accomplish anything when the violence was happening everywhere.

On the TV, soldiers ran past a burning car.

The caption: A
RMY
C
RACKS
D
OWN ON
B
LOOD
T
RADE
.

Doug sipped his beer and snorted. “They’re not cracking down on it. They’re putting it under new management. Leeches. They’re all a bunch of goddamn leeches, babe.”

“Please don’t use that word,” Joan said. “I don’t like that word.”

Doug sipped his beer, radiating fear and resentment like a furnace.

Four days ago, he’d left the house without even a good-bye and returned the next afternoon wheezing with a broken, lacerated face and a paramedic’s bloody jacket. He wouldn’t talk about what had happened. He refused to go to the hospital for stitches; the very idea terrified him. He’d obviously tried to get blood and failed. In fact, from the looks of him, he’d lost some. Whatever happened, it was horrible, and it had damaged him inside as well as out.

She’d poured hydrogen peroxide on his wound and taped it shut. There was no point in lecturing or delivering an ultimatum. Instead, she’d taken a soft approach. She told him to go back to work. Get back on a schedule. Pick up the trash that had piled up everywhere. Earn a paycheck. Stop carrying the world on his shoulders. The children would be here when he got home. They weren’t going anywhere.

When he left for work that first morning, she decided to practice what she preached by throwing herself into her household chores. For the first time in over a month, the house was clean and didn’t smell of rot and decay. Later, Doug came home angry and reeking of booze, but at least he hadn’t gone off and done anything crazy again. He could read the writing on the wall. Unless he was willing to go out and murder somebody, he wasn’t getting any more blood for the children.

It was a harsh truth:
no more blood
. It was the end.

Joan was willing to kill for her kids—she really was—but only in defense. The idea of murdering an innocent human being—some woman out for a morning jog—horrified her as much as the prospect of letting her children go. Besides that, the children just weren’t themselves anymore. Their bodies were the same, but their minds were turning to mush. They were turning into monsters whose sole aim was to
feed.
It’s over.
She wanted Doug to process this truth just as she had. The Coopers didn’t give up easily, that was true, but sometimes they had no choice.

For her, the hard work had already begun as she’d started to work up the courage and mental strength to say good-bye. Being a mother was all she’d ever wanted, but she couldn’t do this anymore. She was tired of fighting God. She was worn out. She would accept the extra time she’d been given with her children over the past weeks for what it was, a gift, and let them go. After that, she had no idea what she would do next. She’d have a lot of choices and a ton of baggage. Maybe life would be worth living, maybe not.

The caption: DHHS
P
RESS
C
ONFERENCE
N
EXT
.

Joan turned from the television and studied Doug’s hideous profile.
We’re all broken people now
, she thought.
He just happens to look it.
She still loved him—boozing, violent temper and all. Whatever happened, she wanted to stay with him. He was a good man.

And he’d tried. He really had.

“It’s going to be okay, Doug.”

“I haven’t seen Otis since I came back,” he said. “He’s gone. Most of the guys are gone. I have to work my route by myself, driving and hauling.”

“It’s good that you’re there. I’m proud of you.”

“I found two bodies in the garbage just today. One was rolled up in a carpet. The other was hacked into small pieces and stuffed into trash bags. Drained of blood.”

“Oh God, Doug,” she said, horrified.

“Usually, people come out to yell at me for not hauling away their old bathroom sink. Do you want to know what they do now? They invite me in for coffee with a big old smile.”

Joan could tell he admired them. The people who would do anything.

“You always think the world’s out to get you,” she said. “For once, I think you’re right. We can’t trust anybody right now except each other. Not anybody.”

Doug nodded. “It’s all coming to an end.”

“I’ll be with you no matter what. We’ll be together.”

The images of destruction on the TV flickered across his face. “You’re all I got left, Joanie.”

“It’s going to be okay, Doug. I really believe that. We can do this.”

Neither of them spoke for a while. She took one of his beers, cracked it open, and took a sip. It tasted good. On the TV, a soldier fired his rifle. The camera lurched, and Joan caught a glimpse of the enemy.

The men firing back wore the same military uniforms.

The image cut to the scene of a press conference in Washington, DC.

44 days after Resurrection

Standing at a podium flanked by men and women in suits and lab coats, the Secretary of Health and Human Services began his press conference.

The caption read: B
LOOD
C
RISIS
.

David didn’t want to watch. He lay on the couch, clutching at Nadine while she rocked him and stroked his hair. He’d escaped the blood farm, but his mind remained trapped within the nightmare. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it all. The massive room that smelled like vomit, shit, and death. The gray, emaciated men in their beds. The cops with their cattle prods. The masked doctor in his white lab coat splattered with the blood of his victims.

He’d never felt so alone in his life. So helpless and degraded. At that moment, he’d been as good as dead, cut off from everything and everybody
he knew and loved. Doomed to die, alone and unloved, without hope.

Pure, naked terror.

He’d escaped, but not really. A part of him was still back at the farm.

David ground his teeth and shivered.

As a doctor, he treated his patients for their diseases using the four cornerstones of diagnostic medicine: anatomy, physiology, pathology, psychology. He understood emotional trauma and its symptoms all too well.
Diagnosis: You’re fucked up, doctor.

Ever since the cop had brought him home, he’d popped his remaining supply of Vicodin while wandering the house checking the locks, handgun shoved into the pocket of his bathrobe.

Ben had been right to be paranoid. He’d been right all along. Herod’s syndrome had afflicted the parents worse than the children. Herod had the entire world dancing to its crazy tune. All David had accomplished by drawing their blood was to prolong their suicide, not prevent it. Meanwhile, the children were being reborn as monsters.

David was done helping people. It was time to focus on survival. As soon as he was able, he’d board up the windows, reinforce the door, and turn the house into a fortress.

On the TV, the secretary said the government had a solution to the Blood Crisis.

The pig-faced cop cracked his knuckles. “I’m Officer Smiley.”

“It’s going to be all right, David,” Nadine said. He was shaking.

He hugged her tighter. “You’ll stay with me?”

“Of course, I’ll stay. Tell me what happened to you.”

He couldn’t. He hated even thinking about it. And it was all he could think about.

Besides, if he told her, he’d have to do something about it. Right now, scores of men were being bled to death back at the farm. He wanted to help them. She might want to do the same. But if they tried, they’d both die.

Physician, help thyself.

“Just stay with me,” he said. “Don’t go out. Not yet.”

“I’ll stay.”

“Really stay. Don’t go out at all for anything.”

He felt her body stiffen. What he’d just asked was very difficult for her to give. Maybe even impossible. She wanted to continue helping the children.

She said, “I’ll stay with you, David.”

He sighed with relief, content that she really loved him.

“We have to get ready. They’re going to come for us.”

“Who is?”

“The parents,” he told her. “The children.”

“It’s all going to work out.” She didn’t sound as sure as she once had.

He closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the gun in his pocket.

Red means dead
, he thought. He repeated the phrase as a mantra, trying to keep the dark thoughts at bay. He began to doze again.

Nadine woke him. On the TV, the Secretary of Health and Human Services proudly declared the blood crisis would soon end.

The government, the man announced, had developed a hemerythrin-based human blood substitute that kept the children alive.

44 days after Resurrection

He sat on a box filled with deposit bottles and cans in the garage. He smoked. He drank. He stared at his dead children wrapped in plastic.

It’s not fair
, thought Doug.
But it’s typical.

The government had just announced a blood substitute. The world was no doubt rejoicing. The only problem was it wouldn’t go into production
for at least a month—too late for his kids. Their bodies would fall apart long before then. Herod worked miracles but had its limits. After too long, he knew, even blood wasn’t enough to put Humpty Dumpty back together.