“How much time?” Grant looked down at the table. The idea of months upon months in that small closet was worse than the threat of death. He tapped his fingers against the metal frame. Maybe Lucy’s father was on some sort of strict timeline, but it didn’t feel like that most of the time.
To prove that point, Scott merely shrugged and then leaned over and patted Grant on the back. “I think we have a lot in common, you and I,” Scott said. Then he left Grant alone and went to his workstation, where he messed around with vials and slides under a microscope, mumbling little noises of approval or confusion.
“How so?” Grant asked after a while.
“What? Huh?” Scott asked, spinning around, and then he made a face. “Oh, yes. Just…you’re not a complainer. Not a big fighter. It’s funny…there are two camps, even when you work with animals.”
“Animals?”
“Mice. Monkeys. Even the animals…two camps. Very distinct.” Scott pulled a petri dish off of the shelf and added a solution to it; he then slid some of the dish’s contents onto a slide and stuck it under a microscope. “There are those who are born to fight and those who are born to accept. Line up. Kill me, I won’t fight it, types.”
“That sounds like an indictment,” Grant said. He could hear this father’s voice running like an undercurrent through that faint-praise:
You’re weak, Grant. You got to get out there and just jump right in. Take some chances. We’re fighters, you and I, and the Trotters don’t give up, we don’t roll over, we don’t quit.
“Not at all. At least I don’t think so.” Scott didn’t look up. “I do think it’s a trait we share. I’ve never been a big complainer either. And I think I’m happier for it.”
There was nothing he could say as a reply. Grant wasn’t happy. He was resigned. There was a marked difference.
“The cells are like little fortified battalions. I’m confused by it entirely,” Scott said, although he didn’t seem to direct this news to anyone in particular. “And if they aren’t responding to the direct injection…” he trailed off.
Grant’s hand went into his back pocket and he pulled out his letter to Lucy. He had written her name across the envelope—he hated his childish scrawl, the ‘y’ of her name looked like a ‘g’, but maybe she wouldn’t inspect her name too closely. Maybe she would just run her finger over the little image he drew in the corner: A hot air balloon, two stick figures sailing through the air. They were holding hands.
He hadn’t noticed Scott walking back up to him, holding a new set of needles.
“Is that the letter?” Scott asked and he leaned over. “To Lucy?”
Grant nodded. He went to put it back in his pocket, but Scott stuck out his hand.
“I’ll put it in the lab safe. Just to be sure.”
There was a moment of hesitation, but then Grant handed the envelope over. The longer it stayed in his pocket, the harder it was to think about the fact that he would never see Lucy again.
Resigned
, it was the perfect way to describe how he felt. Scott reiterated every day: There was only one way this could end. Kicking, screaming, yelling, may not even prolong his life, and it may make things harder for Lucy and for her family. He rationalized his lack of fight as martyrdom.
“I promise. I’ll keep it safe and I will give it to her to read when the time comes.” Scott tucked the letter into his lab coat and patted his pocket once. Then he reached for Grant’s arm and Grant obeyed by extending it fully. Scott drew four vials of blood and pulled the needle from his arm—with a sad smile, he shuffled off to the counter.
Grant watched as Scott worked. Organizing. Pulling. Pouring. Sorting. A quiet sort of work, mechanical and automated. Occasionally Scott would mutter something under his breath or make a strange sort of clicking noise, but the work was silent.
“So, what are your requests?” Scott asked after a few minutes.
“What?” Grant’s mind went to last requests, but then he realized Scott must have been back at their beginning conversation. Books. He was back to the books. Scott’s mind often worked in large circles, crawling back to a conversation from hours ago without missing a beat. Grant rarely kept up. “Oh, um, maybe…just some classics.”
“You got it,” Scott replied. He pulled over a rolling chair and sat down. Then he popped up, walked over to a refrigerator in the corner and pulled out some additional glass beakers. “The work is lonely, that’s for sure,” Scott said out of nowhere, and Grant looked around, confused.
“In the lab?”
“I used to have a team.”
“Don’t tell me…” Grant grimaced. “You killed them?”
Scott laughed and pointed a finger in jest at Grant. “Funny,” was all he said, but Grant hadn’t been kidding.
“Here. Let’s try this.” Scott walked over to Grant holding a collection of test tubes. “A virus with the same properties as my virus.”
His virus
. “Did you name it?”
“The virus? No. Should I have?”
“Something catchy. Like S1K1.”
“Nice. And here comes the pinch.”
He jabbed the needle in Grant’s other arm.
Grant could see the letter to Lucy sticking out of Scott’s pocket. The hot air balloon drawing visible—and the curl of the y. He regretted handing it over to him. Maybe he should get a new envelope. Write her name with a distinct ‘y’. It was a mistake—he realized that now. It was a mistake writing the letter at all. Maybe he should have demanded to see her one last time.
That should have been his last request.
They wouldn’t have honored it, but at least he could have asked. So then Scott could tell her, “Yes. He asked for you.” Maybe then she would know the truth. Why had he wasted an entire letter without telling her the truth?
His head began to pound.
“I’m getting a headache,” Grant mumbled. His chest felt tight. He took in a deep breath of air and felt nauseated.
“Huh,” was all Scott said and he put his hand against Grant’s forehead. With speed and efficiency he drew some blood, as Grant started to feel clammy and weak.
Salem. His last kiss had been Salem. He closed his eyes. And he thought of Lucy. What she would say if she had known about that kiss?
Salem’s lips touched his and he kissed her back, it was true. But it had always been about Lucy.
“I don’t—” Grant started and then he leaned back, reeling. Jagged lightning flashes danced before his eyes. Blues and yellows—pops of stars in his line of vision. “I need to lie down.”
“I didn’t think it would…it’s from the same family…okay, easy now.” Scott placed his hands behind Grant and assisted him down onto the hospital bed. He whispered to himself and even as Grant slipped into sickness, he could hear the worry in his voice.
“I’m co-co-cold,” Grant mumbled. It wasn’t supposed to happen this fast. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Is that how everyone else felt? In the moments before they passed on? That thought caused his heart to tighten more. He wondered what the victims experienced as they walked toward death. He realized now that it wasn’t the peaceful march he’d imagined for himself. No, he was sad and afraid. He felt panicky.
He thought he’d have more time.
“My letter,” Grant said. He reached up and grabbed the first thing he could—the edge of Mr. King’s lab coat. Scott King stumbled away from him. Yanking the fabric and pulling the cloth toward him, Grant repeated his final wishes. “My letter…when I’m gone…my letter…”
“I know, son. I know. You’re not going to die. Hang on.” His words were comforting, but his face was afraid. For the first time Grant could tell that Scott King didn’t sound confident in his assertion that he would live.
“My letter…” Grant said again and then he tumbled into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Her father looked exhausted when he came through their automated apartment door. His eyes were droopy and bloodshot; he hadn’t shaved in over a day and already the whiskers on his chin were thick, casting a dark shadow over his features. Despite his evident exhaustion, Scott smiled when he saw Lucy. She was lying flat against the floor, her arms and legs stretched out away from her body—her eyes still, examining the intricacies of the ceiling.
“What are you up to?” Scott asked.
“Thinking,” was Lucy’s reply.
“Everyone else?”
“Out.”
He shed his white lab coat and draped it over the back of a chair. Then with one hand on the chair and the other shoved into his pocket, he stood without speaking, staring at her outline on the floor.
“You not feeling communicative today?” Scott asked her, but he didn’t glance in her direction.
Lucy rolled her body over and then sat up, crossing her legs in front of her body and placing her hands to her side. She didn’t answer. When her father was away, she knew he was down in the lab working with Grant. His list of betrayals against her was starting to stack up. No variables, her mother had told her in the Sky Room. Every time she looked at him she saw the blood on his hands. She had nothing to say to him.
“Well,” her father continued without waiting for an answer. “I’m going to take a quick shower. Then…you want to take a walk? Get out of this space?”
Lucy shook her head. “No.”
“Think about it. I’ll be back.”
His shoulders drooped as he headed toward the bathroom for his five-minute shower. Back home, Scott would take epically long showers, sometimes twice or three times a day. He’d stand in his master bathroom shower and let the water run cold. It was often a bone of contention with Maxine, who would lament her husband’s bad habit after finding that there was no water to run the scores of dishes through their dishwasher or start a load of laundry—which was just an endless parade of food and grass-stained shirts and jeans.
The restriction on shower time must have been frustrating for her father.
She wished that there were more things for him that felt uncomfortable, because shorter showers were not a big enough punishment.
After the bathroom door shut behind him and locked, Lucy caught sight of the envelope. It would not have interested her or piqued her attention, but it was the image of a hot air balloon, two tiny stick figures standing together, that drew her eye. And immediately, Lucy knew.
The water was running. Her father hummed and his voice echoed.
Lucy scrambled forward and yanked the paper from the lab coat pocket. Her name was written in Grant’s childish scrawl on the outside. Without hesitation, she ripped the envelope open and unfolded the note that had been tucked inside. Scanning the words, Lucy let out a gasp. Then she looked to the bathroom door, looked at the letter, and then clutching it to her chest, she rushed to the safety of her bedroom. Crawling on top of the floral comforter, Lucy started from the beginning and began to drink in Grant’s words. It was difficult to understand, her brain fuzzy with the worry of being caught and the enormity of the letter’s first line. She read and reread, trying to hear Grant’s voice as he wrote down these words, his last words, to her.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried again.
Dear Lucy
, the note began,
if you are reading this note then I am probably gone. That sounds so dramatic. And also cliché. I tried to word it differently, but then it sounded really casual and stupid. Like: I hope you’re doing well and I wish I could’ve been there when you saw your family again. But you should know that I’m bad at writing letters. I’m not so bad at writing, per se. It’s just letters that I’m no good at. Because you are my only audience and I know that these are the last words I get with you and…well, it’s just so much pressure.
Lucy stopped and stifled her tears. Her hands were shaking and they were turning wet with sweat. She clutched the letter tighter and closed her eyes, and wished for the strength to keep reading Grant’s words, even when those words told her a terrible and awful truth: Grant was gone.
Your father isn’t at all like I pictured him. I thought he’d be more mad scientist-y with white frizzy hair and big plastic gloves up to his elbows laughing maniacally while lightning flashed around him. He’s just odd and kinda goofy. If it weren’t for the whole ‘killing the world thing’ I think I would like him. He’s been kind, if not distant. Sometimes I think he likes me and sometimes I think he’s just trying to make things easier since my time is short. Either way, he’s not so bad. I don’t know what’s been going on with you, but I can imagine that you’re probably all sorts of pissed at him. Don’t be.
Lucy smiled. Leave it to Grant to find the best in her dad. She didn’t know if she could read any more.
Look, I wanted to write you a letter mostly to tell you that I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend the apocalypse with than you.
That’s a unique line—don’t get to use that every day.
Of course, if I had a choice, I’d want to come back as a zombie in the zombie apocalypse with you…but clearly I was wrong about that whole thing, which is really a damn shame, because this whole cross-country story would have been FAR BETTER with zombies chasing us. Hiding in this damn hole in the ground would be better too if there were zombies outside trying to get in. But yeah, zombies.
You’d be cooler if you liked zombies.
No, I don’t mean to make it into a joke. I’m sorry. I’m bad at this.
Your friendship has meant everything to me. So much so, that I wish you’d always been around. I could have used a friend like you when my mom died of cancer. Duhn-duhn-duhn. Big reveal. I know I never told you that—it’s hard to know when to bring it up with people. Especially in the face of so much loss, you know?
The fact that Grant had been carrying around the memory of his mom, not talking about her or her death, during all the time that they were together made Lucy both upset and sad. He’d been so brave, she realized. So brave and so resilient.
Cancer is this devastating thing. It rips you open. You have time to prepare for the death, but you’re never ready when it finally comes for the people you love. In some ways, I understand now what my mom must have been going through. It’s awful to know you’re going to die and know you can’t do anything to help the people you love work through it.