Dawn of Eden. Julie Kagawa
I’d imagined it, or maybe I was smelling something else: a dead animal outside. I maneuvered the gurney around him and the interns, ducked through the curtains surrounding the bed and headed out the back door. Ben followed.
Outside, the temperature was cool, chilly even. Which was a good thing, given the number of dead things lying everywhere around us, hidden away in houses and beds; the ones who had died alone and forgotten. As it was, the stench coming from the back lot was always there, drifting in the clinic when the breeze blew just right. If it had been high summer, the smell would’ve been unbearable.
As we made our way down the sidewalk, I was struck again by how quiet everything was. Not long ago, the sounds of sirens and cars, screaming, gunshots and breaking glass, had been constant. Just across the river, in monument D.C., the city had been a war zone. Now, an eerie silence hung over everything, and the buildings around us were dark. Of course, our small clinic was located just outside the city limits, so I didn’t know what was happening closer to downtown. Occasionally, I heard screams or the roar of a distant car engine, signs that there was still human life somewhere out there. But the city seemed abandoned now, left to the desperate and the dying.
I sneaked a glance at Ben, walking beside me, one hand on the corner of the gurney. His gaze scanned the buildings and the shadows around us, every fiber of his body on high alert. The same look he’d had in the clinic when night was starting to fall, only amplified a hundred-fold.
He didn’t come out here to help me, I realized with a cold feeling in my stomach. He’s afraid there’s something out here now. I pulled the gurney to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk. “Ben...”
Something big slipped from the shadows into our path, making us both jump. I flinched, but Ben lunged forward and grabbed my arm as if prepared to yank me behind him. A stray dog, big and black, drew back when it saw us. It dropped what it was carrying and darted out of sight between two cars, its tail between its legs.
Ben relaxed. Quickly, he dropped my wrist, looking embarrassed. “Sorry,” he murmured, staring at the ground. “I’m not usually this jumpy, I swear. Are you all right?”
I rubbed my arm, wincing from the strength in those hands. “I’m fine,” I told him, and was about to ask him why he was so twitchy. But then I noticed what the dog had been carrying and stifled a groan.
“Is that...an arm?” Ben asked, peering past the gurney.
“Yeah.” I sighed, knowing where the dog had probably gotten it. As we got closer to our destination, the smell began to permeate the darkness around us. That familiar knot of dread, guilt, sorrow and anger coiled in my stomach. “Just a warning,” I told Ben, “this isn’t going to be pretty. Steel yourself.”
“For what?”
I smiled humorlessly and turned the corner of the alley.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Ben straighten, though he didn’t say anything. The drone of insects was a constant hum over the hundreds of bodies lined up in neat rows up and down the empty lot. Most were covered with sheets and tarps, but several covers were torn off or had blown away, leaving the corpses to stare empty-eyed at the sky. And, from the looks of the older, “riper” corpses, the scavengers were already gathering en masse.
Ben made a sound in the back of his throat, as if he was struggling not to gag. For a moment, I was sorry for bringing him out here, letting him see the stark reality we faced every day. But he set his jaw and walked with me to the edge of the last row, where I’d laid three people—a mother and her two sons—side by side last week. I tried not to look at them as we lifted Mr. Johnson’s body up in the sheet and set it on the pavement. But it was hard not to remember. I’d stayed up countless nights with that family, trying desperately to save them, but the virus had taken the mother first and the boys hours later, and that failure still haunted me.
Ben was quiet as we left the lot and pushed the empty gurney back to the clinic. He didn’t say anything, but instead of scanning the streets and shadows, he appeared deep in thought, brooding over what he had just seen. It was pretty sobering, when you realized how much we had lost, how insidious this thing was: an enemy that couldn’t be stopped, put down, reasoned with. It made you realize...we might not make it through this.
“How do you do it?”
I blinked. I’d gotten so used to his silence; the question caught me off guard. Strange, thinking I knew a man after only a few hours with him. His brown eyes were on me now, solemn and assessing.
“Because you have to,” I said, ducking through the back door with him behind me. “Because you have to give people hope. Because sometimes that’s the only thing that will get them through, the only thing that keeps them alive.”
His next words were a whisper. I barely caught them as we moved through the main room into the dark hall beyond. “What if there is no hope?”
I shoved the gurney against the wall and turned, pinning him with my fiercest glare. “There is always hope, Ben. And I will thank you to keep any doom-and-gloom observations to yourself while you’re here. I don’t need my patients hearing it. Or my interns, for that matter.”
He ducked his head, looking contrite. “I’m sorry. It’s just...it’s hard to keep an open mind when you’ve seen...what I have.” I raised an eyebrow at him, and he had the grace to wince. “And...you’ve seen a lot worse, I know. My apologies. I’ll...stop whining, now.”
I sighed. “Have you had anything to eat lately?” I asked, and he shook his head. “Come on, then. We don’t have much, but I can at least make you some coffee. Instant, anyway. You look like you could use some.”
“That would be nice,” Ben admitted, smiling, “but you don’t have to go to the trouble.”
“Not at all. Besides, I could use some, so keep me company for a while, okay?” He nodded, and we headed upstairs to the small break room and dining area that hadn’t seen much use since the clinic opened. The fridge and the microwave hadn’t been used since the power had gone out and we’d switched to the generators, but the gas stove worked well enough to heat water. I boiled two cups of bottled water, spooned in liberal amounts of instant coffee and handed a mug to Ben, sitting at the table.
“It’s not great, but at least it’s hot,” I said, sliding into the seat across from his. He smiled his thanks and held the mug in both hands, watching me through the steam. Taking a cautious sip, I scrunched my forehead and forced the bitter swallow down. “Ugh. You’d think I’d get used to this stuff by now. I think Starbucks ruined me for life.”
That actually got a chuckle out of him, and he sipped his drink without complaint or grotesque faces. I studied him over my mug, pretending to frown into my coffee but sneaking glances at him every few seconds. The haunted look had left his face, and he seemed a bit calmer. Though the worry still remained in his eyes. I found myself wishing I could reach over the table, stroke his stubbly cheek and tell him everything would be fine.
Then I wondered what had brought that on.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said, setting the mug down on the table, suddenly giving me his full attention. “No offense, but you’re awfully young and pretty to be running a clinic alone. And you don’t wear masks like the others. Aren’t you afraid you’ll get sick, too?”
Absurdly, I blushed at the compliment. “I caught Red Lung early,” I told him, and his eyebrows arched into his hair. “From one of the patients at the hospital where I worked. Kept me in bed for three days straight, and everyone thought I would die, but I pulled out of it before my lungs started disintegrating.”
“You’re a survivor?” Ben sounded shocked. I nodded.
“One of the lucky sixteen percent.” I looked down at my hands, remembering. Lying in a sterile hospital room, coughing bloody flecks onto the sheets. The worried, bleak faces of my colleagues. “Everyone was surprised when I pulled through,” I said, taking another sip of the stuff that claimed it was coffee. “And afterward, I felt so grateful and lucky, I volunteered