Barren Fields (32 page)

A groan to his right caught his attention. The air hostess began to stir, the throb in her wrists finally coaxing her from slumber.

“Miss? Miss, can you hear me?” Paul whispered to her, conscious of the exhausted passengers that surrounded them. “I need you to open your eyes for me,” he coaxed gently.

At first Paul got no reaction, and the moans fell silent. He went to stand again, feeling the cramp threatening to return with a vengeance, when a brittle whisper stopped him.

“Why?” she asked, her voice barely audible. “Why?” she asked again, and slowly her eyes opened. At first they had this distant, unfocused stare of a person woken suddenly from a deep slumber, but that soon changed, and they stared straight at Paul. Although her words were questioning, the look in her green eyes was one of thanks.

“Don’t mention it.” Paul sat down, and his hands had started to shake. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a cigarette.

“How do you feel?” he asked, mildly embarrassed at the seeming stupidity of the question, but remembered Leon’s advice to keep her talking. Paul kept his voice to a whisper, mindful of the sleeping passengers around him.

For a long time the woman remained silent. She looked at Paul, closed her eyes and when she opened them again, her tears fell freely. “Dirty, I feel dirty,” she answered, her voice breaking. “What we did back there…I just…all those people…” she began to sob.

Paul hated it when women cried; he never knew what to do. He reached out and clumsily placed a hand on her shoulder. She couldn’t be more than twenty-four; he was almost old enough to be her father, but what they had all been through could not be explained or prepared for in any walk of life. “I know, but we did what we had to...” he lied. “We needed to get away. Besides, we are out now, and we’re safe.” He paused. Were they really safe? Did anybody know if the virus had spread from the island or not? It wasn’t as though they were in the middle of nowhere. They were in England. The jump to France wasn’t a big one, and with the tunnel, maybe it could have gotten through before they blew it up! Paul felt his mind begin to unravel, all of the questions nobody dared ask had started to bubble to the surface. He concentrated his mind and forced them back down.

“We don’t know that,” she said, seeming to read his mind. “What if it spread? What if someone got through the checks and infected one of the other planes?” she asked, her own mind whirling at a thousand miles an hour. The only difference being that she was in no condition to control it.

The plane bounced around slightly, and Paul noticed, much to his own amusement, that the fasten seatbelt light came on.

“Best not to think like that.” He spoke calmly. “Do you want anything to drink? Something to eat maybe? You lost a lot of blood.” Paul wasn’t sure if he should be giving her anything, but it seemed like the right thing to offer.

“I could go for a smoke.” She sighed.

“You and me both.” Paul flashed a smile and felt his spirits rise as the woman returned his smile with genuine good humor. “I’m Paul, by the way.” He introduced himself, offering his hand before remembering her condition and withdrawing it sheepishly.

“Jessica,” she answered, “and thank you for saving my life.” Her eyes still welled with tears, but she managed not to let them fall.

“It was my pleasure. It feels good to save a life for once.” Paul spoke without thinking, and suddenly the jovial mood that he had built was deflated.

The pair sat in silence for a few minutes, both mulling over the situation; both remembering those that had been lost. Twice Paul raised his gaze, only to lower it again as another horrific image invaded his mind: His sister stumbling down the street chasing him, her body blistered and covered with weeping sores. He remembered her calling his name and the pain in her voice when he turned his back on her.  Yet he couldn’t shed a tear. Every time he came close to that emotional release, his mind focused and he found himself pulled away by some menial task or chore that needed to be done. It didn’t matter how small the job, the distraction was all he needed rather than any specific notion of accomplishment. Paul stared at his hands—the blood under his fingernails, the grazes and bruises that covered his forearms. Callouses had formed at the base of each finger from the near constant wielding of the machete he had collected the first night. The night he had…Paul closed his eyes and slammed the door on the memories. His hand clenched tightly, nails digging into the palms. Slowly he opened it again. It was a subconscious action that he repeated for as long as it took for memories to cease their pounding on that door.

“It’s alright you know. To feel the pain,” Jessica whispered as she dragged herself into a semi-seated position.

“I…I’m not ready,” Paul stammered after a moment’s pause.

“Neither was I, and take a look at what I did.” She held out her arms.

Paul had no reply. He simply curled his lips inwards and gave a slight nod of his head. The necessary words escaped him.

“You remind me of my father,” Jessica said.

“How so?” Paul replied.

“He was a writer, too.” The accuracy of the woman’s guess had Paul floored. “You both have this…look; it starts in your eyes, and then consumes you. I‘ve seen that stare a thousand times over,” Jessica continued, having caught a glimpse of Paul’s face and the look of surprise etched upon it.

“That’s very astute of you,” Paul confirmed.

“Yeah well, once you live with somebody like that, you begin to learn the signs. What was your genre of poison?” she asked, her interest peaked. Whether it was because she too liked writing or simply because of the close relationship she had had with her father, Paul didn’t know, but it offered him a chance of distraction, and so he ran with it.

“I was more of a journalist. I worked for one of the tabloid newspapers. I took the real news and dumbed it down.” He paused for a second. Jessica fit into their target demographic.

“Yeah, I never liked the tabloids much, nothing but gossip for the most part.” She grinned. “No offense,” she added, and this drew a small chuckle from Paul. “What’s wrong?” she asked him.

“Nothing. I despised working there. It certainly wasn’t the big, main breakfast table newspaper I had always dreamed of, but it paid the bills. Fiction, now that is my true passion. I always wanted to write a book, one that would change the world. Now look, the world has changed, and I’m…well, nothing,” he answered. Unable to take it anymore, he rose from the seat without saying a word and grabbed his jacket. As he sat back down, Paul pulled a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of the pocket, and after some digging, a lighter.

Jessica watched him. “Can I have one?” she asked, “Don’t worry about the alarm,” she said as she took the cigarette she was offered and placed it between her lips. “The sensors just make a few lights blink up front. I don’t think the pilot will care very much.” Jessica dipped the smoke into the center of Paul’s offered flame and took a deep drag. Paul did the same, and the change in his mood was almost instantaneous.  “It’s not too late, you know.” Jessica spoke between puffs. A few seats before them, one of the passengers gave a slight cough in response to the smoke that filtered down the cabin.

“What do you mean?” Paul asked as he blew smoke through his nostrils like a dragon

“Your book. It’s not too late to write it; to change the world,” she whispered, keeping her gaze low.

“I guess you’re right, but I don’t think a publishing house will be the first thing they set up when we get to…wherever the hell it is that we are headed.” He stared at Jessica, waiting to see if she got his message.

“I don’t know, they only tell the pilots. But I’m serious. I mean, why not tell our stories? We survived the fall of civilization.” Her voice grew in strength as she spoke. “Some with more grace than others, but still, we are the survivors. If you can tell our stories then I am sure someone important will want to read them. Maybe we have missed something, overlooked it. Getting peoples stories on record might just answer a few questions.” She pushed. “Besides, self-publishing is the way to go, haven’t you heard?”

Paul considered it for a few moments, raising his head to check the cabin. “Could I?” He spoke aloud but addressed himself. He always carried a pen and paper with him, and there weren’t too many people on board. Even if the flight was only a few hours long, he could get a few of them talking.

Why not? Maybe you’re the only writer who made it out alive. Paul shivered at the thought, which made the hairs on the back their necks stand on end.

Rising from the chair once more, Paul carefully opened the baggage compartment above where he had been sitting, and pulled out a beaten up, old backpack. He brought it back to the last row of chairs, sat down, and pulled out a bloodied and crumbled pad of paper and a cheap pen which, after everything he had been through, still worked perfectly. With his bag on the floor and his paper in hand, he turned to look at Jessica.

“So tell me, Jessica, what is your story...?”

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