Breakdown, page 31
Chris smiled and held up his mug. “Michael brought some.”
“Oh, how wonderful. You boys had better not drink it all up before I’m well enough to have some,” she warned, shaking a finger at him. Chris assured her that he would save some for everyone.
“Can I do anything for you? Get you anything?”
“I’ve got water here,” she said, gesturing to the bottle and cup next to her on the table. “I’m not sure I’m ready for anything else yet, but I may want breakfast in the morning.”
“I’ll make you breakfast, then,” Chris said, “with coffee, if you want it.”
“How’s Pauline?”
“She’s sleeping.”
“She got ill, didn’t she?” Grace asked, and Chris couldn’t lie to her again.
“Yes, she was ill when we got here this morning. She’s doing okay.”
“She worked so hard, the first two days. She never got any rest. You need to get your rest, Chris, so you don’t get ill.”
“I will do, Mum. Michael’s sleeping now, and then I’ll take a turn.”
“How are George and Marie?”
“They’re doing fine, sleeping. I may be making you all breakfast. Wes just had a piece of toast.”
“Wes is here? Thank heavens. I was worried about him.”
“He’ll be up tomorrow, I think,” Chris said. “He’s doing great. Now, you go back to sleep, okay?” He tucked the covers in around her and went out, across the hall, into Pauline’s room.
She had thrown off the blanket. He started to cover her, then hesitated. She still wore the clothes she had been wearing in the morning. From the look of them, she’d been wearing them for days. Chris turned up the lamp and opened her bureau drawers until he found some soft pajamas. He sat down next to her on the bed and tried to wake her. She opened her eyes a bit, but didn’t seem to recognize him, and tried to roll over.
“Pauline, love, let’s get some comfy pajamas on you, okay?”
She seemed to wake up a bit while he was changing her trousers, slipping on the pajama bottoms.
“Is that you?” she asked, squinting at him.
“Yes, it’s me. I just wanted you to be more comfortable, okay?”
“That’s nice.”
Chris got her to sit up and pulled off her shirt over her head. She had another one under it. He took that off too. He put on the pajama top like a cape, buttoned it up, then reached under and unhooked her bra, slipping it down off her shoulders and arms. He put her arms in the sleeves. She was wearing the pendant he had given her.
“There you go—is that better?” he asked her, and she leaned forward and put her arms around him.
“Don’t go away again.”
Chris hugged her tight. “Never. I’m here to stay, darling.”
“I think I’m going to puke,” she said dreamily.
She didn’t puke, but she did retch some more, hanging off the side of the bed again, with Chris holding her.
“I’m thirsty,” she said when he had put her back onto her pillow. He gave her a few sips of water, wiped her face again. She looked at him with sleepy eyes. “I just want to get better.”
“I know. You are getting better. You’ll be okay. Go to sleep now.”
Chris turned down the lamp and settled in the armchair in the corner of the room. He spent the long night trying to keep dark thoughts at bay, getting up occasionally and making the rounds of the house, checking on everyone, stoking the stove, refilling his mug, chasing away the sleep that kept creeping up on him.
* * *
Chris awoke with a start in the chair in Pauline’s room, his heart pounding. The blackness had been invading the house, reaching for Pauline. He stood up, trying to dispel the dream’s images from his head. He swayed a little; the room danced. He looked out the window at the lightening sky. Pauline slept quietly. He used the loo and had a wash, then went downstairs. He woke up Michael, then went in to stoke up the stove and start more coffee.
“You can manage to make breakfast if anyone wants some, can’t you?” he asked when Michael finally came in, his hair damp from a quick wash upstairs.
“Absolutely. I am a man of many skills. Who’s going to want breakfast?”
“Wes will. He had toast last night. Mum said she might, too.”
“That’s good news,” Michael said. “How’s Pauline?”
“Sleeping better this morning.”
“Good. You’re going to bed?”
“I have to do the chores in the barn.”
“Couldn’t I do them?”
“Do you know what they are?”
“Um, well, it’s been a few years, but I could probably figure them out,” Michael said and shrugged.
“I’ll do them. I dozed some.” Chris took off his shoes and put on George’s wellies, got his jacket, and went out.
When he came back in, Michael had folded all the laundry and washed up the dishes from last night, and had the coffee ready. Chris put the eggs on the table.
“They usually take some down to the village to trade, but I don’t suppose there’s much of that going on. We may as well eat them.” He shrugged out of his coat. “One of the cows is off its feed. And one of the hens is missing. I don’t know if they ate her or if she’s setting a clutch somewhere.”
Michael gave him an odd look.
“What?”
“Okay, Farmer Price. You have cow shit on your trousers, by the way. You want something to eat?”
“I do,” Wes said from the doorway, holding up the underwear that was too big for him.
“You’ll want your clothes first, I expect,” Michael said and got him his trousers, underwear, socks, and shirt.
“How do you feel?” Chris asked him.
“I’m hungry,” Wes insisted, getting dressed by the stove. “I want scrambled eggs and toast. With jam.”
“I’m on it,” Michael said. “Chris, what can I make for you?”
Chris sat down at the table, exhausted. “Nothing for me. Come here, Wes.”
Wes hesitated, then went over to him. Chris reached out to feel his forehead.
Wes pulled away. “I’m not ill anymore.”
“I just want to feel for a fever.”
“I’m not ill.”
Chris gave up. “Well, you don’t seem so.”
“Did you think we were all going to die?” Wes asked him.
Chris straightened up in his chair, and Michael stood still with a frying pan in his hand. They stared at Wes.
“Um, well, no, of course not,” Chris said, with a glance at Michael.
“Usually people die when they get the plague, right?” Wes said.
“I’ve had it, and I didn’t die,” Michael told him.
“But mostly they do,” Wes said to him. “My mum and dad died, and so did my sister and my uncles.”
“No one here is going to die,” Chris said to him. “Lots of people do die, and it’s scary. But not everyone. Okay?”
Wes nodded. “You look tired.”
“Yes, he’s just off to bed,” Michael said.
“I am.” Chris heaved himself out of the chair and picked up his rucksack, which was still on the floor where Michael had left it the day before. It seemed heavier than it had. He steadied himself with a hand on the wall. “God, I’m tired.”
“The couch is quite nice; you were right,” Michael said.
“I’m going up,” Chris told him, and Michael glanced at him, then nodded.
“Ah, right. I’ll check in on the others once I get Wes fed. Oh, and that nickname? I figured it out.” He flashed a grin. Chris was too tired to care.
It seemed to take a long time to get up the stairs. Chris took his pack into Pauline’s room, set it in the corner. He went to turn the lamp down and noticed the pictures she kept there. The one of Pauline and Michael dressed up was gone, replaced by the one he had sent her. He was onstage, flashing a smile at whoever was taking the picture, one hand on his guitar, the other on the microphone. His dark-blue shirt contrasted with the red lights behind him. A spotlight lit his face perfectly. He could just make out Ace and Gordy in the background. It was a brilliant shot.
Chris glanced over at Pauline in the bed, turned down the lamp, and dropped his trousers by the closet. He slipped carefully into bed on the other side, settled down onto the pillow, looked over at her for a moment. She didn’t wake up, and he closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind of all the worry and fear of the last two days, tried to convince himself that what he had said to Wes was really true, that no one here was going to die. But he had lived through too many outbreaks, and he found it hard to believe. In spite of his exhaustion, sleep was a long time coming.
* * *
“What are you doing up?” Michael asked as Chris came down to the kitchen. “It’s not even two. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, I was awake is all.” Chris flopped into a chair at the table without getting his shoes. He grimaced at a bad smell in the kitchen. Something must have burned on the stove.
“You’ve hardly had six hours,” Michael said.
“I’m all right.”
“You want some lunch?”
Chris shrugged. “Where’s Wes?”
“He said he was going to make sure you did all the chores right,” Michael said with a grin. “I think he just wanted to look for that hen. You should eat something. You didn’t have breakfast.”
“I suppose. Is there any bread left?”
“Sure. You want a sandwich?”
“No, just bread, maybe some jam.”
Michael got him a plate and cut him a slice of bread. “Coffee?”
Chris reached for the jam and a knife. “Yeah, coffee.”
Michael poured him coffee and set the mug in front of him. “I’ve got everything under control, here, Price, if you want to go back to bed.”
“I wasn’t really sleeping.”
“You seem a bit off.”
“I’m still tired, but I’m all right.”
“Mum’s up.”
“Yeah? Great.”
“She’s in the sitting room, resting. She helped me make muffins earlier. One thing I never did learn to make properly.”
Chris sipped his coffee. “I’ll go in and see her in a bit.”
“I’m just going out to see what Wes is up to and get a bit more wood in, then I thought I should scrub this floor.”
“Sure, I’ll give you a hand.”
Michael went out. Chris forced himself to eat the bread. Michael was right, he needed to eat. His head felt muzzy. He wondered if maybe he should go back to bed, but he thought about the series of dreams that had disturbed his sleep. He didn’t want to go through them again just yet. He drank the coffee, hoping the caffeine would clear his head. When he finished, he pushed himself up from the table and went in to see Grace.
She sat in the easy chair, a blanket over her knees, her eyes closed. She opened them as he came in and smiled.
“It’s good to see you up,” Chris said.
“Well, out of bed, anyway. Still not much good, I’m afraid.”
“Take your time; don’t push yourself.”
“Are you all right, dear?”
“I’m a little tired, still,” he admitted. “Did you get your coffee?”
She sighed. “Oh, yes. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
The floor tilted. Chris had to take a step to keep from falling over. He reached out for a handhold, but found nothing.
“I’m not used to the caffeine,” he said. He sagged down onto the couch. Things in the corners of his vision fell apart into jagged pieces.
“Maybe you should get some more sleep,” Grace said.
“I will do, after a while,” he said, putting his head back and closing his eyes. His stomach churned, and the couch began a slow, disconcerting roll. Chris broke into a sweat as kaleidoscope colors wheeled in his brain. No, no…it’s too soon…He took deep breaths, hoping it would pass, but it only got worse.
“Chris, are you all right?” he heard someone say. It sounded like Grace, but it couldn’t be Grace…she was upstairs in bed, wasn’t she?
He pushed up off the couch, used the walls and distorted doorways to brace himself, and lurched into the kitchen. The sink seemed a long way off, up a steep slant, past pinwheels of fire, but he made it, just barely, and vomited three times.
Chris hung on to the edge of the counter, found a cup, rinsed his mouth, spit into the sink. His legs had gone to rubber. He didn’t think he would make it to the table if he let go of the sink, so he stayed there, shaking. Amazingly, everything in the kitchen—chaos a moment ago—had returned to normal.
The back door opened. Cooper came in with an armload of wood.
Chris gasped as tendrils of black snaked in and coiled around the chair legs. “Close the door!”
“I did,” Cooper said. He dumped the wood into the woodbox, brushed his hands on his trousers. “You okay?”
“Where’s Jon?” Chris asked, panic growing.
“I think he’s ill, Michael,” Grace’s voice said from the doorway.
“How did you get here?” Chris asked.
Cooper stepped over writhing cables on the floor as if they weren’t there. He put his hand to Chris’s forehead and glanced into the sink. “Aw, crap. You just lost your lunch, didn’t you?”
Chris nodded, blinked. The kitchen had gone the wrong colors. Jon stayed behind. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit…” His knees chose that moment to buckle. He collapsed to the floor.
“Chris!” Cooper exclaimed, partly catching him. “Well, I guess we know which of us is safer, eh?”
“It’s too soon, isn’t it?” Pauline!
“Apparently not. You’re burning up.”
“Where’s Pauline?”
“She’s fine, Chris.”
“I left her behind—”
“No, she’s just upstairs. C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”
“I can’t walk.” The room seemed to be filling with fog. Where’s Jon?
“Hang on to me. Chris—?”
He couldn’t make his arms work either. The fog got thicker. Pauline… paulinepaulinepauline… The formless beast hissed and growled, then everything went black.
CHAPTER 33
“Hello, beautiful.” Michael smiled at Pauline from a chair next to her bed.
Pauline blinked to clear the cobwebs, and some of it started to come back to her.
“I’m thirsty.”
Michael held a cup for her to sip from. The cool water slid down her throat, the most wonderful thing she could imagine.
“Not too much,” Michael said, taking the cup away when she tried to drink it all. “Give it a minute to settle, then you can have some more.”
She remembered something even more wonderful, and her heart pounded. “Chris is here!”
“He’s downstairs, on the couch.”
“Send him up—I want to see him.”
Michael hesitated. “Ah, well, I can’t, love. He’s going to need a few days.”
“He got ill?”
“Intensely,” Michael admitted. “But, luckily, our plague seems to have turned into something a good deal less lethal. No deaths in the village, or here either, I’m happy to report.”
A sob welled up from deep within her. Worry and fear and relief all mixed together in a storm of emotion she couldn’t contain. She put her hands over her face and cried. Michael was there next to her in an instant, on the edge of the bed, patting her shoulder.
“There, there, Paulie, everything’s fine,” he cooed. “Don’t cry, sweetie. Everybody’s fine.”
She managed to sit up and grab him, and he put his arms around her. She wished they were Chris’s arms, but Michael’s familiar arms would do right now. She cried some more, then calmed herself. Michael handed her a handkerchief from her bedside table.
She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”
“You were under a hell of a strain, Paulie.” For once, Michael looked serious. “You did a great job. I’m proud of you.”
“Is Mum okay?”
“She’s fine, tucked up in a chair in the sitting room, keeping an eye on Chris.” Michael eased her back onto her pillow.
“George? Marie?”
“George is up and about today. Marie is still in bed, but doing great.”
“Wes?”
“He was up yesterday. Been a great help.”
“He was a big help to me, too.”
“I know; he told me all about it.”
“Can I have more water now?”
Michael filled the cup again and gave it to her. She sipped it slowly, as much as he would let her drink.
“What about you? You look like hell, Michael.”
Michael put a hand over his heart. “Oh, I’m hurt.”
“No really, are you getting enough rest?”
“Not at all. Overworked, overstressed. First time in my life, I have to say. And hopefully the last.” He smiled.
“Thank you, Michael,” she said, more tears coming.
“Good grief, don’t start again! Is there anything you need, sweetie?”
“I need to use the loo.”
“Well, that’s a good sign.” He helped her out of bed.
“How do you know about the village?”
“Freddie was here to check on everyone,” he said, keeping a hand on her arm. “Brought us a basket of goodies in exchange for one of the hens. I gave her some eggs, too. Can you walk?”
“Of course I can walk,” she said, but the hallway tilted, and she put a hand out to steady herself. “Okay, maybe I’m a bit dizzy. I can certainly manage in here by myself.” She shut the bathroom door firmly. When she came out, she went to her bedroom closet. She got out her warm robe and slippers.
“I take it you’re getting up?” Michael said from the doorway.
“I am. I’m going down to see Chris.” She stopped in front of the mirror above the bureau, made a face, and worked at her hair with the brush. She pulled it back and clipped it. While she was doing that, Michael had stepped closer. He stared at the pictures, then reached out and picked up the one of Chris, the one Jon had given her, and scrutinized it.
“Great picture. What, was he some sort of rock star or something?” He gave her a little grin.
“Oh, how wonderful. You boys had better not drink it all up before I’m well enough to have some,” she warned, shaking a finger at him. Chris assured her that he would save some for everyone.
“Can I do anything for you? Get you anything?”
“I’ve got water here,” she said, gesturing to the bottle and cup next to her on the table. “I’m not sure I’m ready for anything else yet, but I may want breakfast in the morning.”
“I’ll make you breakfast, then,” Chris said, “with coffee, if you want it.”
“How’s Pauline?”
“She’s sleeping.”
“She got ill, didn’t she?” Grace asked, and Chris couldn’t lie to her again.
“Yes, she was ill when we got here this morning. She’s doing okay.”
“She worked so hard, the first two days. She never got any rest. You need to get your rest, Chris, so you don’t get ill.”
“I will do, Mum. Michael’s sleeping now, and then I’ll take a turn.”
“How are George and Marie?”
“They’re doing fine, sleeping. I may be making you all breakfast. Wes just had a piece of toast.”
“Wes is here? Thank heavens. I was worried about him.”
“He’ll be up tomorrow, I think,” Chris said. “He’s doing great. Now, you go back to sleep, okay?” He tucked the covers in around her and went out, across the hall, into Pauline’s room.
She had thrown off the blanket. He started to cover her, then hesitated. She still wore the clothes she had been wearing in the morning. From the look of them, she’d been wearing them for days. Chris turned up the lamp and opened her bureau drawers until he found some soft pajamas. He sat down next to her on the bed and tried to wake her. She opened her eyes a bit, but didn’t seem to recognize him, and tried to roll over.
“Pauline, love, let’s get some comfy pajamas on you, okay?”
She seemed to wake up a bit while he was changing her trousers, slipping on the pajama bottoms.
“Is that you?” she asked, squinting at him.
“Yes, it’s me. I just wanted you to be more comfortable, okay?”
“That’s nice.”
Chris got her to sit up and pulled off her shirt over her head. She had another one under it. He took that off too. He put on the pajama top like a cape, buttoned it up, then reached under and unhooked her bra, slipping it down off her shoulders and arms. He put her arms in the sleeves. She was wearing the pendant he had given her.
“There you go—is that better?” he asked her, and she leaned forward and put her arms around him.
“Don’t go away again.”
Chris hugged her tight. “Never. I’m here to stay, darling.”
“I think I’m going to puke,” she said dreamily.
She didn’t puke, but she did retch some more, hanging off the side of the bed again, with Chris holding her.
“I’m thirsty,” she said when he had put her back onto her pillow. He gave her a few sips of water, wiped her face again. She looked at him with sleepy eyes. “I just want to get better.”
“I know. You are getting better. You’ll be okay. Go to sleep now.”
Chris turned down the lamp and settled in the armchair in the corner of the room. He spent the long night trying to keep dark thoughts at bay, getting up occasionally and making the rounds of the house, checking on everyone, stoking the stove, refilling his mug, chasing away the sleep that kept creeping up on him.
* * *
Chris awoke with a start in the chair in Pauline’s room, his heart pounding. The blackness had been invading the house, reaching for Pauline. He stood up, trying to dispel the dream’s images from his head. He swayed a little; the room danced. He looked out the window at the lightening sky. Pauline slept quietly. He used the loo and had a wash, then went downstairs. He woke up Michael, then went in to stoke up the stove and start more coffee.
“You can manage to make breakfast if anyone wants some, can’t you?” he asked when Michael finally came in, his hair damp from a quick wash upstairs.
“Absolutely. I am a man of many skills. Who’s going to want breakfast?”
“Wes will. He had toast last night. Mum said she might, too.”
“That’s good news,” Michael said. “How’s Pauline?”
“Sleeping better this morning.”
“Good. You’re going to bed?”
“I have to do the chores in the barn.”
“Couldn’t I do them?”
“Do you know what they are?”
“Um, well, it’s been a few years, but I could probably figure them out,” Michael said and shrugged.
“I’ll do them. I dozed some.” Chris took off his shoes and put on George’s wellies, got his jacket, and went out.
When he came back in, Michael had folded all the laundry and washed up the dishes from last night, and had the coffee ready. Chris put the eggs on the table.
“They usually take some down to the village to trade, but I don’t suppose there’s much of that going on. We may as well eat them.” He shrugged out of his coat. “One of the cows is off its feed. And one of the hens is missing. I don’t know if they ate her or if she’s setting a clutch somewhere.”
Michael gave him an odd look.
“What?”
“Okay, Farmer Price. You have cow shit on your trousers, by the way. You want something to eat?”
“I do,” Wes said from the doorway, holding up the underwear that was too big for him.
“You’ll want your clothes first, I expect,” Michael said and got him his trousers, underwear, socks, and shirt.
“How do you feel?” Chris asked him.
“I’m hungry,” Wes insisted, getting dressed by the stove. “I want scrambled eggs and toast. With jam.”
“I’m on it,” Michael said. “Chris, what can I make for you?”
Chris sat down at the table, exhausted. “Nothing for me. Come here, Wes.”
Wes hesitated, then went over to him. Chris reached out to feel his forehead.
Wes pulled away. “I’m not ill anymore.”
“I just want to feel for a fever.”
“I’m not ill.”
Chris gave up. “Well, you don’t seem so.”
“Did you think we were all going to die?” Wes asked him.
Chris straightened up in his chair, and Michael stood still with a frying pan in his hand. They stared at Wes.
“Um, well, no, of course not,” Chris said, with a glance at Michael.
“Usually people die when they get the plague, right?” Wes said.
“I’ve had it, and I didn’t die,” Michael told him.
“But mostly they do,” Wes said to him. “My mum and dad died, and so did my sister and my uncles.”
“No one here is going to die,” Chris said to him. “Lots of people do die, and it’s scary. But not everyone. Okay?”
Wes nodded. “You look tired.”
“Yes, he’s just off to bed,” Michael said.
“I am.” Chris heaved himself out of the chair and picked up his rucksack, which was still on the floor where Michael had left it the day before. It seemed heavier than it had. He steadied himself with a hand on the wall. “God, I’m tired.”
“The couch is quite nice; you were right,” Michael said.
“I’m going up,” Chris told him, and Michael glanced at him, then nodded.
“Ah, right. I’ll check in on the others once I get Wes fed. Oh, and that nickname? I figured it out.” He flashed a grin. Chris was too tired to care.
It seemed to take a long time to get up the stairs. Chris took his pack into Pauline’s room, set it in the corner. He went to turn the lamp down and noticed the pictures she kept there. The one of Pauline and Michael dressed up was gone, replaced by the one he had sent her. He was onstage, flashing a smile at whoever was taking the picture, one hand on his guitar, the other on the microphone. His dark-blue shirt contrasted with the red lights behind him. A spotlight lit his face perfectly. He could just make out Ace and Gordy in the background. It was a brilliant shot.
Chris glanced over at Pauline in the bed, turned down the lamp, and dropped his trousers by the closet. He slipped carefully into bed on the other side, settled down onto the pillow, looked over at her for a moment. She didn’t wake up, and he closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind of all the worry and fear of the last two days, tried to convince himself that what he had said to Wes was really true, that no one here was going to die. But he had lived through too many outbreaks, and he found it hard to believe. In spite of his exhaustion, sleep was a long time coming.
* * *
“What are you doing up?” Michael asked as Chris came down to the kitchen. “It’s not even two. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, I was awake is all.” Chris flopped into a chair at the table without getting his shoes. He grimaced at a bad smell in the kitchen. Something must have burned on the stove.
“You’ve hardly had six hours,” Michael said.
“I’m all right.”
“You want some lunch?”
Chris shrugged. “Where’s Wes?”
“He said he was going to make sure you did all the chores right,” Michael said with a grin. “I think he just wanted to look for that hen. You should eat something. You didn’t have breakfast.”
“I suppose. Is there any bread left?”
“Sure. You want a sandwich?”
“No, just bread, maybe some jam.”
Michael got him a plate and cut him a slice of bread. “Coffee?”
Chris reached for the jam and a knife. “Yeah, coffee.”
Michael poured him coffee and set the mug in front of him. “I’ve got everything under control, here, Price, if you want to go back to bed.”
“I wasn’t really sleeping.”
“You seem a bit off.”
“I’m still tired, but I’m all right.”
“Mum’s up.”
“Yeah? Great.”
“She’s in the sitting room, resting. She helped me make muffins earlier. One thing I never did learn to make properly.”
Chris sipped his coffee. “I’ll go in and see her in a bit.”
“I’m just going out to see what Wes is up to and get a bit more wood in, then I thought I should scrub this floor.”
“Sure, I’ll give you a hand.”
Michael went out. Chris forced himself to eat the bread. Michael was right, he needed to eat. His head felt muzzy. He wondered if maybe he should go back to bed, but he thought about the series of dreams that had disturbed his sleep. He didn’t want to go through them again just yet. He drank the coffee, hoping the caffeine would clear his head. When he finished, he pushed himself up from the table and went in to see Grace.
She sat in the easy chair, a blanket over her knees, her eyes closed. She opened them as he came in and smiled.
“It’s good to see you up,” Chris said.
“Well, out of bed, anyway. Still not much good, I’m afraid.”
“Take your time; don’t push yourself.”
“Are you all right, dear?”
“I’m a little tired, still,” he admitted. “Did you get your coffee?”
She sighed. “Oh, yes. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
The floor tilted. Chris had to take a step to keep from falling over. He reached out for a handhold, but found nothing.
“I’m not used to the caffeine,” he said. He sagged down onto the couch. Things in the corners of his vision fell apart into jagged pieces.
“Maybe you should get some more sleep,” Grace said.
“I will do, after a while,” he said, putting his head back and closing his eyes. His stomach churned, and the couch began a slow, disconcerting roll. Chris broke into a sweat as kaleidoscope colors wheeled in his brain. No, no…it’s too soon…He took deep breaths, hoping it would pass, but it only got worse.
“Chris, are you all right?” he heard someone say. It sounded like Grace, but it couldn’t be Grace…she was upstairs in bed, wasn’t she?
He pushed up off the couch, used the walls and distorted doorways to brace himself, and lurched into the kitchen. The sink seemed a long way off, up a steep slant, past pinwheels of fire, but he made it, just barely, and vomited three times.
Chris hung on to the edge of the counter, found a cup, rinsed his mouth, spit into the sink. His legs had gone to rubber. He didn’t think he would make it to the table if he let go of the sink, so he stayed there, shaking. Amazingly, everything in the kitchen—chaos a moment ago—had returned to normal.
The back door opened. Cooper came in with an armload of wood.
Chris gasped as tendrils of black snaked in and coiled around the chair legs. “Close the door!”
“I did,” Cooper said. He dumped the wood into the woodbox, brushed his hands on his trousers. “You okay?”
“Where’s Jon?” Chris asked, panic growing.
“I think he’s ill, Michael,” Grace’s voice said from the doorway.
“How did you get here?” Chris asked.
Cooper stepped over writhing cables on the floor as if they weren’t there. He put his hand to Chris’s forehead and glanced into the sink. “Aw, crap. You just lost your lunch, didn’t you?”
Chris nodded, blinked. The kitchen had gone the wrong colors. Jon stayed behind. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit…” His knees chose that moment to buckle. He collapsed to the floor.
“Chris!” Cooper exclaimed, partly catching him. “Well, I guess we know which of us is safer, eh?”
“It’s too soon, isn’t it?” Pauline!
“Apparently not. You’re burning up.”
“Where’s Pauline?”
“She’s fine, Chris.”
“I left her behind—”
“No, she’s just upstairs. C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”
“I can’t walk.” The room seemed to be filling with fog. Where’s Jon?
“Hang on to me. Chris—?”
He couldn’t make his arms work either. The fog got thicker. Pauline… paulinepaulinepauline… The formless beast hissed and growled, then everything went black.
CHAPTER 33
“Hello, beautiful.” Michael smiled at Pauline from a chair next to her bed.
Pauline blinked to clear the cobwebs, and some of it started to come back to her.
“I’m thirsty.”
Michael held a cup for her to sip from. The cool water slid down her throat, the most wonderful thing she could imagine.
“Not too much,” Michael said, taking the cup away when she tried to drink it all. “Give it a minute to settle, then you can have some more.”
She remembered something even more wonderful, and her heart pounded. “Chris is here!”
“He’s downstairs, on the couch.”
“Send him up—I want to see him.”
Michael hesitated. “Ah, well, I can’t, love. He’s going to need a few days.”
“He got ill?”
“Intensely,” Michael admitted. “But, luckily, our plague seems to have turned into something a good deal less lethal. No deaths in the village, or here either, I’m happy to report.”
A sob welled up from deep within her. Worry and fear and relief all mixed together in a storm of emotion she couldn’t contain. She put her hands over her face and cried. Michael was there next to her in an instant, on the edge of the bed, patting her shoulder.
“There, there, Paulie, everything’s fine,” he cooed. “Don’t cry, sweetie. Everybody’s fine.”
She managed to sit up and grab him, and he put his arms around her. She wished they were Chris’s arms, but Michael’s familiar arms would do right now. She cried some more, then calmed herself. Michael handed her a handkerchief from her bedside table.
She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”
“You were under a hell of a strain, Paulie.” For once, Michael looked serious. “You did a great job. I’m proud of you.”
“Is Mum okay?”
“She’s fine, tucked up in a chair in the sitting room, keeping an eye on Chris.” Michael eased her back onto her pillow.
“George? Marie?”
“George is up and about today. Marie is still in bed, but doing great.”
“Wes?”
“He was up yesterday. Been a great help.”
“He was a big help to me, too.”
“I know; he told me all about it.”
“Can I have more water now?”
Michael filled the cup again and gave it to her. She sipped it slowly, as much as he would let her drink.
“What about you? You look like hell, Michael.”
Michael put a hand over his heart. “Oh, I’m hurt.”
“No really, are you getting enough rest?”
“Not at all. Overworked, overstressed. First time in my life, I have to say. And hopefully the last.” He smiled.
“Thank you, Michael,” she said, more tears coming.
“Good grief, don’t start again! Is there anything you need, sweetie?”
“I need to use the loo.”
“Well, that’s a good sign.” He helped her out of bed.
“How do you know about the village?”
“Freddie was here to check on everyone,” he said, keeping a hand on her arm. “Brought us a basket of goodies in exchange for one of the hens. I gave her some eggs, too. Can you walk?”
“Of course I can walk,” she said, but the hallway tilted, and she put a hand out to steady herself. “Okay, maybe I’m a bit dizzy. I can certainly manage in here by myself.” She shut the bathroom door firmly. When she came out, she went to her bedroom closet. She got out her warm robe and slippers.
“I take it you’re getting up?” Michael said from the doorway.
“I am. I’m going down to see Chris.” She stopped in front of the mirror above the bureau, made a face, and worked at her hair with the brush. She pulled it back and clipped it. While she was doing that, Michael had stepped closer. He stared at the pictures, then reached out and picked up the one of Chris, the one Jon had given her, and scrutinized it.
“Great picture. What, was he some sort of rock star or something?” He gave her a little grin.
