Elijah's Chariot (The Forgotten Children Book 1) (7 page)

No
matter how hard Viktor tried to hold the book still, the delicate pages kept
quivering, preventing him from reading even a few lines without worsening his
already painful headache. He wasn’t sure if it was the muscles in his face that
were twitching especially badly as they did some mornings, or it if was his
left hand at the top of the pages. He sighed and let his rigid hand slip off
the book to rest by his side. 

Luckily,
he hadn’t really been enjoying the book anyway. It was an old book that he’d
found on one of the shelves in his room. He hadn’t counted in a long time, but
he thought that he’d probably read at least half of them by now. Many were
Soviet romance novels from the sixties; the plots typically centered around
some young factory worker falling in love with a dashing minor government
official, with the young woman eventually giving her life to save him from some
terrible foreign threat. He’d learned by now to pass these over for the more
interesting text books on physics, astronomy, history and foreign languages. He
realized that most of them were horridly outdated, but he didn’t have the
opportunity or means to get more recent editions. Once in a while his Aunt
Lydia was able to sneak a few books into the apartment for him, but most of
these turned out to be young teen adventure novels. 

Viktor
had woken earlier than usual that morning with a pounding headache. He’d tried
to go back to sleep, but the pain had already fully wakened him. He had made
his way into the kitchen as quietly as he could, knowing that if he made too
much noise he would hear about it later from his mother. He ate breakfast,
which helped to temporarily ease the pain in his temples, then had picked up
the book. No one else was up yet.

Both
his mother and Tatyana had come home early yesterday. They said that some virus
was going around and their bosses didn’t want anyone else to catch it so they
sent everyone home, telling them to take a few days off. Missing a couple days
of work didn’t bother either of the women. It had already been a couple of
months since either of them had been paid, so an additional few days of no pay
wouldn’t really make much of a difference at this point.

Viktor
placed his right foot firmly on the floor beneath his stool and slowly pushed
himself up, balancing with his left hand on the table. He slowly hopped around
the edge of the table and was halfway to the doorway when he stopped and turned
around. After slide-hopping his way back to the table so that he was parallel
with it and facing the doorway, he half-squatted down on his good leg and used
his left hand to slide the book over to the edge where he could trap it with
his right elbow. The cramped fingers on his left hand carefully guided the book
toward his armpit until it was tucked under his arm. He then raised himself to
a standing position and hopped into the hall. 

Halfway
down, Viktor noticed that the door to his mother and grandmother’s room at the
end of the hall was open. Maybe mama’s already up, he thought. Since she has
the day off, she’ll probably want her tea in bed. Probably a better idea to ask
her now rather than have her loudly complaining in a few minutes, he said to
himself as he slowly shuffled down the hall. Early morning was usually the best
time to deal with her – she hadn’t yet had the chance to warm up to yelling. 

The
ancient, paint-peeled doorframe bit into his shoulder as he leaned against it,
poking his head around the half open door. He could see his mother lying on her
back, her mouth open. Viktor had never seen her mouth open so wide – she
usually kept it tightly shut, a habit that she’d developed long ago to hide her
extreme under-bite. He could see her dark yellow teeth poking out of
nicotine-stained gums and her small, slightly upturned nose. Her covers were
pulled tightly up to her chin – she didn’t look like she had been up at all
yet.

Viktor
glanced over at his grandmother on the other side of the room as he was turning
to go. She was in roughly the same position with her hands neatly folded on her
chest. She was still wearing her rings, four or five large, tarnished brass
bands with fake rubies and emeralds. Since either Irina or Tatyana had had to
get her dressed and undressed every day for the past several years, they had
long ago given up removing her precious rings. If they forgot to put them back
on in the morning, she would whine loudly until they did. 

He
couldn’t remember exactly who she’d received the rings from, even though she’d
told him the story once when he was a little boy. He recalled that it was
someone besides her late husband, possibly a former employer or some close
friend. Viktor had always thought that the rings were terribly ostentatious,
but who was he to tell old women what to wear on their… he suddenly came to
himself and remembered that he’d been standing in the doorway for several
minutes. During that whole time, her hands lying on her chest hadn’t moved at
all. 

He
glanced quickly over at his sleeping mother, wondering if he should wake her to
find out if his grandmother was okay. As he considered this, his eyes locked on
to his mother’s chest and he slowly counted out each second. After a minute or
so he made a couple, quick bent-knee hops over to the side of her bed, taking
care not to let his slipper slap on the floor when he landed. Standing above
her, Viktor could see that her chest was, in fact, not moving at all. Her mouth
hung open motionlessly – not a sound was coming out. She looked perfectly
peaceful. 

Viktor
planted the heel of his left hand firmly on the mattress as he eased himself
down to kneel beside her. He strained his neck to get his face as close to hers
as possible. After a few seconds of staring at the sun-weathered, waxy skin, he
gently turned his head and laid it on her chest.   

After
half a minute, he slowly raised his head and looked back into his mother’s
face. She did look peaceful, he thought. The almost constant scowl and look of
derision that had adorned her features for as long as Viktor could remember
were gone, replaced now by a calm serenity. Viktor continued to stare at her as
tears came to his eyes, until, finally, he laid his head back down on her
forever silent chest. 

Cold
water ran down Svyeta’s hands, dropping off her fingers in rivulets before
falling down the drain. It was early morning and everything was quiet and still
– her favorite time. Her mother was often at work at dawn, either finishing her
shift or having just started one, as she had today. Zhenya usually slept later,
especially on school days. And her father always slept late, almost until noon
when he would habitually rise and begin drinking again to chase away the pain
of his hangover. So, she usually had the apartment to herself – time to think,
time to gets things done. Because if she didn’t who else would?

Svyeta
pulled her hands out of the still ice cold water and waved them absently to
chase away the somber thoughts and the stab of pain in her head. She’d awoken
with a headache, but it had subsided once she got dressed. The pain eased now
and she started washing the dishes.

With
all that was going on in the world after the meteorite landed she wondered how
long the water would last. Her mother didn’t like for her and Zhenya to watch
television that much, but she’d caught a few minutes of the news yesterday.
She’d seen people being pulled out of buildings, ambulances rushing to the
hospital, lines stretching outside of stores, crowds of worried faces. Her
friend, Elena, who watched much more television than she did, had called after
they found out school was cancelled. She said that there was some type of
sickness going around and that many people were sick and some were dying. They
hadn’t found a cure yet, but were going to soon – at least that’s what Elena
had said
.
She
was much more worked up about it than Svyeta was. That was pretty typical.   

After
finishing the dishes, Svyeta was sweeping from underneath the kitchen table
when her father emerged slowly from his bedroom. His feet plodded heavily
across the wood floor, his slippers scraping dully as he pulled his feet
forward. The kitchen table chair creaked as he eased his weight onto it.

“Breakfast?”
Svyeta asked as she swept dust into the garbage can.

Her
father stared glassy eyed, his elbows resting heavily on the table. 

“The
usual. Ha!” He smiled at his daughter.

She
set a glass in front of him. He pulled an almost empty vodka bottle from the
shelf, filled the glass and downed it.

“Ahh,”
he said, closing his eyes. “That’s better. Much better my Svyetochka. Sweet
Svyetochka, you’re so good to take care of your papa so well.”

He
jammed the heel of his hand into his eye, rubbing deeply. “Where’s your mom?”

“At
work. They wanted her to do a double last night, but she had a bad headache so
she came home just after midnight to rest for a while. I think she left again
at four or five. Hospital was really busy – she said they had so many people
coming in with that flu or whatever it is.”

Svyeta
glanced over at her father, watching him fill his second glass as she wiped off
the counter. 

“Elena
called yesterday. She said her mom’s pretty worried about it. They’re probably
going to just stay indoors for a while to see…”

“Who
were those boys yesterday? The ones bothering you on the street?”

Svyeta
looked at her father again. He was still staring out the window, his head
resting on one hand.

“Nobody,
Dad. They were just fooling around. They like to bother kids on their way home.
But mostly just the boys, they don’t give me any trouble.”

“Do
you know their names? Who are their parents?”

She
paused. Her father had never been interested in her friends before. Why the
questions now?

“I
only know a couple of them – that tall, older boy is Pyotr and the shorter
light-haired one is Ivan. Ivan actually goes to my school. I don’t know their
last names. I think they live around here, but I don’t know where. They’re just
idiots anyway. I don’t pay any attention to them.”

Her
father slid his glass back and forth slowly on the table. 

“They
were paying attention to you.”

Svyeta
didn’t respond. She was surprised he remembered anything at all from yesterday.

“You’re
getting older now. Boys are going to start paying more attention. So, you’ll
have to too. You need to watch out for yourself. You pretty girls have to watch
out. Pretty girls always have it harder. Do you understand?”

“Yes,
Dad.”  She thought she understood – mostly. She knew she needed to be careful
around boys – especially those Black Scorpion boys. But, she didn’t understand
why her father was talking to her about this now – he never had before. Never
had seemed to notice – or care.

“That’s
my girl, that’s my Svyetochka. Be a sweetie and grab me another little bottle.
This one’s run dry.”

Bob
Quidley’s call came late in the morning on Tuesday. Both Kevin and Sean had
been awake since a little after six, huddled under the covers in their beds
because of the cold. The heating had gone off sometime during the night. 

“Okay,
right, thanks Bob,” Kevin said and hung up.

He
pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, looked at Sean and shook his
head.

“No
news really. Bob went over to the Embassy this morning, but couldn’t find
anyone around – he rang at the front gate, but no one answered. It looked like
there might have been some kind of riot outside – broken glass and some tear
gas canisters. He said the streets are mostly deserted, but it looks like some
started looting last night. Smashed windows, some limited fires, that sort of
thing. He said we should just sit tight. He’ll call again if he finds out
anything more.”

Sean
nodded somberly and looked around the small room where they’d been effectively
confined for over a day now. Looking back at his father, he asked, “Does that
mean we can turn on the T.V. now?”

Kevin
had made Sean turn it off earlier that morning, because it seemed like just the
same report over and over – the same grim news from the day before. Now, he
nodded quietly to his son and Sean flicked the remote.

A
well-dressed British reporter appeared on the screen. He looked like he was
under a lot of stress and fumbled through the pages in front of him as he spoke
somewhat nervously into the camera. Occasionally, video footage from locations
around the world would appear on the screen: weeping families in Vietnam,
Australia, India and South Africa watching loved ones being bundled up and
carried away.

“Emergency
officials report that thousands have died in the United Kingdom since yesterday
morning. Today, Tuesday, is shaping up to be about the same, if not worse. U.S.
broadcasts indicate that similar scores of people perished yesterday… emergency
response personnel across the nation have been entirely, uh, overwhelmed and
many callers are being told that they will have to wait for several hours even
possibly days before receiving any attention. One paramedic is quoted as saying
that ‘we are not able to do anything – there’s nothing to treat, we’re just
collecting bodies.’ But, experts think that they may have found at least a
small clue as to the cause of these unexplained deaths.” 

The
scene switched to an older man in a tweed jacket and glasses sitting in front
of a large shelf of books. The subtitle indicated that he was Dr. Sherman
Folsom of the St. Thomas Hospital. 

“As
of yet we are not able to accurately ascertain what distinguishes any of the
victims from those still alive. Almost everyone is experiencing headaches – I
myself have had a severe, almost migraine level headache since yesterday
afternoon. Almost ninety percent of the victims have reported similar headaches
the night before they died. We’ve received a few initial reports from the post
mortem examiners. They indicate that nearly half suffered some type of massive
stroke, with many of the arteries in the brain squeezed tight. A few of the
cases even showed signs of some brain swelling, which is completely incongruous
with other signs of stroke. As to the other half not exhibiting these symptoms
– we have no idea. Their hearts have just stopped.”   

Sean
jerked his head in his father’s direction. Kevin was still bundled up in his
blanket, black-rimmed glasses circling his tired eyes, long brown hair pointing
every which way. “Didn’t you have a headache yesterday?”

“Yeah,
I did, but it went away – I… I don’t remember when exactly, but I didn’t have
one this morning when I woke up,” Kevin said slowly, then turned to look at his
son, more alarmed. “You don’t have a headache, do you?”

Sean
shook his head. “I feel fine. I’m kind of hungry though.”

Dr.
Folsom continued, “Until we have something we can go on, we’re not able to
treat this right now. We just don’t have any idea what it is.”

Sean
and Kevin switched off the T.V. and ventured briefly downstairs. They couldn’t
find anyone in the restaurants’ kitchens, so they just helped themselves. Sean
and Kevin weren’t sure whether the other guests were all just locked up in
their rooms as they were or if they had all fled. If it was the latter, they
wondered, where had they all gone? Either way, they didn’t see another living
soul on their brief trip downstairs. 

More
people were out on the streets later that afternoon. Kevin and Sean watched in
silence from the balcony as small gatherings of tightly bundled Russians poured
through the kiosk market surrounding the metro station. They couldn’t make out
many details from their vantage point across the street, but it looked like a
few of the merchants had opened up shop. Old babushkas, young mothers,
decorated veterans and thin-faced, young men alike were carrying away cloth
sacks packed with loaves of bread and potatoes – stocking up. 

Kevin
made a few more attempts to get Sean to leave the television off, but was
ultimately unsuccessful. The young boy sat on the edge of his bed, staring
blankly at the changing images on the screen: ambulances with sirens blaring,
racing down the streets only to arrive too late – again. One story reported on
the mass exodus of people from densely populated areas to more remote villages
and mountain hideaways, further compounding the already growing sense of
loneliness and desertion present in the world’s largest cities. Some experts
estimated that half of London’s usual occupants had either succumbed to the
mystery plague or had joined relatives in the suburbs or smaller nearby towns. 

Mystery
plague. Illness. Epidemic. The strange deaths. Sean pondered all the different
names for what was going on around the world. He’d half been waiting for the
official title of the world’s latest disaster to be handed down from the
truth-making media. That’s how it had always happened before. The war between
the United States and Iraq hadn’t been just that – it was “America at War” or
the military-originated moniker “Operation: Iraqi Freedom.” The “events of
September 11, 2001” had obviously been too long to fit into the sound-bite-size
news reports and had been truncated to “America under Attack” or the more
sensational “Terror in the Skies” depending on the television network. But, no
such title had yet been given to this latest series of occurrences as far as
Sean could tell. The BBC had been airing portions of CNN reports and he
couldn’t see that the U.S. had decided upon any single tagline to describe what
was happening. 

What
could you call it, he thought: “World Epidemic” or “The Silent Deaths?” Maybe
they were all too afraid to name it. Where before news agencies had been able
to conveniently contain and package world events for the rapt public into a
single delineated and easily definable name, now they were afraid to attempt
any name at all. They weren’t able to conceive of a single phrase that would
encompass the horror of what they were experiencing. Or, maybe, they were just
too terrified to call it what they all deep down knew it to be, but were unable
to say aloud: “The End of the World.”

For
the first time since yesterday morning, when it all had started happening, Sean
wondered if anyone that he knew had died yet. Like, maybe Mr. Alvarez, his
physical science teacher. Sean liked Mr. Alvarez. He wasn’t old and grumpy like
many of the other teachers. His classes were always informative, challenging and,
occasionally, even a little entertaining. What if he wasn’t there when they got
back to Pasadena? Sean supposed that the school could always pull in Mrs.
Gilberts or one of the other science teachers, but that would be really weird.
Substitutes only came in when teachers got sick. Teachers weren’t supposed to
die. No one was. 

I’m
not afraid to die, he told himself. It doesn’t sound like it’s really all that
painful, you just go to sleep one night with a headache then don’t wake up in
the morning. Pretty simple, he thought. I guess I would miss out on some things
– getting to drive a car, going to MIT, finding out if Jenny Hilton really
liked me or if her friends were just lying. He guessed that he would be okay if
he missed out on those things if he had to. 

Sean
looked over at his father. Kevin was sitting at the table by the sliding glass
door to the balcony, the blanket wrapped around him again. He had a folded-over
magazine in his hands, but he was staring out the window, his eyes glued to
something – or nothing – just over the edge of the railing. 

As
Sean was looking at his father’s long, unkempt brown hair and thick glasses
hanging on the slight rise of his nose, almost teetering on the brink of
slipping down his face, the thought came to him that his father might die. This
immediately struck him with a jolt of pain deep in his stomach and a flash of
heat spread up into his cheeks. A brief image of his father lying on the bed,
cold and unmoving, flashed across his mind and he hurriedly pushed it away with
thoughts of them back at home in the living room, waiting for his mother to
finish dinner. 

And
what about Mom, Sean thought. What would happen if we got back and found
Elizabeth alone and Mom asleep upstairs, not moving, not talking? As much as
the thought of his own death had not really bothered him, the idea of his
parents dying struck him forcefully, depriving him of the ability to reason
clearly. All he could picture was the two of them, lying side by side in some
shallow grave, their eyes closed and arms folded over their chests as he and
Elizabeth stood there, holding hands. 

Suddenly,
Sean realized that he really missed his mother and Elizabeth. More than he ever
had while he’d been at Scout camp for a whole week. And more than he’d expected
to. Leaving home for a week or so to see the Jerry site in Russia was supposed
to have been the pinnacle point in his young life. He’d secretly been a little
afraid about being away from home for so long, but he’d convinced himself that
it would be okay since his father would be there. But, now, with everyone
dying… he just wanted to go back home. He wanted his family to be together and
not ever have to go anywhere again. 

Sean
rose slowly to his feet, the strength in his legs having fled. He treaded
softly over to where his father sat and put his hand on his shoulder, trying to
see what he was looking at over the balcony. Kevin glanced briefly at his son,
feeling the tight grip of his hand through the blanket wrapped around him. He
patted his son’s hand with his own, then turned back to the gray sky. The wind
could be heard blowing against the glass. Sean wrapped his arms around his
father’s shoulders from behind and squeezed him tightly.