Page 86 of The End of the World As We Know It
“You hear that?” Gemma asks.
“Hear what?” Lizzie rights herself so they stand face-to-face. “Hey, Gemma. I’m here for you.”
“Who’s here for you?” Gemma asks. “Thirty-six meals. Plenty of water.”
“That’s good.”
“Why? A meal each per day. Twelve more days to look down and wonder what’s going on.” Gemma glances at her watch. “How long until we’re over Florida again? I want to talk to Joslin.”
She does, and she doesn’t. What she wants most is to get away from that voice––
They don’t trust you, they talk about you, you shouldneverfeel guilt for something you didn’t do.
––and the terrible scratching at the door, like something eager to be let in.
… scritch… scritch…
But I’m already inside, he says.
She shoves past Lizzie and grabs the ladder, pulling herself up toward the flight deck. Matt turns to her as she arrives.
“Hey, Gemma.”
She looks from the window, crouching to see past him. They are coming up on the West Coast.
“Joslin,” she says.
“I was just about to start trying him.”
For the first three times, the only response is static. Lizzie comes in behind Gemma, and the two of them stand close by Matt’s chair. Gemma breathes through her mouth, listening for the slightest hint of response. She tries to imagine Mission Control empty, screen displays still flowing, lights flashing, computers humming, everything meant to keep them safe now playing to the dead.
As the landmass of the USA passes by beneath them at three hundred miles per minute, the static is replaced by a low, long rattle.
A breath, Gemma thinks. From behind her, down on mid-deck, she hears a loud laugh. She glances at Lizzie wide-eyed.She must have heard that!
“Is that someone breathing?” Lizzie asks.
No, she didn’t hear the laugh. Am I mad?Gemma thinks.
No,they’remad, the muffled voice says from down through the hatch and beyond the air lock door.Scritch… scriiitch… as he speaks, as if determined to scratch his way through to her.
She feels those scratches against the inside of her skull.
“Joslin?” Matt asks. “That you, friend?”
“Yeah,” a voice says from the radio. It sounds like Joslin is speaking through a throatful of soup. “Not doing so good here,Discovery.”
“Has anyone come back?” Lizzie asks. “Anyone come up with a plan to help us––”
“Wish I could go… to her,” Joslin says, drawing in agonized breaths. “Wish I could… see. But he’s got his… hands on my throat. Squeezing. Feel hot. And cold. Got better––”
“Who’s squeezing your throat, Joslin?” Matt asks.
“––better yesterday, pulling through, then slept and… smells like death now, in here, and I think… I think it’s me.”
“Is there anyone else left?” Lizzie asks. Desperate. Leaning forward, as if to feed herself down along the radio waves.
Gemma watches the landmass of home passing beneath them. “No one,” she whispers.
