What Survives of Us (Colorado Chapters Book 1) (9 page)

Quinn sat up, his eyes running over her frantically.  “Are you hurt?  Did they hit you?”

“No–you?”
              “I’m fine.”

Grace kept their speed high but not reckless for several minutes, squinting against the wind whipping into the wide-open cab of the truck.  Then, she surprised herself with a hiccup of laughter.  “Can’t say the same for the chicken, I’m afraid.”

Quinn just stared at her for a moment, incredulous.  Then he, too, gulped out a laugh.  Then another.  They were both whooping, tears streaming, by the time Grace pulled back in the driveway at the Harris ranch.  She parked the truck and leaned against the steering wheel, wheezing.  “That poor thing – I thought it was going to lay a dozen eggs back there!”

“Are you kidding me?  That chicken was so scared, it’ll never lay an egg again!  Besides, they’ve probably already got it turning on the rotisserie over at the deli!”

The image set them both off again.  Quinn quieted first.  The troubled frown on his face shut Grace’s laughter off like a switch had been thrown.

“What is it?”

“Why did they shoot like that?”  He rubbed his chest.  “Could you feel it?  I knew they were going to shoot as soon as I saw them.  I could…feel it.  In my chest and in my gut.  They felt like…”  He shot her a sideways glance, as if he feared ridicule or disbelief.  “They felt like predators.  They didn’t think of us as people.  I could see it in their eyes.”  He looked down.  “That sounds stupid.”

“No, Quinn, it doesn’t.  I knew, too.”  Grace stared into space for a few moments, thinking back over the incident.  The way her brain had slowed everything down so she could analyze all the pieces, her absolute surety that they would shoot.  She had read about such phenomena among survivors of catastrophes or high-stress situations. 

She glanced over at Quinn, reluctant to share the other negative hypothesis she had reached.  But if they were going to make it, they needed to look at the reality they’d been dealt head-on.  “Do you think that’s why we didn’t find any other survivors?  Maybe they’ve been killing them, to hoard all the resources for themselves?”

“Yeah.”  Quinn didn’t hesitate.  “I thought of that, too.”  He looked over at her.  “They’ll come here.  To take what we have.  We need to go.”

Grace was nodding before he finished speaking.  “We’ll get ready tomorrow and leave as soon as we can.”

              Someone was shuffling cards.  Jack shifted, then stretched, trying to blink open his gummy eyes.  He felt so very, very strange – weak, shaky, hungry and holy cow – so sore!  He stopped moving and decided to just open his eyes…only to find himself in a gypsy caravan wagon.  He blinked up at the rich, jewel colors of the canopy over his head, completely lost.

             
The sound of cards shuffling drew his attention again, and he turned his head.  Oh, good Lord.

Layla was sitting at a delicate scroll-work table, in front of a window draped with antique lace and sparkling multi-colored beads.  She had one leg drawn up, her bare foot tucked on the inside of her thigh.  The window was open, and a warm breeze wafted in, stirring the lace, the beads, and Layla’s hair.  She frowned in concentration at the cards she was laying out in a pattern, then sat back, alternately gazing out the window and back down at the cards.

Jack would lay odds she wasn’t playing solitaire. He pushed up on his elbows, struggling to sit up – if he was going to berate her for using those tool-of-the-Devil Tarot cards in his presence, he wasn’t going to do it lying down – and instead ended up flat on his back, stars floating and darting in his vision, gasping as bands of pain tightened across his chest.

“Oh!”  A clatter, and she was by his side.  “You’re awake!”

“I am,” he gritted, blinking to clear his vision.  “Where am I?  What happened?  I feel like someone beat the tar out of me.”

Layla sat down beside him on the bed, casual and familiar, like she had every right.  She reached out to feel his
forehead.  “You’re at my house.  Rowan helped me get you over here.”

“Rowan?” He remembered a woman’s voice, harried, impatient and compassionate all at the same time.  “Rowan Lee, Dr. Derber’s PA?”

“Yes.  A bunch of the kids went to your house looking for you, and found you passed out on your kitchen floor.  One of them thought to call me, and I called Rowan.  We brought you here so I could look after you.”

“Passed out?  What?”  It was hard not to panic; where his memory should be was just a reddish, hazy blur.  “Did I fall?  Was there some kind of accident?”

She gazed at him silently for a moment.  “You don’t remember.”

“No!  Why would I ask if I remembered?”  His gaze darted around the room, looking for anything that would point him towards stable ground.  Bohemian colors rioted everywhere – he should have known this was Layla’s room the instant he opened his eyes.  “And while I’m asking questions, why does my mouth taste like a goat’s rear end?”

Layla smiled sadly and turned towards the bedside table, picking up a drinking glass with a straw in it.  She slipped her hand under Jack’s head and held the straw to his lips.  “It’s just water, but it’ll help.  If you feel up to it later, you can sit up and I’ll bring you a toothbrush and a basin.”

Bring him a toothbrush?  Why wouldn’t he just get up and go to the bathroom to brush his teeth?  Jack sipped the water, watching her with narrowed eyes.

She took a deep breath.  “You survived the plague, Jack.  You’re one of only three that Rowan knows about that survived.  Do you remember the plague?”

If he hadn’t already been lying down, this would have taken his legs out from under him.  Memory flooded back.  The tense waiting; comforting parishioners with friends and family in the Springs; waking night after night, gripped by a dreadful premonition, a terrible “knowing;” then, the news that it had spread…

“The Witts were sick,” he blurted.  “I remember.  I visited them.  Then…”  He trailed off, and looked up at Layla, really looked at her for the first time.

She had aged a decade.  Her face was lined with exhaustion and sorrow, and the loss in her dark eyes was fathoms deep.  She reached out again and smoothed her hand over his forehead as if checking for fever, avoiding his gaze.  Jack blinked, startled by the strength and chaos of the feelings he sensed from her.  Joy and misery, in equal parts.  He had no idea what to make of it.

“How long was I sick?”

“Over three weeks.  We found you on April 10
th
.  Today is the 4
th
of May.  We weren’t sure you’d make it until about a week ago.”  Layla smiled, and her eyes suddenly filled with tears.  “And I wasn’t sure you’d open your eyes and be snarky again until about five minutes ago.  Excuse me.”

She stood up abruptly and left the room.  Jack watched her swift retreat, then stared at the patchwork canopy, processing, remembering, wondering.  His parents in Wisconsin?  They were elderly, and his dad especially was in poor health.  Had they made it?  Phone service had been problematic, he remembered, the lines overwhelmed.  His youth group kids?  The predictions of mortality rates had been so dire – surely the officials had exaggerated…

Layla came back in the room carrying a tray, which she set on the bedside table.  “I brought some essential oil of peppermint – you can swish that around in your mouth until I find a toothbrush.  And I brought some chicken broth – do you think you can eat?”

Jack’s stomach answered with a tremendous growling rumble, and they both laughed.  He rose on his elbows and Layla moved to help him, lifting under his arms, helping him slide back against the pillows she swiftly propped up behind him.  The simple exercise left him gasping and chasing stars in his vision again.

“Why does it hurt so bad?” He choked.  “My ribs?”

“You strained them coughing.  We can wrap them if it’ll make you more comfortable.  Rowan didn’t want to restrict your breathing in any way while you were recovering, so she just left them be.”

“Okay.”  He nodded towards the chicken broth.  “I’d like to try some of that – it smells good.”

Just holding the warm mug made his arms shake with fatigue.  He sipped, and closed his eyes as the fragrant, rich broth spread soothing warmth down his throat and into his stomach.  “So good.  Is that rosemary?”  She nodded, and he sipped again.  “You’d better get it over with, Layla.  Just tell me.  How bad is it?”

Layla stood up and walked to the window, arms wrapped around her middle, shoulders hunched.  She had lost weight; her jeans hung loosely on her hips, and her spine and shoulder blades cut sharp bumps in the light t-shirt she wore.  She turned to face him, and the dappled sunshine coming in the window didn’t soften the terrible grief on her face.

“As bad as they said it would be.  We haven’t had any contact outside of Woodland Park for a while, but before the internet went down, there were millions reported dead, here in the U.S. and all over the world.”

“Millions…”  Jack’s whole body went weak, and he fumbled to set the mug on the bedside table.  Layla moved to help him, and sat down again, her hip resting against his thigh.  She seemed perfectly comfortable touching him.  “An exaggeration, surely…”

Layla shook her head and curled her hands with his, both comforting and seeking comfort.  “No.  By now, it’s probably billions.  Less than 1 in 100 people survived, Jack, and most of those were immune – we never got it.  You recovered, but Rowan only knows of two more here in Woodland Park.  A woman who made it here from the Springs before Highway 24 closed, and one of our kiddos – James.  Other than that, everyone who got sick died, usually within a few days.”

Jack tipped his head back and tried to take it in, tried to imagine it, tried…and couldn’t.  “This is a dream,” he choked, “Isn’t it?  A really bad dream?”

“No.”  Layla’s tone was gentle, but she wasn’t going to allow him his fantasy.  “At last count, there were just over 100 of us here in town.  Rowan says there may be more – she’s been traveling non-stop, you can’t believe how tireless she’s been – but I don’t think so.  We’re both hoping, when the plague burns itself out, that some of us can go down and open up 24…”

“Why is it closed?  What happened?”

“From what we hear, people tried to get out of the Springs in droves after the plague left the city, and some of them died behind the wheel.  The vehicles started piling up, people tried to go around – you know how narrow it gets, though, just outside of Manitou Springs – and last we heard, the road was completely impassable.  We thought people might try for Rampart Range Road or Old Stagecoach Road, but no one has shown up via those routes yet.  We’ve had a lot of rain – they could be washed out by now, with no one maintaining them.”

He was not going to start listing all the people he knew, so she could tell him “yes” or “no.”  He just couldn’t face it yet.  “What else?”

“Well, we still have water, but the power’s out, so we’ve been rigging up generators.  Rowan’s brother Alder survived, too – he used to work at the Walmart in the hardware department, so he has a little know-how – and he’s been helping to get the survivors grouped together and set up with the generators we do have.”

“Police?  Firemen?  Other clergy?”

“None that we know of.”  She smiled sadly.  “You’re the only game in town, as far as authority figures go.”

Jack closed his eyes.  There was no way he could assimilate all this.  He didn’t want to.  If he could just take one step back in time, all of this would go away, and they could go back to the way things were.  To a time when plagues were third-world problems, when modern medicine could fix just about anything, and when the biggest problems he faced were confused, angry teenagers and a problematic relationship with the local Witch/English teacher.

Layla continued.  “We haven’t been able to reach your family – Alder went to your house and looked around until he found your address book, I hope that’s okay – but we do think that immunity to the plague occurred along genetic lines, so you should be hopeful.  About half the time, survivors are members of the same family – a mother and daughter, or brother and sister.  Of course we don’t have enough data to confirm that yet – Rowan plans to gather it, when she gets a chance, but she’s the only one with any medical training left alive, so…”  She trailed off, and Jack could feel her scrutiny.  “What is it?  Jack?”

He was panting.  He pulled his hands away from hers and pushed up against the pillows, ignoring the tearing pain in his chest.  “Was it the Rapture?”  His deepest fear erupted out of him.  He clutched the sheet over his chest, in the grip of the kind of terror he had never experienced, his body alternately flushing and chilling, shivering and going rigid.  “Did the Rapture occur?  Have I been left behind?”

Layla blinked at him.  “The Rapture?  As in from the book of Revelations?”

“Yes!”  He reached out and clutched her arms with a strength he shouldn’t have possessed.  “Are there any other Christians left, or am I the only one?  Was I too flawed?  Did God deem me unworthy?  Did the trumpet sound, the archangel shout?”

“Jack, you need to calm down-”

“I don’t need to calm down!  I need to know!  Has the Tribulation begun?”

“Jack!”  Layla grasped his shoulders and shook him, hard.  “Shut up and listen to me!  I know you’re in shock, and having trouble taking this all in, but you can’t go off like that!  Not even here, in private!  People are scared enough without all that bullshit!”

“’Bullshit,’ is it?  Not to some of us.” 

Jack narrowed his eyes as the worst of suspicions occurred to him.  She wouldn’t have.  She couldn’t have.  His eyes flew around the room, and his suspicions grew.  There, on the bedside table:  Crystals, clustered at the base of an aloe plant and a Gardenia in a pot, along with some acorns.  His eyes flew upwards:  A sprig of some herbs, wrapped in orange and gold ribbons, tied over his head – there were more in a garland over the bedroom door.  And there, on her ridiculous, curly table by those God-forsaken cards:  hundreds of charms wrapped around a vase with willow branches spraying out of it, a tiny pot of rosemary, and an incense burner.

“Why did I survive, Layla?” he rasped.  “Tell me you didn’t call in Satan, and sacrifice my immortal soul.  Tell me you didn’t bargain with the Devil to save my physical life at the price of my eternity with God!”

Layla shot off the bed and staggered back several steps, one hand flying to her throat.  She opened her mouth, but no words came out.  After a moment, she straightened her spine, and her chin lifted; dignity settled on her shoulders like a protective cloak, even as tears shone in her eyes.

“There is no Devil in the Craft I practice.  I apologize for setting up elements I thought would help you.  I did not weave a healing spell – that would require your permission.”  She reached up and began untying the bundle of herbs from above his head.  “I’ll remove these so they don’t disturb you any more.”

Jack watched her, eyes still narrowed suspiciously.  Her apology seemed sincere,
felt
genuine, but Satan was gifted at misdirection.  “What are those things?”

The bundle of herbs came free in her hands.  “Thyme, for courage, and basil, for protection from the pain.”  She moved to the bedside table.  “Aloe, for healing; gardenia, to bring comfort to one who is ill; acorns for strength; and clear quartz, the ‘all-healer,’ to guard against the loss of your vitality and to draw out your pain.”

She started to leave the room, and Jack gestured to the table.  “You forgot that stuff.  Get rid of all of it.”

Layla looked over at the table, sighed, then looked back at him.  “No.  Those are for me, and they stay.  Incense of cypress, to lessen the grief of death.  Willow, for sorrow.  Rosemary, for rememberance.  The charms are for people I’ve lost.  People we’ve lost.  Friends.  Students.  People who may not have any one else to remember them.  If my altar makes you uncomfortable, look the other way.”