***
We move from safe house to safe house, never sleeping in the same place twice. Always, there are others with us. Guarding us. Bringing and sending information. Carrying out orders. I watch this strange, surreal universe from a distance that is created inside myself. It melts and sways and swirls in unexpected patterns. Hypnotic. Moving around me. But still, I feel like I am not part of it.
Jonas sits with me sometimes, and tries to talk to me, but I have nothing to give him. Nothing that he wants. I'm not trying to be far away from him. I don't even feel angry, anymore. But when he says things, I don't know what to say back. I don't know how to form something meaningful. Something beyond a sigh, or a nod, or a one-word answer. He keeps trying, even though he's frustrated, but that only makes it worse. I feel like I'm supposed to say something. Supposed to be different than I am. The pressure of it fixes me in my pit of isolation. I withdraw further, and further, until one day, Jonas stops trying.
I tell myself he's just busy running his little army. And maybe it's true. He goes out, and is gone a long time. The following day is the same. Apollon is gone, too, and it makes me wonder why I'm still here. Instead of watching the small slice of world out the window, I slip out, too. I keep to the alleys, mostly, trying not to be seen. But soon, I forget that it matters. The things I see around me make me forget.
Perhaps the Outpost has passed some sort of milestone, or perhaps Fate has simply grown tired of watching us wallow in our misery. Whatever it is, we have moved past the weakness and into the dying. There are bodies lying in an alley— five of them altogether, three of them huddled in a group. I know they're dead, because snow has fallen on top of them. Cloven pig tracks wander down the alley past them. One of the corpses’ eyes, half-blocked with snow, are open, glazed with crystals of frost. I move past them, unable to look away, wondering how it is they all died together. Was it sickness, brought on by the starvation, or just the complete loss of hope?
Other alleys reveal other horrors. People so sick they just lie still and groan. A chorus of phlegmy coughs from a huddle of small children. A boy, in the fetal position, his distended belly swelling against his curled-up legs. A little girl, maybe four or five years old, wandering by herself, her steps slow and uncertain, her eyes wide but not seeing. I follow her, but she doesn't notice me. We wander the Outpost, through quiet that used to be bustle. Across the shadows of the Sentries that "protect" us. Past the sick, the dead. Through the sermon alley, where the voice inside proclaims the coming of the horsemen of the Apocalypse. I stumble over something under the snow, and fall to my knees. In the process of climbing up, I uncover a leg. I scramble the rest of the way to upright, breathing hard. Wiping my hands on my pants, I turn to follow the girl, but she's gone. Her footprints mix into the mush of traffic-smashed snow. I press on, searching, but she's disappeared. Maybe she was a projection of myself. Or a metaphor for all of us. How easily we all vanish from the face of the earth. One moment, we live. The next, we are erased.
If I did not feel the depths of the thought at first, its blade plunges deep into me when, heading toward the safe house, I walk into an alleyway where a young woman clutches an infant in her arms. The woman is pale with death, frozen, sinking into a snow drift. The child, however, whimpers in her arms, wriggling, rooting. I freeze, terror gripping my throat like a wolf on its prey. There is an eternity in which I'm unable to act. Then, making myself, I move forward. I pry the baby from the mother's death grip and cuddle it against myself. I breathe warmth on its face, coo soothing words to it as it wriggles fiercely with hope. We slump against the wall, and I melt snow in one hand and dribble drops into the baby's mouth. It laps the liquid up, briefly, then falls into a deep sleep in my arms. I hold it close, whispering to it, trying to shield it from the cold.
The baby is no more than a few days old, tiny and wrinkled, still. The rag that wraps its bottom is wet, icy, but everything I can salvage is also soaked in snow. I discard the rag entirely, and tuck the little girl into my jacket, zipping it around her, leaving just her face exposed to the air. We walk the Outpost together, looking for something to help her. There has to be milk, somewhere. Another nursing mother, perhaps, who might take her in. Even as I hope for it, my stomach turns over, knowing how unlikely it is that anyone would take on another mouth to feed at a time like this. I think of Matt— of how he might be able to help. But I can't go to him. Tears pour down my face. How long can I keep her alive? A few days, maybe? I shake my head, refusing the thought. Jonas can help her. Jonas has resources, now. He can help her. I start toward home, hoping he'll not be away all night, again. "It's OK," I whisper to my little passenger. "You're going to be OK." I run my hand up and down my jacket, stroking her back. She's so sound asleep. She doesn't respond. I gently readjust her, easing her upward, looking down at her face. Her little mouth is open, still. I jostle her. No response. She's not breathing.
I flop down into the snow, tearing her from my jacket. I lay her on the cold ground. I can’t see her through the tears, but my hands find her torso, shake her gently. Then fiercer. Insistently. Demandingly. Wake up. Wake up. For god sakes, wake up. Her limbs are limp. Dangling. I keep waiting for her to just take one breath.
She doesn’t wake up. She’s like Oscar. Gone.
I lift my face to the sky and let the tears come freely. Why do we even bother? Life is so fleeting, so easily broken. It comes and goes without asking, and in between is an endless struggle against pain. Do our lives change anything? Or do we just live because that's what we are programmed to do?
I scoop her up and hold onto her until I can no longer stand to. We sit in the snow, rocking. I cry a lullaby. She’s heavy in my arms, like a doll made of lead. Her death is heavy on my soul—another tragedy I couldn’t prevent. I cannot bear her. I need to move on. Dazedly, I consider what to do next. The ground is frozen, denying a grave. I can't imagine placing her tiny body into a barrel of flames. Instead, I give her the only resting place that seems right. I carry her back to her mother's arms. Maybe she was never meant to be taken from there. I lay her carefully in the frozen embrace, and cover them both with a piece of black plastic, which is all I can find. I cry my way halfway across the Outpost, until I realize where I'm going. To Jonas' new base of operations. I probably shouldn't go there, but I don't want to be alone, and I can't handle Neveah's silence. I want someone to talk to me. To tell me it will be OK.
Jonas is not there, and no one will tell me where he is. They direct me to Apollon, though, who is working in one of the back rooms.
"Hey, Eden," he says, grinning, as he sees me in the doorway. He's got a table full of implements, glass, test-tubes, and jars of things that look like they belong in a witch's pantry.
I wander in, my eyes scanning over the table. "What the hell?"
Apollon raises his eyebrows at me, then picks up one of many vials of foul-colored liquid. He holds it up carefully for my inspection, winks at me. "Apollon," he says, "god of the plague."