At the End of Everything, page 12
I try not to think about the air I breathe—the air we share that smells stale and sick—even though I’m wearing a mask. I simply help Casey carry Serenity out. He’s wrapped her in the linen sheets from her bed, as stained with blood as his clothes are.
She’s heavy. Heavier than I thought she would be—but at the same time, maybe lighter too. When we carry her out of the building and off the grounds, as the night falls around us, I don’t feel afraid for the first time since I can remember. When Casey leaves me and I go to grab the shovel from the shed, the same peace and purpose I felt when I was planting overwhelms me.
This might kill me, but the dead won’t judge me.
And Serenity doesn’t have to be alone.
“I’m not a priest,” I tell her when I dig. “Or any sort of holy person. I would be offended if you called me that. I don’t know how to commit your body to the earth or if you’d even want that. I don’t know if such a thing like life after death exists. I don’t know if there’s a God either. But I want you to know, you’ll be remembered. I’ll remember you. And I hope you find your way home.”
GOVERNORS MOBILIZE NATIONAL GUARD AS CASES CONTINUE TO RISE
• National Guard to provide lockdown support as well as mortuary affairs support across five different states.
• Mass graves and freezer trucks to provide a temporary solution in dealing with rising death toll.
• White nationalist groups have been protesting the use of lockdown measures, claiming their right to freedom supersedes others’ right to live.
With cases continuing to rise, the federal and state governments are reaching for drastic measures to restrict the community spread of the new plague as much as possible. From local stay-at-home or shelter-in-place orders to mask mandates and curfews, everything is being done to keep the healthcare system from collapsing.
Governor Brooks (AR, D) stated, “The best way to keep ourselves and our fellow citizens safe in this time of uncertainty is to follow local and state guidelines as strictly as possible. I was proud to be one of the first governors to mobilize the National Guard to assist in maintaining our lockdown and curfew measures. As of today, they will also assist in recovering bodies of plague victims across the state. This is not an easy measure, but it is a necessary one.” She continued to say, “I am grateful to all of our brave soldiers who are assisting in this.”
In cities across the nation, the announcement of stricter measures led to protests by local militias, originalists, and, in some cases, churches. The vast majority of these protests have been disbanded by National Guard soldiers and local law enforcement, citing the various shelter-in-place orders.
Scientists across the nation—and, in fact, across the world—have come together virtually to discuss the possibilities of treating a multidrug-resistant illness. An insider, who wishes to remain unnamed, says that there is frustration among scientists at the lack of urgency among governments in recent years. At the same time, this insider expresses a careful optimism at the research that has been done and is sure to be continued given the current state of affairs. “Antimicrobial resistance is one of the biggest public health threats of our time. When it comes to multidrug-resistant cases of Y. pestis, we have seen hopeful results in experiments with phage therapy. With time, funds, and global collaboration, breakthroughs might finally be possible.”
An official communiqué from the presidential task force cautioned against expecting too much from these exploratory meetings. “While treatment is a crucial focus, our main concern is to find the quickest and best solution for this crisis. As such, we will keep investing heavily in developing better vaccines and researching all other avenues of containment.”
Until such time as a solution can be found, the presidential task force advises everyone to abide by the rules. Quarantine when possible. Socially distance when not. Wear a mask at all times.
Phone call between Sofia and her brother
SOFIA: Hey, it’s me.
LUCA: Wow.
SOFIA: Yeah. Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to call you out of the blue, but—
LUCA: I like hearing from you. Are you okay? Is the plague there too?
LUCA: Lie to me if it is. I’d like to believe you’ll be safe.
SOFIA: You’re ridiculous.
SOFIA: Okay, no plague here. Everything is totally and completely fine, and we’re living like kings.
LUCA: Cool. That’s what I like to hear. No need to come bust you out then?
SOFIA: Nah, never. I’m good. We’ve got this.
LUCA: You don’t sound convincing.
SOFIA: You told me to lie.
LUCA: Fair enough.
SOFIA: So how are things on your side?
LUCA: Same old. There may be a lockdown, but that doesn’t mean everyone sits safely at home. I still take the bus every morning and every evening, and I’m hardly the only one. Still gotta produce food. Still gotta feed people. Still gotta care for them. They haven’t figured out how to handle that part without all of us yet. Lockdown might be great if we all lived in a future with replicators and emergency medical holograms and shit, but we’re not there yet.
SOFIA: Nerd.
LUCA: Watch it.
SOFIA: You’ll be careful though right? Can’t lose you too.
LUCA: You won’t be rid of me anytime soon.
LUCA: Your room is here waiting for you.
SOFIA: Good. I…I’d really like to come home. Soon. When I can.
LUCA: When the world goes back to normal again, right?
SOFIA: Right. That. When it does, beam me over or whatever you call it.
LUCA: Wow, ouch.
LUCA: I’ve missed you.
LUCA: It’s good to hear your voice. Promise me you’ll check in with me as much as you can?
SOFIA: I’ve missed you too, bro.
LUCA: Promise?
SOFIA: Yeah, of course. Always.
This phone call has been disconnected.
Burial rites for Chloe Hughes
You’d think I’d get better at this, but death doesn’t become any easier. Loss doesn’t become any easier. We never truly had a chance to meet, outside of recreation time and dinners. You scared me. I’m sorry for that.
You didn’t deserve this, Chloe. None of us did, and none of us do. But yours won’t be the last grave. Too many of us are sick. Too many of us are showing signs of sickness. So here we are. You won’t be alone. I don’t know if that’s a comfort.
I wish I had anything more hopeful or beautiful to say, but maybe this. The music I played before you fell ill was a part of Britten’s War Requiem. It’s not meant to be played by a single violin. No requiem is. It’s meant to be sung. It’s meant to be orchestrated. It’s meant to be beautiful and ethereal and guide the dead to a place of rest. This one is meant to be angry too, and that’s why I love it.
I hope it resonated with you. I hope it guides you.
I hope you find a place to rest. I promise I’ll remember you.
Fifteen
Grace
I carry two lists of names with me, everywhere I go. On the first: Serenity, Aleesha, Walker, Chloe. On the second: Leah, Isabella, Jeremy, Faith…
Mei.
She came down with it this morning. She made it to the garden, where she collapsed.
Walker Green went to sleep and never woke up. Emerson and Casey carried him out. I don’t know what we would do without the two of them. And at least I can talk to Casey from a distance. Emerson speaks, but they don’t let anyone get close.
It’s been only two weeks since Reid was shot. It feels like a lifetime. In more ways than one, it has been lifetimes.
I grab the kitchen knife from under my mattress and strap it to my belt. With my toe, I nudge the shards from a broken cup to the corner of the room. I had coffee in my room to figure out the work lists when Emerson came to tell me about Walker. It was the only thing at hand I could break.
We do what we must to survive. Especially since there’s still no word from anyone at Better Futures, despite Isaiah emailing and calling them. Several others have asked family members to reach out too, but it’s the same voicemail every time. And no one can come get us here.
As for other options, they’ve all proved fruitless too. No one trusts the Department of Human Services enough to reach out to them. The outside world could not care less about what happens here. They consider us difficult at best and worthless at worst. So we have to take care of ourselves.
When I edge out of my room, Sofia is leaning against the door of Aleesha’s now-empty room. She’s dressed in her work uniform, her hair cut short, a scarf tied over her nose and mouth. We’ve shared the same wing for years and never really talked. Not beyond forced, perfunctory words in group therapy.
She was convicted for assault. Like me, I think she did it. We’ve all got stories, haven’t we?
We’re the only ones left here now.
“Took you long enough,” she says, by way of greeting.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“All the more reason to get up earlier.”
I don’t dignify that with a response. Truth is, I spent most of the night awake, staring up at the ceiling. The same two lists of names running through my head, while the narrow bed felt lonely and too big.
It’s not like I can get close to Case now, and I’d never admit it, but I miss his touch. I miss human touch, period. I’m starving for it. We’ve cut down on rations, to be on the safe side, but it means my stomach is constantly growling, and my skin is yearning too.
“Are you certain you want to do this?” I ask. Sofia is pale and has dark circles under her eyes.
Sofia shrugs. “We need food, don’t we? Don’t get to be picky about the methods when you’re hungry.”
Yeah, we need food. No one comes for us, and it means we have no food deliveries either. We have bags of rice and beans to keep us going for a few weeks at best. Potatoes. Peanut butter. Vegetable stock powder and instant coffee. Ramen from the guard station, some chocolates from the therapist’s office, and a tin of glazed pecans from the warden’s desk. But we’re rapidly running out of meat and vegetable supplies. I didn’t think all of us together would eat this much.
I don’t want to gamble on a few weeks.
We might all be dead in a few weeks.
If we aren’t, I don’t want to try to live through the winter cold with beets and persimmons and what little else Khalil and Riley manage to grow. I can see a future past that—with a spring garden and vegetables in summer, but between now and then extends a deep, hungry chasm. We don’t have enough to stock up, so we need to be able to feed ourselves.
So I snuck out last night and set traps in the woods around Hope. Or at least, I tried.
“Are you sure it’ll work?” Sofia asks. She brandishes her own knife. We both need something to use if I caught an animal and it isn’t dead yet.
“No.”
It’s been years since I lived with the Podolskys. They were my first foster family when I entered the system. To my three-year-old brain, they were already ancient when I got there, and I had to leave the week before my tenth birthday, because Baba Podolsky broke her hip, and they couldn’t take care of me any longer. But it was a good place to be. It’s the only place I remember fondly. The place whose phone number I whispered to myself over and over again.
Mr. Podolsky taught me to build snare traps to catch the rats and vermin that ran around their basement and backyard. He taught me to forage wild garlic and mushrooms. He showed me the constellations.
Baba Podolsky told me about Paris and how she traveled there when she was in her twenties, to find a handsome gentleman to fall in love with. Apparently, that was what my birth mother had done too. Or at least, I still had the photo of the man I’d been told was my father—broad-shouldered with mousy hair like mine and glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He laughed at something only he could see, ruining his posing in front of the Eiffel Tower.
I kept the picture safe all through staying with my first three foster families. At least one of those families told me college wasn’t for people like me, but the closer I came to high school, the more I entertained the idea of studying abroad and trying to find him. I only remembered my mother vaguely—and not fondly—but he became a larger-than-life figure to me. Someone who would see me and accept me.
He might have been a tourist for all I knew, but the mere thought of finding him and finding a home to belong to kept me going. It gave me reason to try my best.
In my fourth home, Doctor Coleman tore the picture to shreds in front of me. He called it discipline. The consequences of my own choices. If only I’d listened better. If only I’d given him the respect he deserved.
If only.
I wonder how the Podolskys are doing now. I hope they’re safe.
“I want to know, if we don’t…” Sofia hesitates briefly when we walk out the door to the outside. It’s still a strange feeling to not have anybody stop us, shout at us, send us to solitary. I’m not sure when it’ll become easier. “If we don’t find food now, how bad is it? I know what Isaiah told us. I know things are bad on the outside. I know what my sister tells me too. But how bad will it be here?”
A hesitation underlies her words. Like she didn’t want to ask this question, but she couldn’t not.
Tension races up my jaw and neck. I glance around to make sure no one else is within earshot and measure my words. “It’s not terrible, yet.”
She grunts. “Sounds comforting, thanks.”
“Would you rather I lied to you?” I demand. “We need to stock up.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know,” I snap. “For as long as we can. For as long as we must.”
Sofia’s voice remains calm and collected when she asks, “Do you think they’ll find a cure?”
I breathe out hard. Isaiah tries to find information about that on a daily basis. So far, nothing, but it’s only been a couple of weeks. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. I can’t imagine being here for months or years. I don’t want to imagine either. I’ll grow old before I grow older. “I hope so.”
“Yeah, me too.” Sofia is silent all through our walk into the woods, but it’s a silence of unspoken words, and I wait for her to continue. “I want to travel before I die. Do you think we’ll ever travel again? I want to flirt with girls and kiss them. I want to learn Spanish, so I can talk to my niblings. I want to work with kids like us when I grow up, but I don’t want to grow up yet.”
We leave the path toward my first snare trap. I mull over her words. “Are you afraid to get sick?”
“Aren’t you?” she shoots back.
“I don’t know.” The weird thing is, I don’t think so. Of all the things that keep me up at night, that’s not one of them. “I’m afraid others will get sick.”
“Like your boyfriend?”
“He’s not—” I stop when I see her wiggle her eyebrows.
“Chill, I’m joking. You remember we share a wing, right? I would’ve heard if you had your boy over for better times.” She wiggles her eyebrows.
I roll my eyes. “You know relationships aren’t just about sex, right?” Sofia is right that the walls of Hope are thin enough that we can hear others make out, but I don’t care about sex. Or romance.
“Sure. Not my thing, but totally valid. Anyway, yeah, I’m afraid to get sick. I’m afraid to die.” She tilts her head. Her brown eyes sparkle. “I’m afraid to spend all my time with the rest of you rejects.”
I snort. “Join the club.”
I let the woods distract me. The wind still rustles through the trees like the world is the same as it ever was. The water from a nearby stream rushes over sloping rocks, and all around us, birds chatter. I try to remember where exactly I placed the trap. I guide Sofia around a clearing, too far to the east, back toward the narrow stream that’s downhill from here.
When we find the trap, it’s sprung, the bait is gone, but there’s no catch in sight.
“Fuck.”
I kneel down and reset the trap. I made bait ahead of time. Some of the carrots that were left in the garden. Peanut butter and crackers. The same things Mr. Podolsky used. Bits and pieces we can stand to lose, but not if I don’t catch anything.
I triple-check the trap for the third time, when Sofia places a hand on my shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go. Show me the next trap.”
So I do.
The next one is empty too. Something cold and hard settles in my stomach.
I breathe in deeply and try to focus. The air smells of wildflowers and decaying leaves, and it cloys my nose through the thin layer of fabric.
Sofia, to her credit, doesn’t ask me again if I know what I’m doing. Perhaps because the answer is spectacularly obvious. She follows me farther into the woods, and she talks about the last girl she fell in love with before she got sent here. She tries to keep her voice down, but she probably spooks any wildlife in the vicinity.
It’s not a bad thing. It’s not like we’re hunting with our kitchen knives—though we may have to figure out how to do that before long, if I can’t figure this out.
When we get closer to the third trap, I hear rustling and snarling and screeching. I raise my hand, and Sofia stops midway through her sentence.
I point.
On my cue, we both approach the trap from different directions, Sofia going the long way around and me inching closer from here.
Another few steps, and it’s clear what’s making the sound.
The third trap sprung, and it snared a raccoon. But the snare didn’t strangle it the way it did with Mr. Podolsky’s rats. Instead, the raccoon is struggling and hissing, even though he’s clearly wounded.
