The Broken and the Dead

Like I said, we didn’t know about the spawn or the subsequent evolutions yet. The first I heard about any of this was on a Sunday. My source was, of course, Billy Driscol, who I relied upon for all my important information, true or not. He said he had gotten up early in the hope he could convince his mother to make pancakes for him before church, so he had been sitting at their breakfast bar and his mother was happily mixing the quick mix, chatting away about something, and the TV was on in the other room. Billy’s dad didn’t go to church but he loved to get up, drink coffee, read the newspaper and watch the ‘Sunday morning talking heads.’ There was an alert buzzer and a mechanical voice announced that a mysterious illness was appearing, it was in all 50 states and that if someone in your family became lethargic, or if their eyes appeared weepy, or if they became unresponsive to questions, you were to contact the nearest medical services immediately, and the voice recited a number he didn’t remember. Billy managed to interrupt his mother long enough to find out what ‘lethargic’ meant.

Of course I didn’t find out any of this until after church and I had actually noticed some of the people in the pew seemed “lethargic,” even more than usual. In Sunday school I noticed that Kelly Robertson and her brother Kevin both seemed unable to keep their heads off the table in spite of the thrilling experience of gluing pasta shells on the outside of milk cartons cut to look like wishing wells. I couldn’t figure out what pasta and Jesus had in common either, and it felt awkward to ask, but at least I could stay awake. So when we got home and had lunch, Billy and I got together to play and we exchanged our information. Billy was a “heathen Methodist” as my dad liked to say (which he thought was funny) but he had seen several people showing those symptoms and it looked like his preacher was crying the whole time, but he did say his allergies were acting up.

At this crucial juncture, Billy and I did what every young man would do at such a time: we built a fort out of dead branches in the forest near our development. As far as forts go it was a really good one, we started with a Bradford pear tree that had fallen the previous fall, which we had been saving for such an occasion. We broke off all the smaller branches from one side and created the interior. We wove the smaller branches vertically through the remaining exterior ones. We spent hours dragging other branches to create two sides of the triangle. We even made a partial roof out of some dry pampas grass. It was the best fort we had ever made. It was the last time Billy and I were free to be kids.

Later that night as we finished dinner I asked Dad about it and he seemed confused, as if he hadn’t even heard the broadcasts.

“I don’t know, son, I’ve been working in the garage all day, let’s see-”

He got up and went back into the living room and turned on the TV. I followed him, but Lucy stayed at the table pretending to feed Ronald her brussel sprouts. My older sister, Elaine, was already on her cell phone texting someone about what someone else said about someone else. The TV was crazy, every channel was in “special coverage” and medical alerts were scrolling along the top of the screen and locations of temporary hospitals along the bottom, with more and more call numbers. Now the TV guy was saying that many of the people who were infected had turned violent and that if medical or police services were not there, you should lock them in a secure room all by themselves. My dad called Mom into the room and together they listened. Mom unsuccessfully tried to call Aunt Sue, and dad tried to call his friend Rob who was in the police, but couldn’t reach him.

“He’s probably pretty busy right now,” my dad said, casually. My mom said nothing.

By ten o’clock that night most of the big cities were under martial law and just about everywhere there was a curfew. I watched the television until the bar at the bottom of the screen became a blur, like a blue train whipping past me. Eventually my eyes burned and the lids were too heavy to keep open, so I closed them, with my head on Mom’s lap. She was holding Lucy, already fast asleep. As I lay there, I tried to burn that moment into my memory. My Mom smelled like roses, her left hand played with my hair, sometimes running her fingers through it, sometimes rolling it between her finger and thumb. I felt the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. At that moment I realized just how much I loved her, so much it felt like an empty spot in my stomach. If I had known the future I would have told her that right then, and not waited another second.

Sometime in the morning, I woke up. I’m not sure why, but I remember the screen. The blue ticker still sped, and I recognized the Oval Office from pictures at school. Two secret service agents stared down at the body of the President of the United States. A trembling voice announced they had shot him nine times after finding him with the remains of his daughter Candace, and Jamison, her secret service escort. The President had been eating his daughter but most of the gore had come from yet a fourth agent, Donaldson. Apparently the President had eviscerated her with his bare hands. I guess no one was ready, because the live feed rolled on the agents standing still over the bloodied bodies. I wasn’t sure if it was dream.

“What now?” one of them asked.

“No freaking idea.” The other answered.