The Days and Months We Were First Born- the Unraveling (4 page)

“I
’
ll certainly try, sir.”

There was an awkward pause.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to go and find my parents.”

We shook hands, and then I walked on.

Mr. Kingston watched as I crossed into my parents’ lawn. And it was déjà vu on the same day.

***

I rang the bell, and I could hear the chime resonate throughout the house. I stood at the door, anticipating the sound of footsteps at any moment.

After thirty seconds, nothing. Not a thing.

I rang again.

Still
,
nothing.

Three minutes later, I
went to the other side of the house to grab the spare
key.
It was hidden under a garden figure—a meter-tall, plastic turtle playing a saxophone. My mother spotted the thing at a yard sale one day, and she
had
to have it.
You should have seen her when she took the thing to our car. You would have thought we were bringing home a fountain of youth that poured chocolate.

I opened the front door after struggling a few seconds with the key. The damn thing always gave me trouble.

I stepped inside and looked around.

Everything was in its familiar place. There was the brown marble flooring at my feet, the mahogany dining set to my left, the living room with black leather furniture to my right, and dead ahead were the twin metal staircases that led to the bedrooms and study. Right underneath the second level, where the staircases met at the top, was the digital picture frame that rotated the images of my family. The pictures were in black and white, and we each had big smiles. Beyond the staircases were the kitchen, the entertainment room, and a small bathroom with the door closed. I could also see the rail of the back deck and the horizon of the blue ocean through the patio door.

This was my parents’ dream home. They bought it in 2056, after the large estates of Southampton were broken into seaside neighborhoods. As a family, we drove out from Manhattan to spend weekends and large swaths of summer at our getaway house. But as the years went on, my brother and sisters grew older, had families of their own, and moved to different parts of the world; I graduated from high school, found roommates, and began college at NYU; and my parents retired from their jobs, sold their condo in the city, and moved to Long Island to live full-time.

During the holidays, my brother and sisters flew in, and we all stayed together under one roof.

My nieces and nephews, five in total, ran all over the place. My father and brother watched sports in the entertainment room. My mother and sisters had long talks in the living room. And for the most part, I was in my bedroom, either on the phone with a girl or reading a book on my e-reader. (I had no patience for loud kids, no attention span for chatty women, and no interest at all in sports.)
.

However, when it was dinnertime, we all sat at the mahogany table, and enjoyed our meal as a
whole
family.

The house was in order, but my parents were
gone.
So I began to search for clues.

I checked the bulletin board in the kitchen. The board was always a good spot to start. My mother chronicled her life with the thing; she was very meticulous in that way. But when I reached board, it was blank. The thing was as blank as the day it was
made.
There wasn’t even a pushpin. I shook my head in disbelief. It was complete blasphemy.

I went to check the communications console, a wooden desk in the living room with two mobile phone docks and a small screen for video conferencing. It was where my parents had called me from the day before. I figured if anything, someone at least had left a message. But when I reached console, it wasn’t functioning. The screen was black and there wasn’t
a
dial tone. Everything was connected properly, but still, nothing.

Next, I went upstairs to my parents’ bedroom. As I walked through the door, the motion detector turned the lights on. And inside, the room was neat. Professionally neat. As if no one had ever slept there. The large, blue quilted bed; the handsome, hard-plastic furniture; and the neat pictures on the walls. It was all so very perfect.

All except for one thing.

It was a piece of paper, half-tucked under the pillows on the left side of the bed.

I walked over, grabbed the suspect object, then I unfolded it. It was a note, written in my mother’s handwriting:

To anyone who finds this,

Donald and I are out to sea. We took the
Voyager Jacob
to spend our final days sailing the Atlantic. It was what we had always wanted. To our friends, we thank you for being in our lives. You have made our years here in Southampton so memorable. To our children and grandchildren, we will miss you so much, and wish we could have seen you again. But it is fitting that we remember each other for the best of times, and not for what has fallen upon our family. To those who may survive, never forget the proud people you came from. Carry the torch forward, and represent us well in your hearts and in your actions. For the last time in this life,

Olivia Jacob

July 29, 2068

I put the letter down and sat at the edge of my parents’ bed. They took the sailboat. They took the damn sailboat and couldn’t have waited two days for me to see them one last time.

I felt alone. Small. Abandoned. The other members of my family were in different countries. There was no chance to see them. I accepted that. But my parents were a day away. They had to have known. They had to have known I would come for them, and still, they left. My last chance to see another Jacob in this life was gone.

***

I ate the food my parents had left behind. There was enough for me to prepare a simple meal of spaghetti. I took two bottles of wine from my father’s stash in the basement. One was a Riesling from Germany; the other was a Chardonnay from Mexico. I also slept in my parents’ bedroom. I
’d
always wanted to sleep in their plush, king-sized bed, and the reasoning was clear:
It’s either now or never.

In the bed
,
I watched television. And of course, the news was the only thing on. In Tokyo, the police were overrun by mobs and the city had devolved into anarchy. The same thing was happening in Tehran, London, Paris, Beijing, and Buenos Aires. Every few minutes
,
a government announcement interrupted the broadcast. The announcement listed the locations of emergency distribution centers. The wine put me to sleep around midnight.

***

I woke
in
the
still light
of
dawn,
took a shower, did the dishes, and straightened whatever mess I had made. I left everything in pla
ce, including my mother’s note.
It was a slim chance, but I figured someone else from my family might show up one day. They would want to know what happened just as I had
.

My parents had left their car in the garage, but I
didn’t
take
it.
Instead, I flipped the sandwich sign over and wrote:
HEADED BACK TO THE CITY TO BE WITH DYING GIRLFRIEND.
I imagined it
would be more effective
than:
HEADED BACK TO THE CITY TO BE WITH WITHDRAWN GIRLFRIEND
.

Outside, I placed the key back under the turtle, then I walked around the house. While in the back
,
I took a moment to gaze at the ocean. The surface was blue-gray and vast, and the waves crashed gently against the white sand beach. My parents were out there somewhere, never to return. Solemn reflection overtook me. My old life had vanished so fast.

Mr. Kingston was out on his back deck. He was sitting in a wooden recliner, and he had what looked like a glass of tea in his hand. I waved at him, and he waved back.

I wondered what he was thinking as he watched me on the beach. What was going through that old man’s head? But I had no desire to strike up another conversation. Instead, I continued to the street.

Before leaving the block, I turned behind me and took one last look at my parents’ house. And in a whisper, I said, “I love you,”
to the family no longer there.

The Last New York Friend

When I returned to New York City,
I returned to stay. My attachment to my hometown was strong, and I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. The virus was everywhere. The hell was everywhere. And since everywhere was hell, I thought it’d be best if I stuck to the hell I knew. If my parents had been home, it would have been different. I would have listened to my father, borrowed the car to snatch Julie, and returned with her to Long Island. I’m not saying that things would have been better if it had turned out that way; actually, to see my parents die in front of me…that would have been a lot worse. But still, things certainly would have been different.

Back at Julie’s, I
resumed
calling relatives. And still, no luck when it came to my sisters and cousin. When I dialed their numbers, the buzz of before was replaced with:
Service to this line is no longer available. Goodbye.

It was final. There was nothing more I could do. I’ll never know what happened to them or their families.

However,
finally, I reached
my brother
Paul. He actually called me on August 1
st
. We were elated to hear from each other. We both yelled like children at the sound of the other’s voice. This excitement lasted an entire minute,
and
then we settled into a conversation.

Paul said he had borrowed someone’s satellite phone. (Paul was in San Francisco. He was a freelance engineer and was working on a project.). He said he, his wife, Maribel
,
and son, Travis
,
were infected. And he said I was the only one he could reach.

I told him I was immune. I told him our parents were infected. And I told him I tried to see our parents, but had discovered that they were out to sea.

Paul was happy for me. He sobbed with joy after hearing that at least one of us was going to be spared. And once again, I felt guilt. Who was I to be so fortunate, if you could call it that? Why did this thing skip over me, while so many others were destined to perish? It made no sense. No sense whatsoever.

Paul was also pleased to hear that our parents were out to sea. He thought it was romantic and fitting for our parents to enjoy the end together, and in such an adventurous way. He was right in the middle of explaining how he secured rations for his family when the line went dead.

My network had chosen that moment to shut down. I screamed at my PCD. It took everything in me to refrain from throwing the damn thing against the wall. That was it for talking to my loved ones.

***

On the morning of August
4th,
I discovered Julie dead. She had hanged herself from the living room ceiling while I was asleep. She had used the
belt
from her lavender robe, and had tied it to a wooden beam. She had kicked one of the dining chairs out from under her. It was on the floor, lopsided, a meter from her feet. She was naked. Her smooth and slightly plump body was naked. I couldn’t see her face. Her hair was out of its customary ponytail. It was like a drawn curtain.

The night before, I had decided to brave it out and sleep in the bed with her, despite her silence, despite the awkwardness. I wanted to show Julie that I was there,
there for her
, and that we would get through this.

I knew that I could have handled things better. Leaving her on the floor after the phone call from her mother, getting tested without her, heading to Long Island while leaving her in Harlem alone, sleeping on the couch; it was all so selfish, so inappropriate. I was an
asshole.
Things were off to a terrible start, at a terrible time, and it was my intention to change this. We needed each other. We needed to bounce back. This was what I had wanted her to see.

But the only thing Julie
saw
was an opportunity. She felt she had lived long enough. That it was time to go. And with me in the bedroom, she didn’t have to worry about me interfering. That empty shell of a woman wasn’t so empty after all.

I had to stand on the back of the lov
e seat to reach and cut Julie do
wn. She hit the floor with an ungraceful thud, and I was upset at myself for being so careless. I wrapped her body in the Venezuelan spread that she loved so much, I got dressed, and then I carried her out the apartment. I carried her to the elevator, through the hallway, through the lobby, down First Avenue, and all the way to a makeshift drop-off center on 120
th
Street. I carried her as if we were newly-weds. She was as heavy as a sack of lead, but her weight and my comfort was of no concern.

Julie was a great. She was a great daughter and sister. She was a great friend and artist. She was a great lover. And she damn sure was a great cook. She was a beautiful person, inside and out. She didn’t deserve for it to end like this.

Julie Silver, dead at 23.

***

After the drop-off
,
I returned to Julie’s apartment,
and it didn’t feel right the moment I stepped through the front door.
The
only thing that came to mind was:
This is my girlfriend’s place. This is my DEAD girlfriend’s place. I have got to get the fuck out
! So I packed a duffle bag full of essentials—some clothes, soap and
deodorant,
underwear and socks, and my e-reader—then I left.

I didn’t bother to go to Soho. There was nothing of value there, and it seemed inappropriate. I regret that decision now. I should have at least tried to see my roommates. Jack Goodman, Dominique Worthington, and Steve Peterson might have been potheads, but they were good-natured potheads, and they were also my friends. They had disappeared from my life like so many others: without a word, without a trace.

***

It hadn’t taken long for the chaos to finally breakthrough in New York. For the first few days, when I still lived with Julie, martial law
held.
The security was stifling in Manhattan, and rationing stations
had been set up
in the middle of city blocks
like street fairs.
I had to wait in long lines, but eventually, I was able to obtain food and supplies and return to the apartment with little trouble. But by August
2
nd
,
things started to turn for the worst.

So many people were infected, and the virus didn’t discriminate. Police officers, soldiers, politicians, rich people, poor people; the virus touched them all in one way or another. It spared the few who were immune while everyone else was doomed. And when you have a scenario where most people are going to die, could you really expect things to be held together? Could you fault a police officer for not protecting citizens, when he or she had a condemned family? Could you blame a soldier for quitting and returning home, if he or she was infected and wanted to be with the ones who mattered most? Could you sustain anger at a politician for losing interest in his or her leadership, when there would soon be no country, state, or city to lead? It’s hard to imagine how someone could. And like a chain that was broken, government collapsed at all levels.

As the government collapsed, the barely contained hell became uncontained
hell.
According to some of the stories I heard, many prisoners were rounded up from their cells and executed. They were systematically gunned down, regardless of their
sentence, if they were deemed a significant threat. But for every prisoner killed, several were released into the public. And these criminals, as well as maddened, everyday citizens, began terrorizing the city.

For most of these thugs, there was no future and there was no restraint—a very bad combination. New York became a playground for looting, robbing, rape, and murder. If people were not predators, they were prey; and if they couldn’t defend themselves,
that was too bad.

Faced with the prospect of starvation and vulnerability to violence, many people formed into militias, and other groups and gangs. These makeshift communities, made up of the infected and non-infected alike, tried to maintain order the best they could.

The
day Julie died, I joined one of the militias. I ran into a few of their patrollers as I was making my way to midtown. They called themselves The Last Standers, and their leader was Eric Wu, a former NYPD sergeant.

We were a thousand strong in the beginning, and every capable man or woman was assigned a role. We had patrollers who combated the criminals and rescued who they could; we had foragers who went into apartments, gathered supplies, and scouted where we were to sleep on a given night; we had childcare providers who watched over the children (many of these children were abandoned and
rescued
by our patrollers); we had commissaries who arranged our food and administered our supplies; and we had body removal who buried the de
ad whenever we ran across them.

I was assigned to body removal. We had a unit of sixteen men and four women, and we rode in a NYPD truck, a flatbed
barricade transport.
We wore hazmat suits that used to belong to one government agency or another,
and
four
armed
men guarded us
with automatic rifles
.
After we had gathered enough of the dead, we took them to different parks, dug trenches, and buried them. Our most frequent site of burial was Sheep Meadow in Central Park.

It was very hard work. We worked sunup
until
sundown with an hour lunch (if we could stomach to eat
),
and three thirty minute breaks. I used to love lunch and break time with a passion. I was only twenty-two years old, but my body had the aches of a man much older. Clearly, it was never my calling to do hard labor.

My first few days, the deaths we encountered were from suicide and violence. New York had no shortage of tall buildings. Jumpers were everywhere. And they were a
broken and bloody mess.
The deaths by violence were both diverse and disturbing.
I remember an
old couple from Battery Park City
who we found tied, gagged, and knifed up. Their apartment was smashed pretty ba
d, and their food and valuables were gone.

I remember a young family of five from Hell’s Kitchen who were murdered down to the infant. Husband, wife, young twin boys, and baby girl were forced to the floor in order, where they had had their throats slit
. The carpet was saturated with spo
iled blood
, and I was grateful to have a helmet protecting me from the toxic air.
It was awful. Three members of our unit quit that day. We also found individuals who were caught in their homes alone, at least two dozen. And often, both the men and the women were raped before they were murdered.

One of the more memorable things we encountered was the aftermath of a Kool-Aid party. It was at Club Pictures on 27
th
Street, between Tenth and Eleventh Avenues.
There were over five hundred and forty partygoers, and they all had had a last night out.

From the evidence, they had one hell of a time. There was an abundance of cigarette butts, drug refuse, bottles of alcohol, panties, and sex paraphernalia scattered throughout the venue. But for the grand finale, they all had drunk cyanide laced punch from champagne glasses.

It took us the entire day to clear out that club. The true tragedy was these people were
beautiful, a
nd in life, they had everything going for them. There were women who were obvious runway models. There were professional athletes whom anyone could have recognized from watching television. And there was even a famous star couple: Selma York and Gerald Lacoste.

Selma and Gerald were known for their tabloid headlines. You could hardly visit a newsstand or browse a newsfeed without reading something of this handsome couple. And now, here I was, removing their bodies. I have to hand it to them, though. They went out in style. They both were dressed in thousand dollar outfits. Gerald’s cologne was hypnotic
through my unfastened helmet
, and Selma’s makeup was perfect, even in death.

***

My last best friend in New York was David Patrov, a light-skinned man from the Republic of Oregon, with a medium height and build and a Harvard education. He was thirty, and had lived in Manhattan for five years. He was a classic Big Apple bachelor. He worked for one of the Chinese conglomerates on Wall Street as a negotiator, and he used to broker seven-figure deals with produce and commodities vendors. He boasted that he worked hard and played even harder. He said that his down time included frequent clubs, frequent vacations, frequent drugs, and very frequent women.

I liked David, not because of his enviable lifestyle, but because of our similarities. He was a mutt just as I am. Both our mothers were Black and our fathers were Jewish. The distinct difference is his father was from Russia, while my father was a native New Yorker. He also came from a big family. He had five sisters and three brothers. Three of his siblings stayed close to home, while the rest lived in different parts of the globe. And out of all his siblings, he was the only one who had yet to have children.