“Every generation thinks it has the answers, and every generation is humbled by nature.”
Chapter 1: The Empty Road
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.”
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson
“Hey, Benny, you know what
the best part of this whole wilderness experience is?”
“What, Ray?”
“Going home.”
Ray, in the lead for this
section of the trail, shifted his pack straps and took a deep breath. It was
actually a lovely morning. The trail was reasonably level and dry, the
mosquitoes had, thank God, thinned in number to mere occasional annoyances,
and the air was still summer-warm. He imagined that he could actually smell
the difference between the spruces and the firs among the green and spicy
scents. Not that he could tell them apart. But something in the air seemed
to have a direct connection to his sense of well-being. And if he felt this
good, he could just imagine how Fraser must be feeling.
“Ray, you don't really mean
that,” came Fraser's voice from behind him, with only the slightest trace of
reproach.
“Yes, I do. After six weeks
out here, even your old neighborhood in Chicago
is going to look luxurious. You know,
it'll be like the feeling you get when you stop beating your head against a
wall.” Ray resisted the temptation to look back and see Fraser's reaction.
“I think it's been a very
pleasant month already,” Fraser said stoutly, as Ray knew he would. Fraser
picked up the pace, forcing Ray to speed up in turn. They had been playing
this form of tag all morning. Even without looking back, Ray could picture
Fraser perfectly. The bright red flannel would be peeking out from under his
open jacket. His tousled brown hair and his well-browned face with its open
look would present the image of a man perfectly content and at home.
Fraser nipped at his heels
again. “Only you, Fraser,” Ray announced to the empty path in front of him.
“Only you would consider sleeping on rocks, communing with bugs, and eating
stuff from unknown food groups as pleasant. Not to mention the joy of
home construction in the middle of the howling wilderness. Other people go
to gyms when they want a little healthy exercise, they don't travel three
thousand miles to go and chop down trees to do it.”
Ray swung under an
overhanging snag, neatly gauging the space needed for his pack to clear. The
trail had entered another washout and gone steep and stony underfoot. Ray
slowed, rock-hopping down the polished granite boulders. He could hear
Fraser behind him, negotiating the terrain with somewhat less noise and
effort.
“It was your idea, Ray.”
“It was my idea three, no,
four years ago now. I didn't think it would become our life's work every
summer. At this rate we'll still be rebuilding at the end of the next
millennium.”
“Well, if you really
prefer to sleep outside we could always stop.” Fraser's voice held just
the right touch of patient long-suffering. “It probably won't snow quite so
heavily this winter as last and most of the rafters aren't sagging too much.
At least, not the ones we've stripped the shingles off. And I'm sure the
outhouse is still perfectly functional.”
Ray smiled to himself, and
then stomped deliberately through the boggy spot at the foot of the slope
they had just descended, raising a cloud of late-season bugs. Diefenbaker,
having decided that the two men were going to be at this for a while,
trotted stiffly on ahead, carefully choosing the easiest path on the uneven
ground.
“Inside, outside, when
you're this far from civilization it hardly makes a difference where you
sleep,” Ray said, beginning to let himself exaggerate a little. “Your
privacy can still be invaded at any moment by winged and four‑footed
wildlife. At least in Chicago the
only kind of wildlife we have to worry about is out running around on the
streets where it belongs. And when you want a meal you don't have to do the
Daniel Boone routine with a bowie knife, you just hit the fast food joints;
and when you want to go somewhere you can drive, instead of doing it
the slow, scenic, and painful way on foot.”
“I'm sorry, Ray. I didn't
realize you were still so out of shape. Do you want to rest for a while?”
There was a definite note of teasing glee in Fraser's voice. Ray mentally
kicked himself for letting his rhetoric get away from him. Point to Fraser.
“No, no, not unless you do.
I am anticipating that cup of coffee at the general store way too much to
stop now. This time we're gonna get twice the usual coffee supply. I don't
want to go through another week again of caffeine withdrawal.”
“Well, you know, Ray, there
are several shrubs in the forest here that make perfectly adequate coffee
substitutes. The leaves of ephedra make a very stimulating tea and I believe
the roots of the kinickinick, when dried, have a flavor similar to coffee,
though I admit I've never tried it.”
“Just keep it up, Fraser.
You're making the big city look more appealing by the minute.”
They walked along for a
while in companionable silence. It had been a good idea to take such a long
vacation this year, Ray thought. Total absence of anything remotely
resembling police work, or undercover work, or consulate work; plenty of
opportunities for complaining and teasing and being teased as they stretched
their competencies in the chores of rebuilding; time to try to re-establish
and re-tune their friendship; time to get the world in proper perspective,
before returning to the violence, speed, danger, and sordid tedium of their
professional lives. Another couple of weeks of this, and Ray knew he might
half regret leaving it behind for the real world.
As for what Fraser felt,
well, that was a little harder. He was always happy to return home to the
Yukon , but it was clear to Ray
that that happiness was still darkened with yearning, and probably would be
until the day came, if it ever did, when he was recalled home for duty. But
Fraser's critics in the Territorial RCMP still blocked his return. Each
success at the consulate made it only more certain that the only way his
career could advance now was in administration. And that meant, if anything,
another city, another desk job, and Fraser's slow, progressive
transformation into just another desk-bound bureaucrat.
What a horrible vision.
But for the moment Fraser
seemed happy as a clam. A particularly apt expression for him, Ray thought,
stealing a glance over his shoulder, since Fraser was usually about as
expressive as the average mollusk. But there was more eagerness in his eyes
and freedom in his movements than he ever showed in Chicago
. He could only imagine what Fraser
could see and understand of the forest and mountains around them that Ray
couldn't. Fraser caught his eye and quirked the corner of his mouth in what
passed for him as a grin.
“I really think you're being
a bit hard on the wildlife, Ray,” he said, picking up the argument. “I don't
think that chipmunk meant to bite you when you tried to feed it—”
“See, that's just what I
mean.” Ray didn't miss a beat. “Back home you wouldn't have chipmunks
barging through the windows and panhandling in your kitchen. And remember
the wolves howling that we heard last night?” Ray was glad Fraser couldn't
see the growing glee on his face.
“Well Ray, you have to admit
that's an experience that Chicago
can't match.”
“I wouldn't want it to. I
don't need to go all the way to the armpit of the North to see nature red in
tooth and claw. Don't you think that cranked-out junkies screaming abuse and
shooting random Joes for twenty bucks for the next hit bear a striking
resemblance to the wild?”
“Not at all, Ray. You have a
common misconception about the nature of wolves. They are not vicious,
pointless killers, they are highly cooperative, intensely social animals,
with a community structure that optimizes survival for the maximum number.”
Ray made a vaguely skeptical
sound, preoccupied by picking his way down a steep bouldery bit. Fraser,
naturally, chose to take that for encouragement.
“The entire pack is
organized around ensuring sufficient food for the breeding pair and their
pups, the alpha pair, as they are called, and around minimizing social
stress between the pack members, because the individual wolf cannot reliably
survive in this harsh environment.”
“Harsher than the streets of
Chicago ?”
“Much harsher. Only in a
pack are they able to hunt and kill enough large prey to survive. And each
wolf knows its place and function in the hierarchy. The alpha leads the hunt
and gets first feeding at the kill; the beta mediates between the other
wolves, almost like a policeman, if you will.”
“A place for everyone and
everyone in his place. Nature must abhor a democracy.”
“Even the lowest rank, the
omega wolf, is important. He is not only a scapegoat for aggression,
protected against abuse by the beta wolf, but also serves the function of
breaking societal barriers in encouraging the pack to play. You know play is
one of the signs of an evolved species—”
Fraser was really warming to
his subject, and showing all the signs of wandering off into other, even
more tangential fields. Ray ruthlessly nipped him in the bud.
“Fraser, do I look like I
care about the social lives of wolves?”
“Well, I don't know, Ray, as
I can't see your expression...”
“Trust me, I do not look
interested. The only wolf whose social life interests me is Diefenbaker, and
that's because it coincides with mine, especially the lazing around and
mooching jelly donuts part.”
“Ah, but Diefenbaker is only
part wolf. And five years in Chicago
seem to have dulled his wolfish
instincts somewhat. Still, I'm sure that he would know what to do if ever he
returned to the wild.”
“Yeah, get some other dumb
wolf to do all the work for him.”
As if hearing his name,
Diefenbaker turned around and trotted back, with a pathetically lolling
tongue and a considerably more exaggerated limp than he'd displayed five
minutes previously. Fraser got out a treat from his pocket and Dief snapped
it up.
“I'm afraid so.”
The wolf looked
inquisitively at Ray, who made a show of keeping his hands well away from
his pockets. Dief snuffled in disappointment and went back to ambling along
beside the two men.
“He's moving a lot slower
these days, isn't he?”
“Well, he's over ten years
old. That's approaching old age for a wolf. And the fact that he's spent the
last five years in Chicago hasn't
helped his fitness at all.”
“He's just disappointed that
out here we have to get places the slow way on foot, instead of sitting in
the back seat and letting me drive. And have I told you that I'll
never forgive you for letting the Riv blow up that third time?”
“Yes, Ray. About five
hundred and eighty-seven times, so far.”
“Oh. Well, just so long as
you're counting.”
“Somebody has to,” Fraser
muttered, but Ray pretended not to hear.
Ray paused and glanced back
at Fraser. The trail was ending and Ray was feeling generous, so he stepped
aside to let Fraser pass.
The trail looped one last
time, angling sharply down to the highway. Well, actually it was a road.
Chicago had highways. Canada
—well, southern Canada
—had highways, if one wanted to be
charitable. The Yukon had
crumbling roads. Ray stepped roughly onto the pavement and grunted in
irritation. His legs were tired and his thigh muscles sent tight complaints
through his lower back. Not that he'd ever admit it.
Fraser was scanning up and
down the road. “I wonder if we can find out what's happened to the road
crew? They were supposed to have fixed that washout weeks ago.” Fraser
sighed. “I suppose I'll have to get Carey to drop a couple truckloads of
gravel for me. Dad used to do it every other year.”
Ray groaned theatrically.
“And are they going to spread the gravel? No, of course not. That's
for the idiots in the only cabin up the road, who have nothing better to do
every summer than find more ways to do other people's work for them.”
As they headed up the road
Fraser commented, “Quiet, isn't it?” They had been walking for almost twenty
minutes, and not a single car had gone by.
Ray sighed. “Never thought
I'd say it, but it's kinda nice without the RVs barreling by. Even if it
means we can't get a lift.”
“Hmm. This time of year
they're usually like a herd of starving caribou hurtling south.”
“Well, I guess there's a
road break somewhere. Must be why the road crew isn't working on ours.”
“Probably.”
Another few minutes passed
while they walked side by side. Insects buzzed in the cotton grass that
filled the drainage cuts with white fluff. “Okay, I can tell you're
listening to something. What?”
“Nothing, Ray. Everything's
just so—normal.”
“Nothing wrong with normal.
I'm all for normal. Normal is
what civilization is all about.”
This far north, even the
midday sun slanted in the sky,
glinting brightness off Fraser's dark hair, highlighting the worn denim and
leather and flannel. Here in his native country, even grunge favored him,
Ray thought, with more admiration than envy. “So, Fraser, why did your Dad
build so far from the road? It'd make the resupply so much easier to be
closer in. Not to mention cheaper.”
Fraser's head turned
slightly as he scanned the trees. His voice skipped backward, fading in and
out between the sounds of Ray's boots kicking gravel. “Well, actually, the
distance is quite right. Close enough for a one‑day trip there. Far enough—”
“Far enough to forget the
neighbors. Yeah, I know, Fraser. Only you'd think that twenty-five miles is
a reasonable neighborly distance.” Ray shifted the backpack as he adjusted
to the leveling path. “And of course mountains just don't factor into this
neighborly distance, do they?”
Fraser turned his head
forward and Ray pressed ahead to catch his reply. “These aren't mountains,
Ray. They're just foothills to the Mackenzie range.”
Ray grinned, keeping his
mouth shut. He trod closer to Fraser, egging the pace along. He really
needed that coffee.
He was glad to see the first
buildings edge into view. Carey Klafter's Blue Heron Café was just a general
store and eatery, but to Ray it had the allure of civilization. It even had
a neon “Open” sign. And it sold the only coffee, gas, and propane for
seventy miles.
The “town” scrunched next to
the café, a few cabins and a small motel, and the open field across the road
that was kept cleared for a landing strip. Someone had planted quick-growing
summer vegetables among the fireweed where the gravel shoulder petered out.
Ray stepped past a zucchini the size of a small car with amusement.
Everything was big in the Yukon .
The empty road curved away
from them toward the café, then back out again into the distance. Fraser
crossed without pausing and Ray hurried to catch up. Fraser had kept moving,
his shoulders bunching as he increased speed.
What's his hurry? Ray
thought. The town was quiet, no one in sight. The sunlight, falling in the
midday haze, softened the
weathered wood and peeling paint of the storefront. The café's neon “Open”
sign hung there in the window, dark and unlit. Carey's going to be pissed
it's not working. He just bought that thing. Said it'd draw truckers like
bugs at night.
Fraser clumped up the café
steps quickly, pausing at the top. Ray stopped at the bottom, automatically
scraping the mud off his boots, while Diefenbaker trotted back and forth
along the frontage, nose to ground. Fraser stood on the porch, scanning the
mountains behind them with a puzzled air. Diefenbaker, having found a scent
of major interest, took off around the side.
Something wasn't right. Ray
could feel it now, that cop's sense that the pieces were out of order. It
pricked him between the shoulder blades and made him move a little quicker,
lighter on his feet. He wished automatically for his gun, then tried to
shake the feeling away. This was Canada
, for God's sake.
“I don't see it, Fraser.
Just more mountains, same as last month.”
“That's not it, Ray. It's
something¼”
Fraser shook his head and turned abruptly into the café. Ray lurched
forward, catching the screen door before it slammed.
The store was cool and dark,
unusually dark. And quiet.
Ray stopped sharply, his
inner voice flaring. Fraser's tense movements showed the same awareness. Ray
watched Fraser's silent motion behind the counter.
Scanning right, then left.
No lights. The cash register was dark. “Power outage,” he breathed in
discovery. Fraser nodded, still alert. “Probably all through town.”
Fraser carefully eased out
of his pack and leaned it against the wooden counter. Ray followed suit,
shrugging his muscles loose and ready.
“Mr. Klafter?” Fraser
called, leaning over the counter to get a view into the back rooms. After a
moment, Fraser walked around behind the counter and called again through the
door. Fraser turned and looked directly at Ray. His mouth was taut, his face
floating palely above his flannel shirt. He looked almost ghostly in the dim
silence. It really was quiet, even for such a small town.
Moving loudly, he stamped to
the counter. Carey's latest toy was still sitting where Ray had left it
after their last visit: a plastic outhouse with the words “Charity Piggy
Bank.” Can't believe I let a man named Klafter fool me with this thing.
Ray fished out a penny from his jeans pocket and slid it into the piggy
bank.
The outhouse exploded with a
loud crack!, pieces scattering to reveal a butt-naked occupant caught
mid-stream. Ray snickered and knelt to pick up a loose piece.
“Ray—” he heard Fraser
whisper and glanced back over his shoulder. Carey Klafter stood shadowed in
the doorway, the light spilling around him like a halo. Diefenbaker slunk
around his feet and took up a watchful position in front of the counter.
Fraser whispered to Dief and Ray focused more closely. Carey's shoes were
covered with mud up to his ankles. Blinking, Ray rose to his feet. Actually,
Carey was covered in mud. His face was blank, his eyes closed. He stood,
rooted, his upper torso shaking, hands clutching a dirt-encrusted shovel. It
banged against his right knee rhythmically.
Ray's hand shot to his waist
in a reflexive grab for the gun he did not carry. Keeping his hands low, he
signaled over his left shoulder to Fraser with his chin.
Fraser nodded once. “Hello,
Carey,” he said softly. “We wanted to pick up a few supplies but were having
some difficulty locating the red beans. Could you show them to us?”
The shovel kept banging rhythmically. Carey's bearded face was pale, his black hair matted. Ray felt his chest tighten. He inched closer on Carey's left. Fraser kept talking: “And Ray's been asking for more coffee. Do you still have that Nicaraguan blend?”
Carey's mouth finally moved, his voice
paler than his face. “Couldn't wait to bury her. It still gets warm during
the day.”
Ray and Fraser exchanged
glances. Ray swallowed and moved closer. “Where's Rose, Cary
? We brought some late-season
blackberries for her. The ones she likes.”
Carey's mumbling increased
in speed. “I told her we'd be fine. We're safe here, I said. No matter what
caused the power to go out, silenced the radios, deadened the phones—we're
safe here.” His right leg began jerking stiffly in counterpoint to the
shovel. Ray angled further to the left, eyes fixed on Carey's hands. Always
watch the hands, he remembered. Safer bet than the eyes.
He was almost close enough
when Fraser spoke again. “Well, I guess we can do without the beans and
coffee for now. But we'll need some more flour. That's an essential building
block—”
Ray had tensed to reach out
when Carey's voice exploded. “But Lavelle—Tom, the pilot—he decided to fly
into Whitehorse to see what was
up. When he came back he landed right here on the road. Didn't even make it
to the strip. Not surprising—there was blood everywhere. From his mouth, his
skin, his eyes. But God, oh God, he was still alive. Bleeding everywhere and
he was still moving. And talking. Kept saying, over and over: they're dead.
They're all dead.”
Carey choked, tears running
down his bearded face. Ray kept still.
“Rose—Rose—she wanted to
leave. Said it was too dangerous. I told her we'd be fine. No need to run to
a place where we'd only be strangers. But then Barry died that night. Bled
to death in his own kitchen. His wife Essen
died the next day. By the end of the
night they all bled.”
He paused, staring straight
into Ray's face, awareness unfolding in his eyes like a crumpled piece of
paper. “You can't stop the bleeding once it starts. Rose only had a
nosebleed. She used to get those before. A little ice, pinch the nose, and
it'd stop.”
“And this one didn't,”
Fraser said gently, moving around the end of the counter next to Ray.
Carey's hands stilled. The
shovel's point clunked gently on the floor.
“This one did. We were fine.
Just like I told her. We were fine. Everybody else was gone but us. I told
her we'd leave in the morning.” His voice became thick with tears. “And when
I woke this morning, I found this.”
He reached out with his left
hand, a note clenched tightly in his fingers. Fraser eased it gently from
him, his arm resting around Carey's shoulder. Ray took the shovel out of the
other hand, holding it out of reach. His chest hurt and he forced himself to
breathe.
Fraser's lips moved silently
and then he handed the note to Ray. “Come on over here, Carey, let's sit you
down.” Tugging, Fraser shifted the man into a shambling, wide-legged walk.
Ray stood in the pale light, dust flowering in the air, his throat closing
as he read the note.
Carey—It's not fine. It
will never be fine again. We've unleashed hell and can never go back. I
can't wait for it to eat away at me. I love you dearly. Don't wait too long.
Love, Rose.
Ray raised his eyes to the
sweat-stained man moving hesitantly toward the back rooms, shepherded by
Fraser. He breathed once, deeply. Then again. Oh, God, he thought. It must
be contagious. He threw the shovel and note away with both hands and rubbed
them on his jeans. How was it transmitted? Could it be airborne? What was
the latency period? What was it?
Oh, God, Fraser had touched
Carey. Fraser's hands had touched the sweat-and mud-soaked shoulder. He had
to get them away from here. To someplace safe.
His boots echoed loudly
through the store. He ran around the counter, crunching plastic pieces. The
back rooms were littered with clothing, suitcases, and shoes. Stumbling, he
heard Fraser before he saw him: “Close your eyes and rest. We'll take care
of you.”
“Why?” Carey's voice was
thick with tears. Ray paused in the doorway. The windows faced west, casting
a reddish glow over Fraser kneeling beside Carey's bed. He held a limp hand,
tucking it gently under a blanket.
“Why what, Carey?”
“Why take care of me? It'll
be over soon. Why bother? Why bother with any of it?”
Fraser sighed. His eyes,
charred with sadness, were abstract, distant. “It's what we do, Carey. Now
rest.” Carey closed his eyes tightly and curled himself on his side, tense
and motionless. Fraser crouched watchfully beside the bed. Carey lay like
that for only a few minutes, until exhaustion tricked him into sleep. Fraser
rocked back on his heels and closed the nightstand drawer. Then he pulled an
empty bottle off the nightstand, tossing it to Ray. Holding the bottle up to
the fading light, Ray read its label: digitalis.
“If she took these—”
Fraser shook his head,
motioning them both into the hall. Diefenbaker remained in the bedroom,
lying on the rag rug by the bedside like a watchful sphinx. Fraser pulled
the bedroom door halfway shut. “If she took them, then she died quickly.”
Fraser took the bottle back, rolling it between his fingers, his face
brittle, cold and white as bone, unseeing.
“I don't believe it,” Ray
said fiercely. “It's crazy. Carey's gone nuts from his wife's suicide and
imagined the whole thing.” He put all the conviction he could into his
voice, willing Fraser to agree with him.
“I don't think so, Ray. A
mass epidemic explains a lot: the emptiness, the lack of power, the absence
of traffic. We need to see if anyone else is still around, what information
they might have, and find the evidence of what's happened.” The sad look was
gone. Fraser's voice was decisive and calm, though a little too quick.
“Okay, fine, I'm on it.” Ray
couldn't wait to get out of the claustrophobic back rooms, out into
somewhere cleaner and alive.
“Ray, wait.” Fraser's voice
sounded oddly muffled in the hallway. Concerned, Ray turned back. Fraser's
silhouette had faded in the gloom. The faint ticking of a clock, the wind
whistling though the front door, and his harsh breathing filled the silence.
“I think you should go straight to the post office. If any phone line is
still up, it'll be that one.”
Ray frowned. “Sure, Benny.”
“Then maybe the Hensons'.
They have a CB, I think.”
Ray opened his mouth and
then closed it. “See you in about an hour, Benny.” Ray reached for the
flashlight kept under the stove and clicked it on. Shining the light, he saw
the newspaper racks and grabbed a handful.
They came out of the dark
store onto the porch, into the sunlight, and looked out again over the empty
road, the silent buildings, and the dark forested hills surrounding it all.
Quiet. Not a sound in the still air. Ray held his breath with the intensity
of listening. He could hear the soft creak of Fraser's leather jacket, the
minute rustle of cloth, the faintest squeak of the floorboards shifting
under their weight. But beyond the circle of their bodies there was only a
vast dumbness.
“Christ, Benny,” Ray
muttered. “Jesus Christ.” He heard his breathing increase, could feel his
legs tremble.
Fraser pressed his hand to
Ray's shoulder and let it lie there, a link of stability and permanence. “We
don't know anything yet, Ray. They could all have fled.”
Ray nodded, grateful for the
solid feel of Fraser, the press of him along his side, the direct gaze.
“Right. What you don't know will hurt you. Right.” He spun his fear and
anger into his words, felt the flush of adrenaline clearing his thinking.
“Okay. We'll start the door‑to‑door. But let's assume Carey's right. That
makes this a fatality without survivors or witnesses.”
“And neither of us are
trained in forensics, and the crucial evidence of the origin could be far
away. As least as far as Whitehorse
.”
“That's if Carey was right
about Lavelle being the first. So there might be a mention in the newspapers
of the beginnings of unexplained illness.” Ray's brain was working again,
going through the familiar stages of talking out a case strategy with
Fraser. The vertigo receded.
“Who's got a radio or TV?”
Fraser spoke abruptly, washing away the last of Ray's fuzziness.
“Right. I'll check the
radios and phones again. Maybe the problems have cleared up.” Ray pushed
away, eager to have clear directions. Fraser strode off in the opposite
direction, toward the small clustering of cabins near the road. His eyes
flicked back and forth in constant watch for any sign of movement.
Ray crossed the road to the
cabin that doubled as post office, campground office, and airstrip terminal.
A couple of RVs were parked in the back. The Canadian flag hung limp over
the door. The tiny shack, hardly bigger than a mailbox, was usually crowded
with people arranging deliveries, or storing supplies, or just shooting the
breeze with Essen and Barry. It
didn't take more than a glance to show the room was empty. The bodies
weren't here. Ray felt relieved, and then embarrassed. He was a cop. Bodies
didn't faze him.
The phone was dead. Ray
poked behind the tiny desk and found a mailbag, not even unsealed. Inside,
the letters' postmarks were all over two weeks old.
Out the back door the
illusion of normality was abruptly lost. On the edge of the gravel RV lot
was a large blackened patch, where someone had apparently been burning
garbage. As Ray drew nearer a small breeze picked up, carrying a sickly
garbage smell as of a rancid barbecue. A couple of the ubiquitous ravens
flew up and landed in the trees just behind the lot, their croaks breaking
the silence as nerve-shatteringly as a sonic boom.
Ray didn't need to go
closer. He could see the bodies now, charred but still grotesquely
recognizable as human. It was a lot more difficult than most people thought
to reduce a body to ash, and even soaking the corpses in aviation fuel
hadn't raised the heat high enough to do more than consume the clothing,
hair, and skin. There were at least a half dozen, probably more, but Ray had
no intention of going close enough to count. The barbecue smell was making
him gag. He started to skirt the edge of the burn, startling a coyote
preoccupied with gnawing on something.
“Get away! Get! Get out of
here!” Ray yelled, but the coyote just looked at him, then unhurriedly
trotted off into the trees.
Ray knew he should check out
the RVs, but just at this moment he didn't think he could. He went back
around the front of the post office and pulled a few more newspapers from
the rack. The breeze was picking up and the flag overhead flapped at tired
intervals. He sat on the steps and began skimming the papers. Weather, local
sports, inept politicians. He checked the date. The paper was three weeks
old. Tossing it aside, he sorted for a more recent date.
“Flu-like outbreak”
floods emergency room with patients. This one, from the Vancouver
Sun, was dated fifteen days ago. He kept digging.
“Flu” more serious than
originally reported. Authorities investigating. Curfews and health
advisories will be announced this afternoon. He could not find any later
news.
Reading the newspapers again
for greater detail he discovered that the “flu” had been detected on the
eastern seaboard first, spreading west and north. Early reports also
indicated that Europe and Asia
had been equally affected. International
updates were difficult to come by due to an unprecedented travel and media
clamp‑down. Within Canada , early
reports downplayed the symptoms, vaguely described as “increased
temperature, followed by a coma, and possible blood loss.” Ray snorted.
Blood loss didn't seem to begin describing it.
He kept reading. Disease
is characterized as highly contagious. He checked the date. This was the
last report, from the Whitehorse
Gazette.
He leafed determinedly through the rest of the papers, Edmonton, Vancouver,
Fairbanks, Anchorage, but he could not find anything more specific. He was
not the only reader who must have been alarmed by this news. The
authorities, anticipating a panic, had closed major roads, to prevent
wide-scale evacuation.
He dropped the papers. He
knew what that meant. He thought of his colleagues, holding the barricades
back. You could not hold back a city of half a million. In Chicago
it would have been worse, three million
panicked citizens and every one of them and their brother with a gun.
The gunshot reverberated
across the dusty road, slicing into his awareness. He scrambled for the
flashlight and sprinted to the store. As he slid into the hallway, he
slowed, training and instinct extinguishing the flashlight. Crouching low,
he called softly, “Fraser?” He waited a few seconds and then edged closer to
the partially open bedroom door: “Fraser?”
“It's all right, Ray. You
can come in.”
Still cautious, he stepped
into the dark room, keeping a low profile. He could barely make out Fraser.
But the smell of cordite and blood was unmistakable.
“Are you...?” he asked,
still holding the unlit flashlight.
“I'm fine.” Fraser spoke
slowly, distantly.
Ray flicked on the light and
scanned the room. Carey had half-fallen off the bed. Blood dripped from his
skull, pooling on the wood floor. Ray swung the light in circles, looking
for the gun.
“Where did he get it?” he
wondered aloud. Then he saw the opened nightstand drawer and nodded. “Right.
I guess we should have checked before we left him alone.”
Fraser stood quietly in the
middle of the room, holding the revolver firmly in his hand. With a smooth
motion, he released the trigger guard and put the weapon back in the drawer.
“I did check.”
“Hey, he could have kept it
under his pillow, for all we know. You can't keep a man from killing
himself. Not out here, anyway.” Ray picked up the blanket and covered the
body. “Come on, let's get some air.” He moved toward the door, pulling
Fraser in his wake. He thought he could see an unfamiliar expression
flicking across Fraser's face, but it was too dark to be sure. “Come on,
Fraser,” he urged, uneasy in this dark room filled with the smell of blood.
The long afternoon twilight
stretched around them, peppered with the faint chirps of the last surviving
insects. Fall was approaching and the air had become biting. Suddenly tired,
Ray slumped on the porch steps and leaned into his knees. “So...” he said.
Fraser did not answer. He
slowly rolled down his sleeves, buttoning them and smoothing the fabric. His
face was unreadable.
“The motel was empty,
cleaned out. It looks like only the Klafters stayed behind,” he said at
last.
“The RV park is empty too—I
guess when it got here they all took off.” Fraser must have caught something
in Ray's voice, and turned to look at him with a clear-eyed acceptance that
made it easier somehow. Ray went on, “There's a pile of bodies on the edge
of the airstrip. Someone must have collected them and tried to burn them.
Didn't do too good of a job.”
“How many?” Fraser asked
thinly.
“I don't know. Not enough to
account for everyone who lives here.”
“I found a government
quarantine notice on the motel door, listing the symptoms and ordering three
weeks' isolation, but not suggesting any treatment.”
Ray tried again. “The papers
weren't much help. Whatever it is, it's big. Worldwide.” He looked up at
Fraser, standing still in the dimness. “And contagious.” He felt his
remaining strength flowing out into the emptiness.
“The symptoms described
sound like a type of hemorrhagic fever, but more virulent. Almost as if it
were artificially enhanced. It could be a variant of Lassa, or Ebola, or
dengue, or¼”
“Oh, shut up, Fraser! Just
shut up!” Ray yelled, all patience with Fraser long forgotten. “It doesn't
matter. We don't know how it's transmitted or incubated; even corpses could
still be infectious. Shit, shit, shit! We're probably dying already.”
“It'll be fine, Ray.” Fraser
kept staring into the distance, scanning the dark.
“No, it won't, Benny. We're
cut off, we don't know the incubation period, and we don't know if there's
any hope of outside contact. Or help.”
The silence stretched
between them, magnifying the tension. Ray let it build and then forced
himself to speak: “I want to go home. I want to see my family and hold them
and make them safe.” He turned his head toward Fraser's shape. “It's what I
do, Fraser. It's what I'm supposed to do.”
Fraser sighed and then
cleared his throat. “I know. We're two hundred miles from Whitehorse
, and over three thousand from Chicago
. And how much death in between? We have
no idea if we can find vehicles, or fuel, and if we have to go on foot, the
weather—”
“It doesn't matter. It's
never mattered to you when you had someone to protect.” His jaw was hurting
now.
“I didn't say it didn't
matter. Your family matters to me too, Ray. But what if we are contagious?
What if they have it contained and we reintroduce it? Or we bring back a
mutated version?”
Ray clenched his fists, the
nails biting into his palms. He wasn't thinking clearly. Of course, who
would be, but he should have thought of that. “How long until we know?”
Fraser stepped down, moving
carefully around Ray. “Three weeks. One month. How long before we're willing
to risk their lives?”
Ray clamped down again on
his knees, forcing himself to think. “You're right. So we keep checking the
phone and radio.”
“Yes.” Fraser sounded
relieved. Hard to tell sometimes. Strange how the dark could make you feel
closer to someone—an intimate connection of sound and sensation. “And start
preparing in case we have to winter here.”
“Right.” Wintering seemed so
remote. They'd know within a few days at most, if Carey was right. Until
then, he wouldn't let Fraser down. He could handle this. They could handle
it.
The wind picked up, blowing briskly across the road. Leaves rustled in the darkness, rasping across the pavement, and beneath their trembling chatter, he heard the silence of the dead. Ray leaned his forehead on his knees. “Shit,” he whispered. “Shit.” The porch door banged sharply, rattling loosely in answer. It wouldn't take too much time. Before they had an answer. Before they knew.
Skip To Part Two (Chapter 7)