Emily licked her lips.
The taste of damp salty air.
She wasn’t in her memory anymore.
In real-life, the dead aren’t at all like you see in the movies. On the silver screen, they are crumpled and broken, flying like rag dolls through the air. Or their limbs are stretched awkwardly, making blood angels on the black-top and pavement. But sometimes, the dead are made up like porcelain figurines, cleaned and pristine, hair combed back flat with their faces painted to look forever calm. That isn’t at all what Emily saw when she first opened her eyes. Cordwood was the closest thing she could think of. Stacked cordwood.
Emily peered ahead, staring at a dead body. It just laid there. No sound. No movement. No memories to get lost in. Dead. She told herself to turn away, but couldn’t. It was the first time she’d ever seen a dead body—up close, anyway. Yet there were countless dead all around them now. Her father, her mother, just to name a few. But the fog kept them hidden like a dirty secret.
A thousand secrets? A million?
She cringed. They’d all died from the poison promise that her father released upon the world.
I survived though
…
I survived, and so did Justin
.
Blink
, she insisted.
Blink and take the image away.
The dead man was older, his silver hair revealing a few youthful streaks of color. His front was soiled with sweat stains and blood that had dried stiff. She wondered how long he’d lived. How long after he’d reached the safety of the mall? And, she thought, how awful it was for him to have made it this far, only to die.
Emily eased back to sleep, curling her knees up to her chest, telling herself that she was back in her bedroom—that is, before her world imploded. But a stir of activity kept her close to the edge, pulling on her like a wave. And when she fell deeper, letting go, she saw Justin with her father and mother, and heard their voices. A garden of fond memories was hers to pick from.
Noise.
She narrowed one eye open, only to find the dead man watching: guarding.
Drifting.
A thump against the car door. Her breath is gone—she doesn’t want to see the memory.
Nightmare.
Her mother’s hand, crawling across the glass.
On the car window, a bloody stain in the shape of a heart—the word
GO
scrawled beneath it.
A scatter of pots and pans crashed to the floor, jarring her.
Sleep would have to wait—no matter how badly her body needed it to heal, it would have to wait. Her companion agreed; that’s what she imagined he’d say if he could.
There was something familiar about his dead eyes. Baby blues that she remembered from a lifetime ago. Like the fallen clouds, they had gone pale, gray and lifeless. But still, she knew them. And in her past, they’d been like a summer sky, bright and inviting, greeting her every school morning. Mr. Rainer was her school’s vice-principal, but now he was just cordwood. Another dead body.
Much of his face had been burned by the fog. And while his eyes had begun to sink into his head, they’d remained open in a morbid gray stare; a reminder of what had killed him. And there was the smell. Thick and sickening, his clothes held onto the poison like a heavy bleach. She could have retched from the odor, but was able to breathe past it, tolerating it. But even beneath the chemical, there was something else lingering: the sallow smell of death.
Mr. Rainer’s feet were bare, and she wondered where his shoes had gone. Emily made fists with her toes, assuring herself that she could still feel her shoes. She never understood why hospitals removed a person’s shoes, leaving their feet exposed: naked.
The tag?
Maybe it is for the toe-tag. Not that this was a hospital, but with the tables stacked, and the dead and injured on top of them, it was beginning to resemble one.
“I’m sorry Mr. Rainer,” she whispered. Her voice was scratchy and dry, cracking between her words. “I’m sorry for whatever it is my father did.”
She took care to make sure nobody was around to hear her. A heaviness settled in her heart. It was different—sorrowful. She knew at once that it was guilt. Guilt for who her father was, and for what he’d done. What path lay ahead for her? For Justin? She hoped that her brother was too young to understand the burden they would carry; she could hope for that at least.
She groaned, pressing her side.
Broken ribs for sure
. Emily turned to face her guilt. She half expected a reply from Mr. Rainer. A short nod, or blink maybe. None of that happened. The dead don’t move.
Why doesn’t someone cover him up?
But they weren’t in a hospital.
Cover him up with what?
Like the missing toe-tag, there were no gurneys or blankets. This was a food court—the one she’d spent her Friday and Saturday nights at—where she’d spent countless perfect, happy evenings with friends, talking about nothing, doing everything, growing up, living.
Emily winced against the pounding in her skull and the rushing sound of blood in her ears. She squeezed her eyes, trying to focus past the doubled images, trying to make sense of the
new
food court.
As expected, the shops were closed. The Subway shop and the Pizza Shop looked orphaned in the pale light. She imagined a few friendly faces beneath uniformed caps, standing behind the counters, smiling at her. Emily blinked the image away. The Starbucks and Dairy Queen were empty too. No lines, or wandering teens, debating fraps vs. blizzards. The emptiness was eerie. But it was the utter silence that was what she found the most disturbing.
The tables had been cobbled together, turning them into makeshift beds, back to front, row after row, looking like a giant chessboard.
The kind where the dead played
, she supposed. Silvery arms beamed down from the skylights, drawing faint paths in front of her. And along the walls, glassy eyes sprouted in pairs, soft yellow orbs throwing a glimpse into the darker corners. Across the court, in the furthest corner, she could make out the red letters of an emergency exit sign. A barricade of chairs and tables were perched up high in front of the door, guarding anyone against accidentally going outside.
Her hopes lifted, seeking out the round lights on the walls, and taking comfort in them being on. If there was power, then there might be a phone. The pots and pans she’d heard earlier rattled, scraping against the ground. Food. A stir in her stomach. She was hungry.
“Thought you were dead,” a voice interrupted. A young man walked around and pulled on Mr. Rainer’s shoulders. “Good thing I saw you moving.”
With broad shoulders, he carried a mess of sandy brown hair—his blond highlights catching the gray light as he moved. Next to her fair complexion, his skin was tanned: attractive. A lifeguard maybe, and her thoughts went to the beach and a memory of hot sand beneath her feet. And then she thought of pools and sleeping in lounge chairs and the smell of chlorine and breathing in the faint scent of suntan lotion.
From above a patch of tidy freckles, his green eyes quickly looked her up and down. A sudden shyness came over her, and she tucked in her legs bashfully. But in his eyes she saw a gentleness and concern. He wasn’t ogling her at all. Instead, he was just making sure that she was okay.
Beneath his strong features, there was a beautiful boy that she knew once. A flicker of sentiment sprang to life inside her, an attractive notion. While it had been a few years since she’d last seen him, she’d heard something familiar in his voice. Peter Wilkes was in his final year of high school when she’d just started her first… that also happened to be the year that she’d begun to notice boys. And buried somewhere beneath the rubble of her house—tucked in between her mattress and the box-spring—she’d hidden away a black and white copybook. And inside the jacket of that copybook was a single heart shape, penned in purple, circling the name Peter Wilkes.
“You
are
alive?” he asked, waiting for her to say something.
“I’m alive,” she coughed, and tried to wet her throat to soften the sound of her voice.
“Emily?” Her ears perked up when she heard her name.
“Peter Wilkes,” she answered.
“Ms. Parks asked me to check on you… just wanted to make sure you were
Emily
.” His reply soured her earlier sentiment. “Wait. How did you know my name?”
“High school,” she confessed. “Do you know if my brother is okay?” Her throat burned, adding fire to each word.
“Justin?” he asked. She raised her chin. “He’s a good little dude. Grouped him up to play with some of the other kids. He’s pretty shaken up and all, but I suppose everyone is.”
An image of Justin’s face came into her mind. The one when she’d begged him to shut his eyes—demanded that he shut his eyes, and not look at their mother. Emily suddenly felt like crying, but she pushed the emotion back, hardening herself, deciding that she was done.
“Where are you taking him?” she asked, motioning to Mr. Rainer.
“Rainer?” Peter pulled up again on the man’s shoulders, a rapid
pop-pop-pop
rang out, catching her off-guard. “We’ve got a spot in the back where we’re putting them.”
“Them?”
“The ones that didn’t make it.”
She only nodded and tried to sit up. But understanding what he meant hit her like a punch. She was dizzy and suddenly leaned toward the floor, falling.
“Whoa!” Peter raced around the table, taking hold of her shoulders. His hands were gentle yet strong. “Maybe you should lie back down?”
Shaking her head, she tried to straighten herself, but the dizziness wouldn’t pass. Before she could stop it, vomit spilled between them.
Oh my God, I just threw-up on Peter Wilkes
. Another wave came and she retched again. The embarrassment shrank away as she heaved, and pain knifed her side. The smell of vomit quickly rose up, masking the air’s salty stench.
I can’t believe that just happened.
The watery sight in front of her was a puddle of vomit and blood, her long red locks hanging down. Peter did something then that surprised her. He pulled her hair back, tucking it safely behind her head. She thought that his gesture was sweet.
“Should I get Ms. Parks?” She heard the worry in his voice.
Emily shook her head again. The last of it had come up. She was empty.
“Don’t worry about the floor, everyone is throwing it up.”
“
It?
” she managed to ask.
“The fog. Ya know… poison. That is, anyone who’s been outside. But some like Mr. Rainer—I think they took in too much of it and couldn’t push it out.”
“You too?” she asked, thinking it would feel a little better to know that he’d also had to vomit.
“Nahhh. I’ve been here since last night. Working. Beaches by day, and the mall at night.”
Emily straightened up, quickly wiping her mouth against her palm. Peter let go of her hair, but not before he ran his fingers through a few curls. It was an innocent curiosity, but she noticed. From his back pocket, he pulled a plastic bottle, offering her some fresh water.
“It’s not cold,” he shrugged. “But it’ll help some.”
“Thank you,” she said, taking a hurried sip to settle the scratchy burn in her throat. Water spilled from the corners of her mouth, dripping to her chin and down her shirt. She didn’t care. The water felt good.
“Take it easy,” he told her. “You’ll get sick again for sure.” But she couldn’t get enough, and drank until she felt her stomach turn.
She wiped her chin and asked, “Your family?”
Peter stepped back and stretched his gaze to the corners of the food court. When he pursed his lips, unsure of what to say, she knew what his answer was.
“I don’t know yet.” His voice was soft and quick, trying to cover up any emotion. “Got my mother on her cell phone, but the call died. Haven’t been able to get anything since.”
“You’ve got a sister, too?”
“Bug,” he answered her, smiling. “Her name is Christina, but I call her Bug.”
“
Bug
?”
“Started when she was new… a baby. All kinds of small and smelly and wrinkly, I thought she looked like a bug. The name took… just hope Bug’s okay.” A tear rolled down Peter’s cheek, and he rubbed it away impatiently, before turning away, ashamed. She felt the urge to reach out to him, comfort him, but held back, uncertain.
“I hope Bug is okay, too,” she added, hoping it helped.
“Thank you. And yours?”
“Dead,” she answered, and realized how cold she sounded. But in the company of Mr. Rainer, she thought that it might be okay. Mr. Rainer kept his own
dead
stare on them as if he were a part of their conversation. “Can you… can you do something about that?”
Peter tilted his head to one side, but then eased when seeing what she was referring to.
“Oh, yeah. Sure, sure,” he acknowledged. He struggled a moment, his hand hovering just above Mr. Rainer’s eyes. “I’m sorry—never did this before.” Without thinking about it, Emily reached over and pinched closed the dead man’s eyelids. Peter moved away, surprised. While she felt worn and tired, the move surprised her too. She fidgeted with her hands, trying to rub away the feeling of Mr. Rainer’s skin. He felt cold; she’d expected that. But his skin didn’t feel like skin anymore. It felt like paper: dry and chalky. Emily shuddered, and gooseflesh sprouted on her arms.