What Survives of Us (Colorado Chapters Book 1) (7 page)

“You’re a good dog.  Good boy.”

She turned to leave, and he followed her.  As she walked back through the house, she saw further evidence of his desperation – he had clawed open all the cupboard doors as well as the refrigerator, looking for food, even as he had staunchly guarded the decomposing corpses of his little family.

She hurried back home, anxious to make sure Macy was okay, with the dog right on her heels the whole way.  She stepped through her front door and he followed then sat, as if looking for direction.

“Well, I guess this is your new home, big guy.  We’ll check on our girls then get you some food.  And you’re going to need a name.”

She ignored Scott’s voice, scolding in her head, as she bustled out to the deck.  Macy was still sleeping, but Persephone shot off the lounge chair when she spotted the strange dog, quivering with excitement and anxiety.  The two sniffed and sniffed, rigidly at first, then with growing enthusiasm and warmth.  Finally, the big Rottweiler settled down with a sigh and laid his head on his paws.  Persephone curled up next to him – her whole body wasn’t even as big as his head.  Naomi left them like that and went to find the newcomer some food.

She scrubbed and scrubbed her hands and arms in the kitchen sink.  By now, she was fairly certain she wasn’t going to get the plague, and Macy had already survived it, but she couldn’t be too careful.  She tried, and failed, to forget the cold rigidity of the baby’s corpse when she had tucked the afghan around it, so unlike the warm resilience of a living, sleeping baby.  Poor, poor tiny girl – gone before she had lived.

Naomi was not a spiritual person.  She took her children to church with regularity because that’s what her parents had done, and made sure they attended Sunday school and vacation bible school.  If people asked, she said she was Christian, because that was the way she was raised.  But in all honesty, it didn’t interest her as it did some, didn’t consume her as it did others.  Religion had never made her feel much at all.

Until now.  Now, she was pissed.

“You listen to me, God,” she muttered as she scrubbed.  “That baby!  Why did you let her even be born, just to take her back so soon?  Seems to me you let her down.  Seems to me you’ve been letting a lot of people down.” 

Naomi scrubbed harder for a few minutes, then stopped.  She stared out the window over her kitchen sink, where she could see the top of Cheyenne Mountain over the neighbor’s roof.  She ran her eyes along the familiar ridgeline and imagined herself there, among the pines, hearing only the wind.  Then she firmed her mouth and spoke again.

“Okay, God, I want you to know I’m grateful that you let Macy stay.  I don’t know why you had to take Scott, but I know some people lost a lot more, and I’m grateful for Macy.  And I’m grateful for Piper – I know she’s still alive.  I can feel her.  But here’s the deal:  You need to do right by that baby girl.  You need to make sure you take her soul to you, or you give her another chance, whatever it is that happens.  She never had a chance to ride a pony, or play dress-up, or fall in love.”  Naomi shook her head.  “Not fair.  It’s just not fair, God.  If I can’t believe you’re fair on some level, I don’t know what I can believe.”

Naomi dried her hands, then got Zeus’ old feed dish from the cupboard and scooped some of his food into it.  It wasn’t ideal – Zeus’ food was formulated for older dogs with joint problems – but it would have to do.  She carried the bowl out to the deck, where the sun was starting to slide towards the top of the mountains.  Both dogs lifted their heads when she stepped outside, and the big Rottie shot to his feet as soon as he scented the food.  Naomi sat down cross-legged on the deck and started feeding him, handful by handful, so he wouldn’t bolt the food and be sick.  His whole body shook, but he took the food from her hand as delicately as Persephone would have.

“You need a name,” she mused.  She examined his collar for a name tag while he chewed, but found only his license and rabies tags.  “I’ve been on a Greek gods kick – that’s what Scott called it.”  Pain tightened across her chest, and she breathed deep, trying to warm and loosen the constriction around her heart.  She missed his gentle teasing, so much.  “We lost him, just like you lost your people.  We’re all just trying to survive, see?”

She fed him the last handful of food, then let him snuff around the bowl for a minute.  When he finally accepted the food was gone, he heaved an enormous sigh and settled down next to her, watching her with ancient eyes.  After a minute or so, he scooted closer, so that his nose was resting against her hand.  Another minute, and she felt a tiny, grateful lick touch her palm.

“What a sweet, sweet boy you are.  Brave and true.”  She considered.  “‘Hercules’ is too cliché, don’t you think?  And ‘Apollo’ isn’t right – I’m pretty sure he was a blonde.” 

Persephone trotted over to settle against the big dog’s side as if she’d known him her whole life, and just like that, Naomi knew his name.  “You’re ‘Hades.’  Now, don’t look at me like that – he’s not the god of the dead, he’s the ruler of the underworld – there’s a big difference.  He’s Persephone’s consort, and even though he kidnapped her, I like to think they grew to love each other.  He could be cruel, it’s true, and he was stern, but he was also fair and just.”

Naomi smoothed both hands over Hades’ head, learning the silkiness of his ears, the sturdiness of his skull, the bulky muscle of his neck and shoulders.  His eyes slid shut under her stroking and she felt his anxiety ease, as surely as she’d eased his hunger – he had been as starved for affection and comfort as he had been for food.  Beside her, Macy stirred, and Hades lifted his head.

Macy’s eyes fluttered open.  She stretched, yawned with a soft, humming sound, then went still when she spotted the big Rottweiller.  Before Naomi could say a word, Macy’s face bloomed into a glorious smile.  She beamed at Naomi with shining eyes.

“I knew he’d come!  I dreamed him!”  She reached out a hand, and Hades shuffled on his stomach over to her.  He pressed his head into her caress with a soft, joyous whine.

Naomi felt the hair on the back of her neck tingle and lift.  She was seeing…a reunion.  Not a first-time meeting.  “You dreamed about him?”  She was proud of her casual tone.  “When?”

“When I was really sick,” Macy answered matter-of-factly.  “He said he was coming to us, that I needed to stay.  That you needed me to stay.”

“He talked to you?”  Naomi couldn’t tell if she sounded casual any more, and didn’t much care.  Something was moving underneath the surface of this exchange, something she just wasn’t ready to deal with.

“Of course he didn’t talk to me, not like people do,” Macy scoffed.  “You know what I mean.  When you feel what animals feel, you just
know
.  Like you knew how he felt when you saw him with his other family.  You knew he was worried about them, and you knew you didn’t need to be afraid of him.”

“Macy,” Naomi whispered, all pretext of “casual” forgotten.  “How did you know about that?  I didn’t tell you that.  You weren’t there.”

“I dreamed that, too.”  Seeing the distress on her mother’s face, she leaned over and patted her on the shoulder.  “It’s okay, Mama.  I dreamed a lot of weird things when I was sick.”  Her face slid into a crafty grin, and Naomi nearly wept with joy at seeing it.  “I dreamed you were so happy I lived, you bought me my very own horse - a beautiful, pure white Arabian!”

Naomi’s tears escaped her, leaving her sobbing and laughing at the same time.  The ploy was so Piper-like – it made her miss her oldest daughter, the pain a deep slice across her heart, even as she reveled in the living, breathing humor of her baby.  “Did you really?  What else did you dream, you little opportunist?”

Macy’s face went still, her eyes growing distant, and Naomi was instantly sorry she had asked.  “I dreamed of Piper.  She’s alive, Mama, but she’s in danger.  It’s going to take you a long time to find her – a very long time.  But you can’t give up, no matter what.  You can’t stop looking for her.  She’s going to need you to help her fix her heart.”

“What else?” Naomi whispered.  She desperately didn’t want to know, but to not ask felt like the most cowardly course.  She couldn’t take it.  “What else do I need to know, baby?”

“Daddy.  I dream of him all the time.  He stays close, for…later…”

Cold, cold to her bones, cold slicing to her very marrow.  Terror made her angry, and she struggled to keep the bite of it out of her voice.  “Macy.  Love.  Daddy is gone.  We talked about this.”

Macy reached out and gentled her with a soft palm against her cheek, comforting her a second time.  “I know, Mama.  It’s okay.  Hey, is there any soup?  I think I could eat some…”

Clever girl, Naomi thought, watching as her daughter ruffled Hades’ ears, then gave Persephone a stroke for fairness.  Knows just how to distract her mother.  Macy’s appetite still hadn’t returned, and she desperately needed to put some weight back on.  She was frail to the point of fragile, and though she did
her best to eat the nutritious dishes her mother fixed her, eating exhausted her.

“I’ll get some.  Do you want to eat out here?”

“Yeah, that would be good.  I’ll just stay here and get to know Hades.  Thanks, Mama.”

Naomi paused in the doorway, watching as Persephone hopped up to curl against Macy’s side, and Hades rested his head on the lounge chair, eyes closed, while Macy stroked his ears.  Then she went to heat up a cup of the rich chicken noodle soup she had fixed yesterday.  Not until she was headed out with a tray, attractively arranged with crackers and some canned fruit, did her footsteps falter.

Macy had known Hades’ name.

              Grace found Quinn where she usually found him these days:  tending to the plants he was forever adding to his family’s gravesite.  She stifled a sigh of impatience and stood watching him for a moment, wondering for the countless time what was wrong with her, that she couldn’t grieve like Quinn was grieving.

It had taken them four days to bury both her family and his, using a system Quinn devised of soaking the earth, then loosening it with a pickaxe and a pitchfork, and finally shoveling enough soil away to create ragged holes.  Grace had smoothed the sides as best she could, then used old blankets and mattress pads to line the graves.  She had not shed a single tear as she wrapped her mother tightly in the sheets she had died in, then her stepfather, then little Benji.  Quinn helped her lay the bodies carefully in the grave, Benji snuggled between their mom and Wayne, then she had carefully tucked a quilt over all three of them.  She had only faltered when it was time to throw the first shovelful of dirt; Quinn, sensing her distress, had gestured for her to go back in the house.

“Get what you want to take back to the ranch,” he said, his voice hoarse from disuse.  “I’ll finish.”

It was the coward’s way and she knew it, but she took it anyway.  She lingered inside, wandering from room to room, picking things up and setting them down without even looking at them.  She stuffed some clothes and her riding boots into Wayne’s big duffel bag, haphazardly grabbed toiletries from the bathroom, then just gave up and sat on the couch until she didn’t hear Quinn’s shovel hitting dirt any more.

She heard him come in the back door, then check the tap in the kitchen for water.  The power had been flickering on and off for days, more off than on, but he got lucky – the tap sputtered then gushed.  Silence, during which she assumed he was drinking, splashing, probably washing up, and all the while she just sat and stared, drifting in a limbo where there was no feeling, no loss, no loneliness, no sorrow, no fear.

He appeared in the doorway, t-shirt filthy, face shining clean, and just looked at her.  This was his way, she was learning – he didn’t speak unless he had to, but simply gazed at her in a steady, wide-open way that didn’t allow for subterfuge.  Somehow, she knew she could more readily lie to herself than to him. 

Grace stood up, fussing with her bag so she wouldn’t have to meet his gaze.  “Thank you,” she said brusquely, as if he had scraped the ice off the windshield of her car, or brought in the groceries.  “Let’s head back to your house and we’ll…finish up there.”

“Don’t you want a marker?”

It took her a moment to process what he meant.  “Like a cross or something?” 

He nodded, and her mind went perfectly blank.  It was terrifying.  What symbol, to sum up the lives of her family?  She thought her mother might like a cross, but not Wayne, he never went to church, and Benji only went to Sunday School when their mother dragged him – if he worshipped anything, it wa
s technology, robots especially–

“Grace?”

She was breathing too fast – she just couldn’t make one more decision, couldn’t take one more step into the unknown – how was she supposed to make this choice?  It was her responsibility to make sure her family wasn’t forgotten, to mark that spot for future generations to know that three human beings were resting there, three people who had been loved–

“Grace, it’s okay.  I’ll take care of it.  It’s okay.”

Quinn moved to her side and took her elbow, like he was helping his elderly aunt cross the street.  He steered her towards the front door, murmuring soft and soothing sounds so low she couldn’t make out the words, just the tone.  She didn’t realize she was crying until he handed her a wad of tissues and told her gently to “Blow.”

By the time he had driven them back to the Harris ranch, she had wrestled her grief back into its box.  No time for that luxury right now, she told herself sternly.  To start crying was to never stop.  She rolled down the window as they pulled into the driveway and lifted her face to the soft May sunshine, focusing her mind on the next task that needed doing.

Quinn showed no such restraint as he prepared his family for burial, breaking down so often, Grace offered to complete the task for him.  He refused with heart-breaking politeness, choking out a barely audible, “No, thank you,” as his big hands tenderly washed his mother’s face, straightened his little brother’s pajamas, and carefully arranged William’s track medals around his neck. 

While he worked, Grace prepared the grave as she had for her own family, lining it with blankets.  Then Quinn carried all seven of his family members to the communal grave, keeping his mother for last.  He clutched her body for a long, long time, sobbing without shame or self-consciousness, his deep, broken voice keening like a child for his Mama. 

Grace stood behind him silently for a while, and just rested her hand on his shoulder.  She didn’t have his easy way of comforting, but she had to do something for him.  In the barn, the horses were restless – she could hear them blowing and stamping in their stalls, and every once in a while, one would shrill out an anxious whinny, a chorus with Quinn’s grief.

Finally, he had nestled his mother beside his father and his brothers, and had covered their bodies with dirt a painstaking handful at a time, standing in the grave with them, reaching out for the dirt piled nearby.  Silently, Grace had facilitated his task, pushing dirt closer with a shovel until their bodies were no longer visible and Quinn was up to his shins in dirt.  They had worked together to fill in the rest of the grave shovelful by careful shovelful, and it comforted Grace enormously to know for certain Quinn had taken just this sort of tender care of her own family.

They hadn’t spoken a word to each other for the rest of that day, nor the next, working together in an easy silence that allowed them both the space they needed to adjust to the new shape of the world, a world without parents to buffer or shelter, without siblings to share the road.

That had been over a week ago, and once again, they had decisions to make.  The food was all but gone.  They were running low on feed for the horses, and Quinn had long since released the cattle to forage on their own.  The power had been out for days, and Grace knew they couldn’t count on it returning any time soon, if ever.  They had a back-up generator they ran for a few hours every day, but their fuel supply wasn’t infinite.  All of these concerns crowded and clamored in Grace’s head as she watched Quinn’s big, grubby hands press the soil around the columbines he had moved from his mother’s flower beds to the small garden that now flourished on his family’s grave. 

At the center was a small blue spruce he’d transplanted, then surrounded with graduated rings of shrubbery and perennial flowers he’d moved from all over the ranch.  Quinn’s mom had possessed quite the green thumb, Grace remembered, and Quinn had clearly inherited her gift.  He had been working on the garden whenever the necessities of living didn’t demand his attention, and though he didn’t speak of it, Grace could see the comfort and peace he gained from the activity.  She thought of her family’s barren grave and flinched.  Shame made her tone sharper than she intended it to be.

“Quinn. 
We need to talk.”  When he looked up, she added, “About leaving.”

Quinn went still for a moment, then brushed his hands off and stood up.  He surveyed his work, then turned and headed for the house.  Grace followed him into the kitchen, watching silently while he washed his hands and got a drink of water.  He was thinner than he’d been before the plague, his hair starting to look shaggy and unkempt.  She touched her own hair, scraped back in a messy ponytail, and couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked in a mirror.  Finally, Quinn sat down at the kitchen table, meeting her eyes with his wide-open gaze in silent invitation for her to speak.

“We’re pretty much out of food,” she began, “So even if we decide to stay, we’re going to have to go to town to see what we can find.  I know your mom always had a huge garden, but even if we had seeds it would be what – a couple months? – before we could harvest anything to eat.”

Quinn nodded his agreement thus far, so she continued.  “We should find out who else made it, too – there have to be some more survivors in Limon.  That’ll help us make our decision.  If we decide not to stay here, I have another idea.” 

She paused.  She didn’t trust her decision-making skills when she yearned so deeply for the course of action she was about to suggest.  Her emotions were clouding her analysis, and she wasn’t sure how to counteract that effect.  “We could head for Woodland Park, and see if my Dad made it.  My Grandpa was really sick – we should check in there, but I don’t think he would have made it.  I don’t have any other family close by – some cousins in Kansas.  What about you – do you have other family close by?”

Quinn’s voice was always deeper than she expected it to be.  “My mom’s sister and her husband live in Limon, and my cousins.  My grandma is in a nursing home in Colorado Springs.  If we leave to go to Woodland, maybe we could stop in and see if…”  He trailed off.

“Of course,” Grace agreed, and wondered how long their conversations would consist of words left unsaid, of sentences started and not finished.  “In the meantime, let’s head into town and see what’s going on.”

They decided to take Quinn’s dad’s new pick-up, which had the fullest gas tank.  Quinn drove with a confidence that told Grace he’d probably been driving on his family’s ranch for years.  As they skimmed along the deserted road, Grace fiddled with the radio, trying to find any signal at all.  Every time they passed another homestead, they slowed the truck, looking for signs of life.  Twice, they passed vehicles that had gone off the road with drivers slumped behind the wheel.

Quinn stopped at the stoplight at Highway 24 automatically and looked both ways.  The businesses here all catered to the travelers on I-70, and the evidence of trouble was ample – one of the gas stations was burned out, and the Denny’s, McDonald’s and Country Pride Restaurant all had their windows broken.

“People looking for food, you suppose?” Grace asked, and Quinn nodded.  They idled there for a moment.  Then Grace spoke again.  “Do you think it’s safe to go on?”

Quinn shrugged.  “We don’t have much choice.”

He started off again, creeping across Highway 24 and continuing down Main Street into town.  Not until they were just passing the Dollar General did they see another living soul. 

The woman scared a shriek out of Grace and made Quinn jerk the wheel in reaction.  She came out of nowhere, screaming and waving frantically for them to stop.  Quinn hit the brakes, but both of them reached for the auto-door-lock simultaneously.  Their eyes met for a moment, in perfect communication of their mutual trepidation.  The woman skidded to a stop by the passenger window, wringing her hands, her face haggard and wild.

Quinn said softly, “Just put your window down a little bit.”

Grace complied.  “Can we help you?”

“Yes, thank God, thank God!  I need you to help me get my kids to Colorado Springs, to the hospital – they’re both sick, and I can’t reach anyone – no one is even picking up at 9-1-1!”

Quinn and Grace exchanged another look.  Grace spoke again, hesitantly.  “Ma’am, do they have the plague? Because-”

The woman lunged at the window, her face twisting and twitching.  “It’s not the plague!  They’ll be fine, if I can just get them to a doctor!  Wait here – I’ll be right back with them!”

The woman scuttled away, and Grace looked at Quinn in anguish.  “What do we do?  I think she’s nuts or something!  Do we help her?  Should we just keep going?”

Quinn’s hands were wringing the steering wheel.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “I don’t know what to do.”

The woman reappeared, and what she carried made both Quinn and Grace suck in a breath:  a little boy, in blood-stained footie pajamas.  She shifted his limp body to her shoulder, and his head lolled to the side, his face bluish grey, his eyes slitted and dry-looking.  She reached for the passenger door, jerking it frantically when Grace didn’t unlock the door.

“Here!  I need you to take him, then I’ll go get the baby!  They just need a doctor – they’ll be fine!  Please!  Please, you have to help me, please!”

Grace groped for Quinn’s hand - she couldn’t stop staring at the little boy’s face, so much more dead-looking than her family, or Quinn’s.  He gripped her hand hard, so hard it hurt.

“Turn your face away, Gracie, just close your eyes,” he said hoarsely.  Then he raised his voice, speaking to the woman.  “Ma’am, we’re sorry.  Your little boy is dead.  We can’t help you.”

She lunged at the window again, spit flying as she raged.  Her face was flushed red-hot, her eyes and nose streaming.  “No!  Don’t you dare say that!  He’s just sleeping – he’ll be fine!  You have to help me, god damn it!  He’s going to be fine!”

She started to claw at the crack in the window, and Grace’s nerve broke.  She released her seatbelt and threw herself across the bench seat until she slammed into Quinn, trying to get away from those scrabbling fingers and the kind of grief that stole sanity.  Quinn started easing the truck forward, picking up speed as the woman fell behind.  Grace watched the woman chase them, gripping Quinn’s rigid arm with both hands.  The woman stopped running, dropping to her knees in the middle of the street, just as Quinn rounded a corner on two tires.  She was lost to their view, but Grace knew she’d remember that woman’s face to her dying breath, the disfigurement of despair as she clutched her son’s corpse to her heart.