Page 213 of The End of the World As We Know It
“It’s not God who exiled us,” he says. “It’s just bad luck. We don’t deserve this.”
He’s the only person I’ve ever heard express this. We’re all so tired, the rest of us, that it’s not a thought worth having. What does it matter whether we deserve this? It’s happening and there’s nothing we can do.
“If they’re God’s people, then God is a monster. They have everything. We have nothing,” he says.
“They say they’re working on a cure for us,” I answer, but I’m not sure I believe this.
“If they wanted to help us, they’d have given us a city. A hospital. They’d have cleared it out for us. They don’twantto help. They don’t care.” He’s angry. I wouldn’t have guessed awkward Ferris Landing had it in him to be angry.
“Don’t talk like that. You’ll cut yourself against it. There’s nothing we can do.”
He lowers his head and I have the feeling people have said this to him before:Stop talking. Stop thinking. I can’t handle what you’re saying.I don’t like that I’m now one of those people.
I stand up again. The sky is dim and thick. Beads of rain fall light at first, and then heavy.
Wet, we walk back. I can’t hide my limp anymore. The pain is a line of heat that stretches all the way to my knee. He puts his arm around me and I lean my weight. It’s strange at first. Unpleasant. I think of sickness and coughing and blood. But I need the help, so after a while, I don’t mind it.
“Why did Mattie leave you?” I ask.
“Because I talked like this,” he answers. “Odd little preacher.”
A few miles later, dawn breaks. We’re lucky and are close to the halfway house, a place restricted from the Chosen. Shelter from the rain.
Ferris is loud here, too. He grunts when he changes and grunts when he bends even though he’s a young man. The two beds are across the room from each other. I want to suggest one of us take watch, but there’s something thick between us that I’m afraid to broach. I find my eyes open, looking at him; him looking back at me.
While we’re sleeping, the worst thing happens. The door opens. The Chosen break treaty and enter. I’m so scared it’s like alarms are screaming inside me. This is everything I’ve ever feared. I can’t run. They’re blocking the door. I can’t breathe. I’ll die.
Really, that’s the only option. I’ll die. So will Ferris.
They come closer and they’re so clean. Even their fingernails are clean. I can’t hold it in anymore. I breathe. They smell like chemicals. The whole room is filled with the scent of too-sweet flowers.
I’m too focused on what’s right in front of me to notice Ferris, though distantly I hear struggle. Wet skin, fighting sounds. They’re hurting him.
“Easy,” the one closest to me says, like I’m a wild animal. “Easy does it.”
I lunge, but there are hands holding me down. There’s a needle. Everything goes black.
I wake up in a long, clean room with hard, shining floors and two rows of beds, headboards against the walls. Only two of the beds are occupied. Over us stand the clean Chosen, all wearing white coats. I’m awake, but Ferris’s eyes are closed. I’m waiting for the tickle in my throat. The swell in my ears. Captain Trips.
A man with white hair comes closer. Like a baby, he has no hair on his face. His breath is chemical and cinnamon. “Do you speak?” he asks. “Do you understand me?”
I glare, holding my breath.
“You’re exposed. Go ahead and breathe, dear.”
I lunge for him, realizing only then that my feet are bound. He shows no alarm. Barely flinches. His voice is loud. Louder even then Ferris’s. But he’s not talking to me. The people around him are students, apparently. Or else some kind of audience. “We injected her with both live virus and vaccine, but she’s shown no sign of infection. Very promising.”
They mutter, an excited thrum.
“This is the first time we’ve seen any immunity at all?” one asks.
The old man shakes his head. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as old as him. Our people die much sooner. Nonetheless, he appears healthy, his joints still full of cartilage, his skin lively. “We’ve come close before. But as I said… promising.”
Then he walks to the next bed. “This one has a hundred-and four-degree fever. It’s not as progressed as we’d expect from an active infection, but it’s still a fever. I’ll need hematology to run panels for everything relevant, looking particularly at the Trips protein-antibody interaction.”
Then they turn. I’ve given up lunging and am openly untying my binds, which are simple and well-knotted bedsheets attached to the metal frame. The old guy pays no attention, but a few of the interns watch with curiosity as the group of them heads out. A door closes with aclickand they’re gone.
They’re not worried I’ll escape, which I find alarming. Are people in my position usually too sick by now to run or fight?
