Chapter One Past - Camille

Chapter One, Past: Camille She had called him and spoken vaguely. All telephone calls were recorded. He left the apartment suite his father owned in the city, on the top floor of the tallest skyscraper, and he took a taxi to the outskirts of District Five. He had the taxi stop down the street next to the 25-HOUR CONVENIENCE STORE. He went inside the store and waited for the taxi to leave. The woman at the counter asked if he was buying anything. She wore a woven fiber mask over her mouth and nose. He said, No, and left. He went down the street to the intersection of Wing and Fifth, and he went down Wing. Five-story apartment complexes lined the street. There was no color nor life to them, being constructed in haste to house immigrants in the city’s booming years. Now they were rundown and filled with the poorest of the poor. Domestic violence, drug use, and homicide had been commonplace. Now things had quieted down. He found Apartment Building C3 and went inside. He climbed the rickety steps and noted the wallpaper peeling over the walls and cracks in the drywall. Mouse droppings on the floor. He hoped they were mice and not rats. He went up three flights and went down the hallway until he reached Apartment Fourteen. He knocked at the door. A few moments later it opened. A woman stood there, overweight, wearing a ruffled dress with stains, her eyes sunken in their sockets. Sweat cascading down her face, running the breadth of her nose and dripping down to her feet. You can’t come in here, she said. Please, he said. I need to see her. She doesn’t want to see you. I don’t believe that. She doesn’t want to see you. But I want to see her. You know you can’t come in here. He didn’t want to argue with her, and he wedged past her and stumbled into the living room. She yelled at him, but he went through the room with the musty sofas and the old television with the crack down the screen, and he went through the kitchen with pots and pans on the counter and dishes in the sink and trashcans overflowing. The woman ran after him, but she lost her strength and sat down on the couch, breathing heavily. He pushed open the door down the hallway and entered. She lied in the bed and the fan was on but the room was hot. The window was open but there was no breeze and the drapes hung still and lifeless. He went over to the bed and knelt down. On the bedside table were several bottles of medicine, and he read the labels—tetracyclines and sulfonamides—and wondered how she had come across them; and then he figured that her mother had gotten them off the black market. He looked away from the medicines and down at her. She lied on top of the blankets, wearing nothing but footie pajamas with images of classic cartoon characters. She rolled her head to the side and looked at him, smiled weakly, and he knew she didn’t mean it. How are you feeling? he asked after a moment, biting his lip. Okay, she said, her voice a bare and choked whisper. You don’t look too good, he said. She bit her lip, coughed. Is it that obvious? Can you stand? I tried, but… It hurts too much. We should open the blinds, bring in some air… The sun hurts my eyes, she said, then, You should move. What?

Move, she said, and she leaned over. He backed up just as she vomited into a trashcan beside the bed. She heaved several more times, spewing bile. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a tissue, and he leaned forward and wiped spittle from her mouth. The spittle had traces of blood. He crumpled the tissue and dropped it into the wastebasket and she rolled back onto the bed, resting her head on the pillow. You really shouldn’t be here, she said. You called me. I called you so you wouldn’t come. You knew I would come. She turned her head to the side. Sweat drenched her face. He drew another tissue and wiped the beads of sweat away. You love me, don’t you? she said. You know I love you. They sat in silence for some time. Outside they heard sirens, distant and disappearing. Crime had skyrocketed. Most of it was looting. Murder had gone down. There weren’t many people left to kill. The disease did that on its own accord. He looked down at her, saw that her eyes were closed. He reached out and took her hand, felt it soft in his. He could feel her pulse in the fingers. Slow and labored. A heart beating rebelliously. He bit his lip and slowly turned over her hand. Her fingertips were swollen purple. He closed his eyes, felt his own mind numbing. It could have been anything. Avian and swine flu had been reported hundreds of times over the last year, and he had hoped beyond hope that this was just another case. But the fingertips were swollen purple. He knew what that meant: bleeding underneath the skin. He looked up from her fingers, and he saw that she was looking at him. You should go, she said. No. If you get caught… They’ll transport you. I won’t get caught. No one’s looking here. They did District Three yesterday. Then they’ll do District Four today. We have time. Please… Let me just sit here. Let me just sit here with you. Fine. But you need to wear a mask. I don’t need to protect myself from you. Yes you do. She pulled her hand away. Camille… Wear a mask, and then you can hold my hand. I don’t have a mask. Mom has some in the kitchen. Okay, he said. He stood and left the room, went into the kitchen. He could see her mother sitting on the worn sofa, her head in her hands. She was crying. She heard him moving and looked up. He turned away as she began yelling at him. He pushed through old newspapers on the kitchen table until he found a carton of fiber masks. He pulled one out and extended the string and slid it behind his head. Her mom stopped yelling and he

returned to the room, sat down beside her on the bed. She had rolled onto her side, facing the window. He looked down into the wastebasket. The smell of vomit was stronger now. She must have gotten sick while he was gone. He reached out and touched her elbow, but she pulled it away: Don’t touch me. Camille… I don’t want you to get sick. I’m wearing a mask. You shouldn’t be here. Camille. She said no more. You haven’t asked me about my symptoms, she said, lying on the bed and facing the window, away from him. He was quiet, sitting on the bed. I don’t have to. You know. I saw your fingertips. Then you know. Yes. You should really go. No. I love you. If you love me, then you will go. Why would I go because I love you? Because I love you, and I don’t want you to become like me. Maybe that’s what fate has written. You don’t believe in fate. You never have. Then make me believe. I don’t want to make you believe. Then let me just hold you. Please. No. Camille… We both know what’s happening. We knew it would happen. I don’t want my last memory of you to be us arguing. Then leave so we don’t argue. Remember when I promised you I would never abandon you? And you promised me you would never abandon me? We were fools. We were just talking. We weren’t just talking. I was just talking. I wasn’t. I meant it. Then you’re a fool to even be here. He was quiet for a moment, said, If love isn’t foolish, then what is it? I don’t want you here, she said. I don’t believe that. It doesn’t matter what you believe. Leave me alone.

He didn’t say anything. You have to leave sometime. You can’t stay here. I know. Just leave now. Please. I’m not leaving, Camille. I promised I wouldn’t abandon you. I’m not safe. I know. I don’t want to hurt you. You won’t hurt me. It’s what’s inside me that will hurt you. There is nothing bad inside you. You’re perfect. Don’t you know that? I don’t want to talk to you. My throat hurts. Is it swollen? She coughed. What do you think? Let me get you some water. I don’t want any water. I want you to leave. They sat in the silence for some time. You’re still here, she said. Yes. I’m not leaving. I hate you. No you don’t. I hate you. I hate everything about you. Camille… I want to be alone. They’ll come tomorrow. Just leave me alone. He wiped a tear from his eye. Camille. Don’t cry for me. I’m already gone. He stood from the bed, and the mattress shifted as he lifted his weight. He looked down at her, and she said nothing. He walked to the door and stood there, his hand on the doorframe, and he looked back at her. She said nothing, just coughed. He turned to go, and then she said his name. He turned around, and he could see that she was propped up on her elbows. Tears slid down her cheeks. Please don’t leave me, she said. I’m sorry for all those awful things I said. I just don’t want you to get sick, but… I don’t want you to go, either. I want you to be here with me. I’m really scared. I want you to be with me. I’m scared, and I don’t want to be alone. He started to cry, and he walked back to the bed, and he sat down, and she crawled into his arms, and he felt goose bumps on her skin, and she wept into his shirt, and her tears soaked through to his chest. He held her, and she cried, and he cried, too, and a breeze picked up and the drapes over the windows whispered back and forth. Birds sang in the rafters and balconies of the apartments, oblivious to everything. Their sonnets blended with the tears of the damned, and the boy and the girl held one another, and she cried and spit blood on his shirt, but he didn’t care: he knew he did not have much time. Remember when we first met, and we were at that restaurant, and we were asking each other ridiculous questions? she asked. She had pulled away, and now she was sitting against the wall, and he was sitting next to

her, breathing through the fiber mask. He could feel his warm breath tickling his chin and underneath his nose. Of course, he said. That was when I knew I would fall in love with you. Do you remember when you asked me how I wanted to die? Yes. This wasn’t it. The tears were returning to her eyes. He wrapped one arm around her, and with the other he took her left hand and held it in his. He didn’t say anything. Do you remember the question you asked me after that? No. You asked if I wanted to be cremated. And I said No. I said I wanted to be buried in a pine box in the woods, where I would be surrounded by trees and birds. I remember. But that won’t happen now. Let’s not think about that. It’s all I can think about. She coughed. Blood dribbled down her lip and onto her chin. He handed her a tissue, and she wiped it away. She looked towards the window where the breeze ruffled the drapes. The wind had grown stronger; a storm moving in. She said, You know what’s going to happen. That won’t happen to you. I promise. I won’t let it happen. You have to let it happen. You know what they’ll do to you. You want to be buried in a pine box in the woods. I’ll make sure that happens. She gripped his hand with hers and squeezed tightly. Please. You can’t. Camille. Promise me. I don’t want to think about you being thrown into one of those pits. It won’t matter, once I’m dead. It’s not what you want. It doesn’t matter what I want now. I won’t care then. Promise me you won’t. I promise. The storm had come and gone. Mist rose out of the grills over the sewers in the street, sewers crawling with rats and mice and vermin of all sorts. A few cars drove down the road, and dusk began to settle. A loudspeaker in the distance, perhaps lodged in a church that had once been empty, then thronged, and then emptied again, declared a curfew in effect in thirty minutes. You have to go, she said. I don’t want to go. You have to go this time. You know you have to go. He didn’t say anything. Take off your mask, she said. He looked at her. What? Take off your mask. Why? Please.

He paused, then took off his mask, holding it in his hand. Kiss me, she said. I can’t. Kiss me. You don’t have to kiss me on the lips. Just… kiss me on the cheek. Camille… Please. Just one kiss. It’s all I want. He was torn, but his heart ruptured, and he knew that he would not see her tomorrow. He knew that by this time tomorrow, she would be gone. He would be alone. And suddenly the thought of catching what she had did not seem so frightening. For without her, what point was there? Life had become nothing but survival, and she had been the only bright spot in his life, a lighthouse guiding his every meaning and purpose. Now that she was going—and this he could not deny, though he had not fully come to accept it—he would have no meaning nor purpose in his life. His days would be dark and dumb. And so he set the mask down on the bedside table, and he leaned over, and holding her clammy chin in his hand, he kissed her cold cheek. He could taste the salt from her sweat, the salt from her tears. She began to cry again, and he turned her head towards him, and he looked into her eyes, and he bent down farther, and she lifted her head, and he kissed her on the lips, a final kiss and—he hoped—a lethal kiss. The mist rising from the sewers wrapped around his feet as he walked down the sidewalk. He didn’t look back. He hung his head low and stared at his feet, at the cracks in the pavement. A police car drove past, slowed, then sped up again. He reached the intersection of Wing and Fifth and headed back the way he had come. The sign in the 25-HOUR CONVENIENCE STORE was still on. He went through the door. The woman with the mask told him they were about to close. He asked if he could use her phone. She said yes, pointed to it on the counter. He thanked her and picked it up and dialed. His fingers moved methodically, without emotion. He wondered why he wasn’t crying; perhaps because he had always known it would come to this? He could still taste her kiss on his lips, and he knew he would forever remember it, for as long or short as he lived, just as he would always remember their first kiss under the bridge at the park. He called the taxi agency and was being rerouted when he heard the woman who ran the store say, They’re here early. He turned and looked out the window, cradling the phone to his ear, and saw several Army National Guard trucks driving down the road. The trucks were large with mottled green-and-black canvas tops, and in the back were camouflaged soldiers wearing gas masks and wielding automatic weapons. On the phone the operator asked for his location, but he just set the phone down and rushed past the woman and went out onto the street. He watched the trucks drive by, seven in all, as the sun set beyond the buildings behind him, the shadows lengthening over the road. He looked down at his feet and saw a rat scurry past. He shuddered and kicked it away and began running down the street. The soldiers in the back of the trucks just watched them as they rolled past. One of the trucks had already stopped at the intersection of Wing and Fifth, and the soldiers were piling out and going to the front doors of the apartment complexes, opening them up and going inside. Sweeping and searching, building-by-building. Eradicating the sick and the dead. He knew what happened to the dead: they were piled into the backs of the trucks. And he knew what happened to the living: at one time they had been loaded into the trucks and ferried away to internment camps, but nowadays the soldiers, acting under presidential authority, sought to eradicate the problem on the apartment stoops. A shiver ran down the boy’s spine as he ran past the truck to Apartment Building C3.

He sprinted up the steps and reached Apartment Fourteen and banged his fists upon the door. There was no answer. He shouted but no one came. He stepped back and kicked at the door. It splintered at the bolt. He kicked again, and his ankle throbbed, and the door buckled. He pushed the broken door to the side and limped inside. A single candle burned in its wick in the far window, casting long shadows about the rom. He moved into the kitchen and then to Camille’s door, and he pushed it open, and he saw her large mom standing like an ogre over the bed. In her hand was a pistol. She pointed it at her daughter who lay sleeping. He shouted at her, and Camille awoke, rolled over in the sheets, looked up with widening eyes at her gargantuan mother and the weapon in her hands. He shouted again, and her mother turned, aiming the gun at him. They won’t have my daughter, she said; I won’t let them take her from me. He pleaded with her to set the gun down. She kept repeating, I won’t let them have her, I won’t let them have her… And she turned back to her daughter, and she aimed the gun down at the bed, and the boy rushed forward, but the woman turned and swung out her arm, and it caught him in the throat and he staggered back, unable to breathe. He fell against the wall, and she faced him, her vision blurred with tears, and she apologized again and again, said she could not live without her daughter, that they were coming, and she lifted the gun and pressed it against her temple, and the boy tried to yell at her to stop but he couldn’t breathe, and her daughter screamed at her mom, but her screams were drowned out with the echoing gunshot, and the woman went limp as the side of her head burst outwards, spraying the wall with brain matter and blood and bits of bone. She tottered, lifeless, and collapsed onto the floor, and the entire room shook and dust fell from the rafters, and blood collected in a pool underneath her head. The boy moved around the body, leaving footprints in the pool collecting underneath the mother’s head. The woman still clutched the pistol in blood-drained fingers frozen in rigor mortis. As the boy neared her, the girl sat upright in bed, screaming again and again, despite the pain of her swollen throat, and as he reached for her, she wrenched to the side and vomited blood all over his hands. He reached out and touched her, and she pulled away, but he grabbed her, and she screamed but he slapped a hand over her mouth and told her to be quiet. She gasped for breath, and he removed his hand, and she fell back onto the bed and began to go into convulsions. He grabbed the pillow and lifted her head with his bloody hands, smearing bloodied fingerprints over her cheeks, and he set the pillow underneath her head and could do nothing but watch as her body shook and quivered, and he felt the bed underneath him creak and groan. He heard footsteps in the hallway and then in the living room, and he heard the clacking of toenails on the cracked linoleum floor of the kitchen, and he heard the barking of the dog, and he sat on the bed and could do nothing as two soldiers and a K9 entered the bedroom. He leapt to his feet and ran towards them, begging them to stop, but the dog leapt out and bit at him, and the soldier reigning the dog pulled the animal back as his partner stepped forward and grabbed the boy by the arm and swung him away from the bed. The boy protested, but the soldier raised his assault rifle and pointed it at his chest and cornered the boy against the window. The boy looked out the window and into the street and could see people being lined up along one of the buildings. He watched in prophetic dread as soldiers with gasmasks stood before them and raised their rifles, and the emaciated and wheezing victims could do nothing but stare dumbly forward or look up into the dark dusk sky as the assault rifles sang, and their bodies spurted blood and careened backwards and toppled into a heap of mangled limbs. Their blood emptied from their bodies and ran down the curb and dripped like a waterfall into the sewers. They died without protest, and the soldiers shouldered their weapons and began lifting the bodies, and in an assembly line hoisted them up and into the trucks where they would be gathered like butchered cattle and taken outside the city limits and thrown into a pit and burned. The boy looked back to the soldiers, and the soldier pointing

the gun at him had no expression behind the dark gasmask. The other soldier pointed his assault rifle at the girl convulsing in the bed, and the boy tried to plead with him to stop but could only cry, and then the room flashed with bursts of light and resonated as if a thunderbolt had crackled, and the girl went limp and blood spread over her pajamas and stained the sheets and she lied still. In the distance a bell tolled. The boy fell to his knees, suddenly overcome with the reality of it all. The soldier facing him turned to go, but the soldier with the dog said, Kill him. He has blood all over his hands. If he’s not infected now, he will be. The other soldier looked at him. We only shoot the infected. Kill him. We’ll just have to come back to him in a day or two. No. Killing the sick is one thing, but this? You’re just wasting our time. The soldier looked at the boy who was now curled into a fetal position on the floor, weeping into his hands, sobbing uncontrollably. The soldier shook his head and looked to his partner. No. If he’s infected, then we’ll come back to him. But we’ll just have to wait. You know the rules as well as I do. The other soldier cursed and yanked the dog and left the room. The remaining soldier knelt down beside the boy, gently touched his arm. I’m sorry, he said. And he stood and left, leaving the boy alone with the girl who continued to bleed into the sheets despite a heart that no longer beat. How long he lied there, he will never know. He wept until his eyes burned, bloodshot, and his eyes had swollen; he had wept so strongly that the capillaries in his cheeks had burst, radiating purple splotches across his skin. But he managed to stand, and he moved around the side of the bed, avoiding the girl’s mother’s corpse, and he sat down in the sheets damp with blood, and he looked down at Camille. Her face was turned to the wall, and with shaking hands he caressed her blond hair. He brushed a finger across her cheek, a cheek icy to the touch. He shifted his position, and the pillow underneath her head twisted to the side, and her head lolled towards him. Her eyes were open, lifeless eyes with no emotion nor knowledge, nothing more than organs that had ceased to function. He closed his own eyes and drew a deep breath, and he reached forward and with his fingertips pulled her eyelids close. He sat there looking at her in the dying light, and the shadows quickly consumed the room, and he sat in darkness. He heard weeping in the apartment next door, and he could hear sirens in the distance, fading. He stood and went to the window and looked out. In the moonlight he could see dogs below licking the blood that had begun to congeal in the street. He turned back and gave one last look to the girl and went to door. He stood in the doorframe for what seemed hours, and then he went back to the bed and knelt down. He took her cold hand in his, the fingers stiff, and he caressed them and kissed her knuckles. I’m so sorry… he moaned. I’m so sorry… He knew she couldn’t hear him. He stood and leaned over the bed, and he knelt down, and he kissed her cold lips. He stood back up, his back aching, and he abandoned the bed, felt the tears coming again; and he stepped over her mother’s body and went out the door, shutting it quietly behind him. He went into the living room where the candle had all but burned out. He went over to it and blew gently, and the flame extinguished, and he was lost in the blackness. He sat down on the sofa and stared into the darkness and waited for dawn.