The 40th Day (After the Cure Book 5) (30 page)

“Let me go first,” said Frank, “just in case.” He pulled the gun from her pack and climbed the ladder as she held the rowboat steady. He took a quick circuit of the deck and returned to her. “All clear up here,” he said. They pulled the rowboat from the water and secured it. They pulled up the small anchor and Frank unlocked the steering.

“We should check below,” said Nella.

“He didn’t make it, Nella.”

“I still think we should check. Just to be certain.”

“All right,” said Frank, “Get us going, I’ll go look.”

“Maybe we should go together. Please, Frank. The boat won’t drift, we don’t have the sails up yet.”

He laughed gently. “Okay, then, we can go together.” He took the gun from his pocket and climbed down the stairs. He stood for a moment letting his eyes adjust to the dark interior. They passed through the tiny kitchen, Nella checking under the table and in the cabinets, though she knew a big guy like Gray would never fit inside. Frank smiled but it sank away from his face as he realized how worried she was. He helped her take the cushions from the couch without comment, checking the storage underneath. Still just the fresh water supply. They put the cushions back. She slid past him to the tiny bathroom, flinging the door open as if it would bite her. It was empty. Frank
did
smile as he opened the bedroom door, turning to look at her as he did. “See Nella, he’s not here. He probably died of an infection, we’re—”

He stopped with a gasp. Nella saw the sharp tines of Frank’s antique fishing spear plunge into his gut and he was pushed backward. Gray had ripped it from its mount over their bed and plowed out of the room, Frank stumbling backward until he tripped over the couch and fell backward, shocked and wordless. The gun fell from his fingers as he reached to touch the shaft of the spear.

There was a second of silence as both men panted heavily, one with adrenaline, the other in agony. And then Nella screamed. Gray turned to face her, but the scream didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop it, it vibrated between the narrow walls and in her chest, deep and ripping as if she’d been the one stabbed. She launched at Gray as he turned to face her, her mind a blank except for the pain on Frank’s face as he was struck.
Supposed to be me,
she realized,
Frank was supposed to live. He’s supposed to live.
And then it was gone as she sank under a tide of sorrow and anger. Gray stumbled backward in surprise, smashing into the bedroom door frame and sliding down to the floor. It was all Nella needed. She was on top of him. She scraped at his face with her fingers, digging into his skin, leaving ribbons of blood behind. The feel of his skin bursting open on her fingertips was like scratching an itch she’d never been able to reach before. But it wasn’t enough. Not for what he’d done.He grabbed for her hands and she reared back and punched. The back of his head smacked against the door frame with a sharp cracking sound and he abandoned her hands to protect his head.

“Nella,” Frank was yelling, but she couldn’t hear him over her own ragged shriek.

Frank struggled to hold the spear steady in his abdomen so it wouldn’t do more damage. The other hand searched for the gun below him. Nella wasn’t waiting for him to find it. She closed her hands around Gray’s throat, squeezing until her fingers shook and ached. Gray flailed, finally finding the pocketknife from the hunting lodge in his pocket. He snapped it open and swung it at her, slicing her cheek. She didn’t let go, instead, whipping her head toward his hand closing her teeth on his wrist with a sickening crunch. She could taste copper and wasn’t certain whether it was his blood or hers, whether she’d shattered her teeth or his bone. The only pain that registered was the one in her chest. The knife slid from his hand onto the floor as he wheezed in agony. She released his throat and grabbed the knife.

“Nella,” called Frank, his fingers closing around the smooth metal of the gun at last. “Move, Nella.”

But she didn’t hear him. He saw her arms reach far above her head and then plunge forward. Gray’s feet kicked and he tried to push her off. Nella grunted and pulled the knife free, raising it again and smashing it into his chest. His blood was warm and sticky as if sprayed over her. She grunted again, twisting and grinding it further. He half shoved her from his waist, but she didn’t stop, yanking the blade free and stabbing again. This time, the blade snapped off in Gray’s sternum as he howled. Nella dropped the knife. She punched his face, smearing blood and spit and snot with her fists, over and over. Frustrated that he continued to move, she picked up the broken knife again, the spiral corkscrew loose and falling into her palm. She struck his left ear with it and shoved as far as she could. There was a sucking noise as she pulled the corkscrew free. It fascinated her, drowning out even the sound of Frank’s voice. Gray spasmed and lay still, the blood still gushing in pulses around her. Her chest heaved and it wasn’t enough to satisfy the rage that made every particle ache with adrenaline. She stabbed again and again, until the corkscrew broke off the handle and her arms sagged, exhausted.

Then she heard Frank crying her name. “Please Nella,” he sobbed, “Fight it. You have to fight it. Come back. Come back to me, Nella.”

She turned slowly around. There was a click as he cocked the gun with a shaking hand, the other hand struggling to keep the spear straight.

“Say something,” he begged, tears streaming from his face. “Tell me you love me. Tell me anything. Please Nella, please come back.”

Thirty-eight

The pit’s dusty bottom had turned to mud and people sat on the edge nursing injuries, exhausted. Vincent and Father Preston carefully checked the scattered bodies and carried them to the center. There was nobody left alive on the floor of the pit. A dozen people sat on the sides like vultures watching the priests. None of them stumbled or slurred. None of them rocked or bit their nails. Some of the wounded called out to him for help, but Vincent ignored them. He knew he’d have to help eventually, but even his compassion stretched only so far. They covered the small mound with tires. He tried to light it, but they were short on gas. If he took more, the sprayer would never make it. He couldn’t leave them like this. Not just for themselves, they were a health risk too. He thought about using the sprayer on the pile. He’d thought about it earlier too, using the sprayer on the entire lot of them. Right in the tire pit. Just to make them stop killing each other. Father Preston had held him back, kept him sane.

He stared at the people who were left. “You’ve had your way, hurt people whose only crime was to be sicker than you. Now clean up your mess. We need to cremate them, so no one else will get infected. Go get as many dry branches from the woods as you can and bring them back.”

There were some groans. Vincent’s temper snapped. “You’ve brought this on yourself, and worse. Look at what you have done. You attacked them because you were frightened they’d turn. They would have attacked you without second thought. But
you
planned this. You got together and made a plan to hurt them. To kill them. Who is the true monster? You will never be able to atone for what you’ve done here. Not ever. But you can clean it up. You can prevent it from happening ever again.”

People got up slowly, stiffly. Limped along the incline until they disappeared over the lip of the pit. Several minutes later they began tossing dead branches down to him. He and Father Preston wove them into the tires, piled them over the bodies, until all that could be seen was a dull pile of bracken. Vincent lit it and stood in the choking smoke until he was certain it wouldn’t go out. Then he wearily climbed up to the road where the others waited in a sullen clot. Father Preston started the sprayer and headed off. Vincent walked behind it, saying nothing, not even bothering to look around to make sure the others followed. He couldn’t remember a more disturbing day, even when he’d been in the midst of Infection himself. They reached the Barrier at dusk, finding half a dozen more people waiting for them, drawn by the promise of a cure. They were helping Father Preston clear the main gate, boulder by boulder. Vincent made the others help too, unburying the City with their bare hands. He finally let them rest once it was too dark to see. It was unsettling, how silent the City was. Nothing came through the Barrier. No music, no conversation, not even the shouts and thumps of fighting. He didn’t sleep, just lay rigid, worrying on the cold tar of the road. He’d expected to be able to trust a few of them. He’d expected to be able to get help spreading the poison as people came to accept that they were at the end. But now— all of them had joined in. All of them had slaughtered someone in order to preserve themselves. Father Preston and Lisa were the only ones he could rely on. These people weren’t going to wait around to be poisoned either. They’d scatter, run, leak out the hole in the barrier he’d just made and the whole trip would be pointless. He realized his instinct about doing it at the tire pit had been the right one. He told himself it was mercy that made him wait, but some part of him insisted it was weakness. He couldn’t kill them all. How could he? He had willingly walked into this role, but he couldn’t really remember why. He’d known how it would end, even a month ago. And now it was here. He sat up and crept to the truck. He slid into the cab waking Father Preston.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he confessed.

Father Preston nodded. “This is not what I wanted either. We’re out of options. We can’t let them go. They’ll expose other groups if they haven’t already. We could lock them up and try to care for them, but we both know we only have a week— maybe ten days left until we start showing symptoms ourselves. They’ll starve. It will be very painful. Or we can follow through with the plan and it will be over by tomorrow night or the day after.”

“How are we supposed to do this without panicking them? Just herd them into a building and hope they stay?”

Father Preston glanced out the window. “We could do it now, Vincent. They are all here in a group. It’s too dark for them to wander far even if they woke up. Maybe they won’t wake up. Maybe they’ll just sleep and never get up.”

“And tomorrow? What do we do with the bodies? And how do we get the truck into the City?”

Father Preston peered out the dark windshield. “I’m pretty sure the hole is big enough now, but even if not, it would take you and I no more than an hour to shift enough of what’s left. As for the bodies— Didn’t the man who gave you the poison say it would wipe out everything, sterilize everything?”

“Yes,” said Vincent, “but we can’t
leave
them here—”

“It’s too much,” said Father Preston, “We can’t bury them all. We’ll never finish before we turn. And there’s the rest of the City to cover. We have to let it go. We have to hope that they will rest here, at the gate. Maybe they will be a warning to anyone who comes looting or for curiosity’s sake.”

“You can’t be serious, Father. You know how important burial is—”

Father Preston laid a heavy hand on Vincent’s shoulder. “Yes, I know. I also know that millions of people died during the Plague and were never buried. That people die every day in the empty wilderness beyond our Colony with nobody to bury them or mourn them. I told you I wanted to help. I wanted to be worthy. You told me to put aside ceremony and find out what practical use I could be. We have a task to do. A dreadful, sad, important task. We are the only ones left who can do it. We must save ceremony for another time. God will understand.”

Vincent took a deep breath and then nodded. Father Preston handed him a suit of plastic. “I’ll wake Lisa,” he said, “she can turn on the sprayer for us. You and I can climb to the top of the rubble with the hose.”

Father Preston began pulling his own suit on and grabbed a third for Lisa. Vincent slid into the slick plastic, careful to seal each seam. He got out of the truck and slowly uncoiled the heavy hose loop by loop. It hissed against the gravel as he pulled it up the jagged chunks of concrete toward the top of the Barrier, but it was too quiet for any but himself to hear. Father Preston quickly joined him, a rustling, faceless ghost. They hovered over the sleeping Infected from the top of the wall. Vincent winced as the sprayer rumbled to life when Lisa turned it on, but most of the sleeping people simply shifted. The rest didn’t even move. He supposed it was too late to worry about it now, if they woke up, he’d still have to finish what he’d started. He turned the hose on, aiming it high so that it fell on them in a thin mist instead of a rain. He could smell it, even through the mask. At first, it was pleasant. The scent of fresh cut grass. It made him think of his father on a Saturday or football practice when he was a child. But the smell intensified, became acrid. They let the mist fall for some time, more willing to risk overdoing it than underdoing it. The first coughs started as Lisa turned off the truck and Vincent recoiled the hose.

He stood guard, waiting for the panic, waiting for the people to start running. Most of them only coughed in great croupy gasps, then turned to reposition and fell asleep again. Some didn’t even do that much, their lips slowly bluing and their bodies cooling under their blankets. Vincent was relieved that it was so peaceful. He knew he looked frightening in his suit and he prayed it wouldn’t be the last thing that they saw. He stood still until the sky dulled to pale gray. Then he bent over each face and checked. Vincent tucked each one into their sleeping bag, as far as they could fit and zipped them in an apologetic version of a shroud. He didn’t want to leave anyone to wake up alone. Lisa and Father Preston carefully moved a few more chunks of rubble until the sprayer could fit through the gate. Satisfied that they were each gone, Vincent trudged behind the sprayer. They stopped inside the gate to pull the spray arm down. Vincent grabbed one of the portable tanks and poured in a canister of chloropicrin. He helped strap it to Father Preston’s back, and then prepared his own.