The Last Tribe (12 page)

She opened the kitchen door, and tested
her flashlight to see if it gave her enough light to work.  “Well, it’s not
ideal, but it will have to do.”  She was pleased to see the sink was a large enough
for the dog.  The sink’s faucet sputtered, coughed built up air, and flowed. 

“I win.”  She said softly.  Emily
looked in the cabinet under the sink and found dish soap.  “And it’s lemon.”  She
put a stopper in the bottom of the sink, squirted soap, and walked outside to
her new friend.  She examined the glass door for a knob to open the lock, but
it required a key on both sides.  She ducked under the handle.

“Okay buddy.”  The dog had not
moved.  He was asleep and snoring.  “This is going to be a harsh wake up.”  She
picked him up, maneuvered through the door and under the handle, walked into
the kitchen, and put the dog, blanket and all, into the sink of cold water. 
Emily rolled up her sleeves to minimize how dirty she would get, and rubbed the
soapy water all over the dog.  The dog was too weak to fight. He stayed in the
sink and took the abuse.

There was a collar around his neck
Emily refused to touch until now.  It slid over the dog’s head easily, a
testament to how much weight the poor animal lost during his imprisonment.  

Emily washed him three times,
draining the sink with each bath.  After the third bath she was happy with the
condition of the dog.  He was clean and almost fit to be in their car.  He just
needed to get dry.

 She picked the wet and disgusting
cashmere blanket off the floor and threw it into the trash.  She sighed.  “Your
last use was a noble one, expensive cashmere blanket.”  Emily moved the
flashlight around the kitchen and saw a metal storage closet in the corner. 

“Bingo” she said as she opened the
locker and found stacks of towels.  She grabbed an armful and went back to the
sink.  The dog was asleep in the bottom.  “You don’t let a little adventure get
in the way of your nap time, do you?” Emily whispered to him.  She used two
towels to dry him off in the sink.  She spread other towels on the ground,
gently picked the dog up from the sink and setting him on the ground.  He slept
as she rubbed him dry. 

Emily let him sleep on the pile of
towels.  “Grab it while you can,” she told him.   “You’re about to meet two
young boys who will not leave you alone for the rest of your life.”  She looked
back at the sink and picked up the dog’s collar.  She did not touch it
directly.  She used a towel to avoid the grime.  The tag read:  “Hubba; First
Dog of North Carolina.” 

“I would have thought Georgia’s
first dog would be a bulldog, not North Carolina’s.  Shouldn’t ours be a hound
of some kind?  Whatever, Hubba it is.”  She looked down at the snoring beast. 
“So, Hubba, my name is Emily, welcome to our family.”  Hubba continued to nap.

“That seems about right.”  Emily
responded.  “While you get some well deserved rest, I am going to see if there
is some sort of stroller or cart I can use to move you around until we get
home.  You are a little heavy and damp to carry.  Stay here.”  She chuckled at
the idea of him moving.  “I’ll be back.”

Emily took the flashlight and headed
off to the rest of the museum.  She needed options for transporting Hubba. 
There were toys in a big play area of the museum, a canvas postal bin her kids
used for toy packages in a mailroom area, or toy shopping carts used in the supermarket
area.  Neither option was ideal, but both could work. 

Emily hoped to find a better solution. 
She bypassed the play area for the front desk.  She looked for strollers, but
she could not remember if the museum rented umbrella strollers to parents.  She
was out of luck.

Emily peered through the metal door
of the gift shop for anything that might be useful.  There were a lot of toys,
some snack foods and drinks, but nothing that would help her transport an
enfeebled dog.

She went to the play area, resigned
to the idea of the postal cart.  The toy shopping carts were too low to the
ground.  Emily did not want to bend over as she pushed.

The first floor play space was enclosed
by a four foot high wall used to keep children from wandering away.  The entry
door had a clasp at the top accessible to ‘tall’ people.  Next to the entry
gate was a short school bus.  The bus was complete with a steering wheel and
three rows of seats.  The back was open and a slide flowed into the play
space.  Kids entered the bus door on one side of the wall, and slid into the
play area.

“What the hell.”  Emily said.  She
walked onto the bus and slid into the large fun room.  The walled area was
enormous.  There was a fire truck, a flat bottomed boat, a kitchen, a dress up
area with a stage.  Her two boys loved playing in the space for hours.  The
postal station was in the far corner from her.  Emily walked through, stopping
briefly to examine the once beautiful fish tank littered with algae and fish
bones. 

The mock postal room had a conveyor
belt with rollers and fake packages.  Children could fill a canvas bin with
boxes by sliding the packages along the conveyor.  Emily looked at the cart. 
It was deep and the bottom looked uncomfortable, but if she put blankets or
towels in the bottom, it would work to transport Hubba.  She grabbed the cart
and rolled it towards one of the play space exits.  She passed a puppet
station.  She stopped and put all the puppets into the bottom of the cart.  She
found stuffed animals from the story room and put them in the bottom.  She ripped
down the thick velvet curtains used on a small stage to lay across the top.  The
cart looked like a rolling royal purple pillow.

 “A bed fit for the First Dog of
North Carolina.”  Emily said as she approached the kitchen.  Hubba was out of
the kitchen and sleeping on the blue “ocean” carpet of the pirate ship.  He
snored in the sunlight. 

“You seem to be doing okay for a
dog that I found half dead an hour ago.”  Hubba opened one eye and lifted his
head.  He looked like he was happy.  He put his head back down and started
snoring again.  Emily rolled the royal bed over to him, picked him up, and
placed him onto the purple velvet.  He didn’t have the strength to stand up on
the pillows.  He stayed on his side, looking at Emily with his big brown eyes. 

She checked her watch.  It was
11:55.  She walked to the kitchen to get her backpack.  When she got back to
the cart Hubba was laying on his stomach, arms stretched out in a Sphinx pose. 
He looked ready for the ride. 

“Here we go, Hubba.”  She pushed
the cart over the broken glass, under the metal arm, and out the door.  She
pushed him all the way down to the street, across the road, and to the park to
meet Todd.

It was noon.  The always punctual
Todd pulled around the corner.  Emily whispered into Hubba’s ear.  “Your life
is about to change for the better.”

Her husband rolled the window
down.  He raised an eyebrow at the dog sitting on a purple pillow in a canvas
mail cart.  Hubba looked like a large Chihuahua with a Bulldog face.  His skin
showed every rib.  Screams came from the backseat “A dog, a dog, Mom got us a
dog!” 

Todd deadpanned.  “We are both
supposed to have input before purchasing a family pet.”

“He came free with the mansion
tour.  You’ve always wanted a dog, and you know it.  Let’s make a stop at a pet
store and get some food.  Marbles will have to wait for another day.  I want to
get him home.  He’s pretty frail. “

“Did you give him a bath?  He looks
wet.  Where did you find him?  You know how crazy it is that you found a dog?” 
Todd was full of questions.  Emily was not answering.

“Does he have a name, Mom?  Can I
name him?  Can I?”  Brian spoke excitedly.

“He does have a name.  It’s Hubba,
and he is the First Dog of North Carolina.”

“Hubba!”  The kids yelled.

Hubba was scared by the screams.  He
backed towards the corner of the postal bin furthest from the screaming
children.

“Okay, let’s calm down.  I’ll tell
you all about my adventure on the way home.  The dog is scared, and weak, so
you have to be quiet.  I am going to hold Hubba on the way home so feels safe.” 

“Oh my god” Todd muttered, rolling
his eyes.  “A royal pillow cart and now you hold him on the way home?  I just
met the dog and he’s already spoiled.”

“That’s enough out of you.  Could
you please get a towel out of the back that I can use to hold him?”

Todd retrieved a towel and gave it
to Emily.  He opened her door as she gently picked up Hubba and got into the
seat with the dog on her lap.  Todd closed the door for her.  He walked back
around and got into the car.

“I am excited to hear the story of
how you were dropped off for a mansion tour two hours ago and end up with a
clean, wet bulldog named Hubba.”

“Before I start, did you all have a
nice time?”  Emily turned to face the boys.

“Dad killed three ducks, gutted
them right in front of us.  It was nasty.”  Jay said, scrunching up his face to
show his disgust.

“There were a bunch of cars, so he
was able to fill our tank with their gas, and fill the spare can on the back.” 
Brian liked to talk about stealing gas, even though Todd and Emily explained
that it was not stealing anymore.  “He got the train to work too.”  The best
part of their trip was relegated to an afterthought.

“The train works!  That sounds like
fun we can have many more times.”  Emily patted Todd’s shoulder.  He wore a
smile of pride and accomplishment.

Emily paused before she began.  She
used her best story telling voice.  “My adventure begins when I open the door
to the governor’s mansion.  I was hit by a smell so bad I could barely breathe.” 

The car was riveted by her story,
everyone but Hubba, who was asleep and snoring in Emily’s arms the entire ride
home.  He did not wake up when Todd stopped at a pet store and loaded five 40
pound bags of food into the truck.  The dog did not wake up when they pulled
into the driveway of his new house.  Hubba snored against Emily, his savior and
new master, and dreamed happily about his new family.

Rebecca was exceptionally smart. 
She was thirteen years old and a senior in high school.  Her genius was a gift
and a burden.  She did not attend school with children her own age.  She studied
at the local high school.  Girls and boys her age were still in 7
^th
or
8
^th
grade. 

She had eaten lunch by herself since
she was five years old and identified as “gifted.’  She did not mind not having
friends in school.  School was for learning, but not having friends after
school and on the weekends was hard.  Her parents convinced the school board to
allow her to play 8
^th
grade volleyball despite her high school
status.  Volleyball only got her close to girls her own age, not boys. She
started to like boys when she was twelve, but she had a hard time meeting ones
her age. 

She had one semester of high school
to complete, and was accepted to several universities with full academic
scholarships for the winter semester.  She was deciding on location more than
institution.  Did she want to be in Northern California?  Did she want to stay
close to home in Boston?  Did she want to stay on the east coast in
Baltimore?  

Despite the big life decisions she
had to make, Rebecca’s mind was consumed with meeting boys her age.

She was a cute thirteen year old
with dark red hair and pretty greenish/hazel eyes.  She did not go through an
awkward phase like many girls.  She was average height with an athletic body,
and developing into a woman in all the right places.  She had confidence which
showed through in her actions and personality.  She sat alone at lunch, not
because she was an outcast, but because she wanted to read, study, or think
about her next steps.  Rebecca had plans.  She always had plans, and she made
them happen for herself.

The one puzzle she could not solve
was how to meet boys, cute boys her age, and it frustrated her.  She had
aspects of her life she could not control.  She controlled her grades and her
classes, but she could not control where she took the classes.  High school was
for older boys.  She was young.  She had no solution.  After Christmas the
problem would get worse.  College boys were even older.  Rebecca spent most
lunches staring off into space, thinking about her boy problem rather than
focusing on her studies. 

When the plague struck Sao Paolo, Brazil
in June, Rebecca knew it was trouble.  She brought it up at dinner with her
parents.

“Did you see all those people are
sick in Brazil?  It looks weird, like some sort of flu.”  Despite owning a local
grocery store open until 10pm, Rebecca and her parents had family dinner together
at least four nights a week. 

“It’s winter in Brazil, isn’t it? 
Isn’t that a different hemisphere?  I’m sure it’s just some winter flu
epidemic.”  Her mother was a great ‘mom’ who always tried to calm her daughter’s
fears.

“That’s pretty far away from here
too, squirt.  I’d be more worried about making the v-ball team this fall than a
flu in Brazil.”  Her father was volleyball crazy.

“Dad, I bet this gets more press. 
Why don’t we order some extra canned goods and bottled water, extra dry goods,
dried fruit, jerky, those kinds of things.  I bet people will want to buy survival
stuff if the flu gets worse.  We can always keep it in the storage basement if
it doesn’t sell right away.” 

“You have an opportunistic business
mind, Rebecca.  I’ll put the order in after dinner.”  Her dad beamed at her
with pride.  He loved that his daughter thought about his business.  He did not
realize her ulterior motives.

Rebecca followed medical blogs and
chats every night.  She knew Sao Paulo was not normal.  Doctors could not connect
the people who died.  Their symptoms were odd.  Panic alarms were going off in
the private medical blogosphere.

Three weeks later Raleigh, North
Carolina went through an outbreak.  South America was a giant hot zone on the
news station maps, Africa was a hot zone.  Europe was painted with red
circles.  Asia had red circles.  Rebecca stayed calm and followed the blogs and
chat rooms.  She wrote down the identified symptoms.  She tried to figure out a
pattern, a way to avoid the flu, or “the rapture” as it was being called.  The
news spoke of an impending cure.  The internet said otherwise.

One night in July, just before the
epidemic spread outside of Raleigh, Rebecca hacked into her favorite private medical
chat room.  It was populated with MD’s researching the disease.  Rebecca loved
contributing when possible.  She was reading the conversation when a virologist
posted.

“Testing theory of 6-9 month
dormancy, possibly year.  If true, we’re all dead.”  - S.P. Brazil

“Concluding same.  need cure, not
vaccine, all infected” – P. France

“Agreed.  We are screwed.”  B. China

Rebecca knew one of two things would
happen.  Either she would die, or she would live while everyone else got sick. 
She had been different all her life, exceptional.  She continued to make plans
to survive.

The first symptom of the rapture
was lack of appetite.  It was the only indication of infection before the major
symptoms of fever, lethargy, and euphoria began two weeks before or as little
as five days before death.  People focused on the fever because it was easy to
diagnose.  Rebecca wondered when a person lost their appetite.  Was it when
they contracted the disease?  Was it a late stage symptom?

She had access to data, her family’s
grocery store sales.  Sales could indicate a decline in food purchasing for the
area and the onset of the disease.  Her father did not share the store’s sales
volumes with her, but he did not password protect his computer either.  She
snuck into his office the day after she read the disturbing chat room posts. 
She pulled the last three months of sales.  June was 10% lower than May.  July
was 15% lower than June.  Not only did the sales figures explain her father’s
somber mood for the last two months, the numbers indicated most of the people
in the area had the rapture. 

Rebecca pulled up the last year of
sales.  July of last year the store had double the sales of this July.  She studied
the past twenty-four months.  Two summers ago the store’s sales grew each month
from July through January, peaking in December.  Holiday sales drove the
increase over the last six months of each year. 

Last July to August showed a small
increase month over month until October.  Sales were flat in November and
December, and declined steadily each month after the new year.  February showed
a modest dip of 4%.  March dropped 7%.  April dropped 7.5%.  May dropped 8%. 

Rebecca attended advanced classes
during the summer.  It was technically ‘summer school.’  Most kids who attended
had to attend.  Rebecca did not daydream about boys during lunch anymore.  She
watched the other kids eat, except they did not actually eat.  They talked and
acted normally.  Kids ate pudding or apple sauce.  A bag of chips might be opened,
but no one ate anything of substance.

Rebecca observed the same at
dinner.  Her mother made spaghetti and meatballs, but neither of her parents
finished their plates.  Rebecca ate all of her dinner.  Her parents threw most
of theirs away.  Rebecca found Tupperware upon Tupperware in the fridge.  Most
of the previous week’s meals were in plastic containers, untouched.  Her
parents, like the kids at school, ate enough to survive but not much more.

“Hey, Dad?”  Rebecca said to her
father, walking into his study later that night.  He stared at the computer,
most likely fretting over the grocery’s sales numbers.  He looked frail in the
computer monitor light.  Rebecca suddenly noticed how much weight he had lost.

He perked up when she came in the
room.  “What’s up, squirt?”  Her dad loved her.  She could tell every time they
spoke.

“Well, I was thinking about
inventory at the store.  I know I talked you into ordering more stuff, and I’ve
noticed that you haven’t needed me to restock too much lately.”

He interrupted her.  “Yeah, I think
this flu thing has people scared to shop, but it will turn.  I mean, people
have to eat, right?”

She gave a laugh, which was fake,
but the appropriate response to her dad’s comment.  “Yeah, that’s what I mean. 
I know people have to come back in full force eventually.  While it’s a little
slow, do you mind if I work through the expiration dates on the food, put the
stuff that is closest to expiring upstairs, and move some of the further from
expiring in the lock room downstairs?  People are going to need food, a lot of
food soon.  I bet we can make this lull work to our advantage, move older
inventory.  I was thinking of raising the price a nickel on each item,
something really small, but will help our bottom line.”

The pride in her father’s face was
noticeable, and his smile was ear to ear.  “If you want to do that, I think
it’s a great idea.”  He opened his arms, the universal sign for ‘gimme a hug.’ 
Rebecca ran over and jumped into his arms.  She hugged him tightly. 

“I love you, Daddy.”  She cried
softly.

“I love you too, honey.  I love you
too.” 

Rebecca spent Saturday and Sunday
moving inventory to the lock room in the basement of their store.  She
convinced her father to leave the shelves a little bare, a marketing technique
to make people believe the store was running out of food.  He loved the idea.  Rebecca
moved more food to the basement. 

  One week later the disease spread
outside of Raleigh, and the store shelves were sold out.  The first cases of
the rapture hit Concord, N.H. on a Wednesday.  Panic ensued and people flocked
to the store for provisions.  Rebecca and her father did not have time to
restock their shelves.  The market’s staff did not show for work that day or
ever again. 

Rebecca’s mother was at home, weak
and feverish.  Her father did not look much better.  He hid his symptoms well.

Friday he was too weak to get out
of bed. 

Most of the people in Rebecca’s
subdivision fled.  Where they went, she did not know.  The houses on either
side of her were empty. 

Rebecca’s parents were too sick to
travel.

“We have an idea, squirt.”  Her
father said as she brought soup to their bedside.

“Your mother and I want you to help
us move to the Johnson’s house.  You can take care of us over there.  They are
gone, and have a much bigger television in the bedroom.”

“Why don’t I just bring the
television over here?”  Rebecca did not like the idea.  She knew what her
parents were doing. 

“We can’t steal their television,
honey.  Just move us over there.  We’re afraid you’re going to get sick.”  Her
mother smiled weakly.

Rebecca was usually good at
separating emotions from practical decisions.  She understood her parents did
not want to die in the house and leave Rebecca to deal with two dead bodies.  She
got it, but Rebecca did not want to admit her parents were dying. 

She also knew she would move out of
their house once her parents died.  The fireplace was gas.  She could not
depend on a gas fireplace.

“This is your house.  You’ve lived
here for fifteen years.  You should stay here.  I can go to the Johnson’s, but
only if I need to go there.  You know what I mean.  I don’t think I’ll need to
go, but if I do, well, I’ll move over there.”  Rebecca reached out to hold
their hands.  “Like you said, they have bigger TV’s and I think they have lots
of video games.”

“What, you suddenly play video
games?”  Her father joked.  Rebecca played word games or read on her handheld. 
She never played video games.

“With school closed, I might have
to start, or I can just read.  You know I like to read.”  Rebecca sat on the bed
with her parents.  They talked all afternoon, laughing, and enjoying each
other’s company. 

The television broadcast awful stories
from all over the world about military crackdowns and government roundups.  The
promises of a cure were quickly fading.

One week later Rebecca was still
healthy. 

“I have a feeling you knew all of
this was coming, Squirt.”  Her father said softly.  “I know you well enough to
know you have a plan too, but let me say what I want to say anyway.”

“I’ll be okay, Dad.  Don’t worry.” 
Rebecca held her father’s hand.  Her mother slept beside him.

“You put food in the store’s basement
weeks ago.  You had me order the survival food.  You are on top of this
disease.  You were more than a month ahead of everyone, like you always are, I
know, but let me speak.”  He sat up in bed.  Rebecca helped him place pillows
under his back and neck.  “Not many people are going to survive.  I’m sure you
know.”

“I do, Dad.  The number of
survivors will be in the dozens, not hundreds or thousands.  I won’t have to
worry about food or shelter.”  She sat with her parents every day, treasuring
the last conversations.

“No, no, you don’t understand, or
maybe you do.  Food and water will be abundant.  Intelligence will be scarce. 
Genius will be coveted.  You can’t trust anyone.  No one, do you hear me?”  Her
father tried to sound forceful, but he was too weak.  “When you meet other
survivors, and you will meet them, you cannot let them know what you are.”

Rebecca giggled.  “Dad, I’m not a
robot.  I’m smart, but whatever.”

He squeezed her hand.  “Promise me
you will act like a thirteen year old and not what you really are.  Survive,
thrive, but keep your secret.  You are the most valuable asset left in the
world.” 

Rebecca’s face grew serious.  She
dropped the fake persona she maintained to fit into society and not intimidate
people. 

“Dad, I know.  Don’t worry.  I
promise.”  Her green eyes fixed on him with a combination of pure intelligence
and unwavering confidence.

He loosened his grip and continued
to hold her hand.  “I’m sorry we are leaving you alone.”  He reached out with
his other hand and stroked her hair.  “I love you, Squirt.”