Fall of Venus (9 page)

Chapter
10

I
can see them now. Lying in bed together. My father sleeping peacefully, my
mother choking for air while her body tries to expel foreign germs through an
explosive coughing spell. Her eyes look hollow and vacant. The bony protrusions
over her face and body are evidence of her lack of appetite. She said she just
couldn’t keep anything down.

I
would come in and gather the tissues to throw away, but she told me not to
bother, she’d clean them up when she’s feeling better. I looked over at my
father’s motionless chest and realized that he wasn’t sleeping. But I didn’t
want mom to know, so I waited until she fell asleep to drag his stiff,
cumbersome body out of the room. When she awoke, wondering where he was, I told
her he was feeling better and went to work. Later that day she passed.
 
Then I had two graves to dig.

My
hand cups over my mouth and I turn to Marcus, who is standing right behind me.
He accepts me into his arms and holds me close while I surrender to my
emotions. It’s not so much the knowledge that they are dead, but the fact that
I’m forced to relive their deaths over again, as if seeing it for the first
time.

“I’m
here,” he says, stroking the back of my head. Shivers trickle down my
spine.
 
After a moment, I pull away
from Marcus, keeping my hands on his chest for comfort.

“I
remember,” I say through the streams of tears pouring down my cheeks. I push
him aside and go back into the living room, crossing to the back door of the
house. Marcus follows me as I unlock the glass door and slide it open. Outside
the sky is darkening with a thick layer of clouds, the wind gusts are picking
up, and all I can hear to break up the eerie silence that has pursued us these
past few days is the piercing clatter of wind chimes.

I
dart out into the backyard, past a row of hedges that guarded the privacy of my
mother’s garden. Her garden was a secluded oasis that she would go to when she
was too stressed out to deal with anything. There were brightly colored blooms
of roses, hyacinth and daisies, intertwined with the fragrance of lilac,
jasmine and lavender, surrounding an intricately carved stone bench in the
center.

Now
I stand at the threshold of what used to be my mother’s garden. Most of the
plants had been scorched by last summer’s heat. Only a single rose bush had
survived, and even it had seen better days. A plat of daisies my mother had
bought from the local greenhouse to plant still sits at the edge of the garden,
barely hanging onto life. In the center, just before the stone bench, are two
large mounds of dirt and a rusty shovel protruding from the dirt to the side.

I
stand here, paralyzed, tortured by the sound of wind chimes. My mother loved
listening to them as she sat out on the bench sipping her tea on a mild, sunny
afternoon. But now, they are just a constant reminder of her death. Raindrops
begin to fall and I’m glad. They can wash away the sticky tears from my face and
disguise the fresh tears that continue to fall. In one final gesture to my
parents I kneel at the graves, dig shallow holes with my hands, and plant the
remaining daisies, six on each mound. My hands are covered in mud, my hair
caked to my face, and I lower my head and sob.

I
vaguely remember digging the graves. There were so many sudden deaths in town
that the funeral homes were overbooked and cemeteries didn’t have enough spaces
or time to bury the deceased. Many people were forced to bury their own family
members in their yards. The city held public bonfires for the poor and homeless
and anyone else who couldn’t bury their loved ones. I remember the stench of
death as the smoke wafted over our house.

The
day after my parents died, I told Evie to stay inside and watch cartoons for a
while. Then I began the arduous task of digging. It doesn’t look like much, but
digging a human sized grave is not as easy as it seems. It took me three hours
to dig my father’s grave. By the time I’d gotten to my mother’s my arms were
like jelly and the grave was not quite as deep, but I got it done. Just as I
was scooping the last bit of dirt onto the mounds, I heard Evie’s voice behind
me.

“Are
Grandma and Grandpa with the angels?” she asked.

I
jammed the shovel hard into the dirt so that the handle stuck straight up, and
turned to Evie. “Yes, Evie. Grandma and Grandpa are with the angels now.”

“Is
that where my daddy is?” I had forgotten that my parents never told her about
Drake. But I figured now is as good a time as any to let her in.

“Yes,
he is,” I said. I knelt down and squeezed her tight, fighting back tears. I
couldn’t let her see me cry. It’s too much for a little girl that age to lose
so many people who love her. I needed to be strong for her. I stood up and took
her hand as we walked to the house.

“I
wonder if he’s with mommy now,” Evie said.

“I’m
sure he is,” I reply.

Evie!
I had been so caught up in melancholy I hadn’t even
thought of her yet. Beyond the two large graves is a smaller mound.
Oh
god, no. Please don’t let that be Evie’s grave
.
But I don’t remember burying her. I trod through the space between my parents’
resting places and collapse on the ground, which the rain is now turning to
mud. I desperately claw at the mound, pushing the dirt away.
That
can’t be Evie. Please tell me it’s not her.
My
dirt-caked fingernails scratch something hard and I brush the remaining dirt
away. It’s an old shoebox. I choke on something between and laugh and a cry
when I realize it’s not Evie. It must be Spooky’s grave. Of course I’m not
thrilled that Spooky passed, but relief softens the blow. Now I know that Evie
is still alive. She could even be hiding somewhere in the house.

I
barely notice that Marcus is still standing close to the house, presumably to
give me some space to mourn. When he sees me charging back to the house, he
opens the door for me and follows me in.

“Evie!”
I call out. No answer. I try calling for her a few more times, but still no
response.

Finally
Marcus speaks up, “She’s not here, Pollen.” I can’t mask the hurt and disbelief
in my eyes as I look back at him. I storm into Evie’s bedroom. Her bed is
neatly made with a white, lacy, heart-shaped pillow on top. A few dirty clothes
still lie in her hamper. In fact her sunshine yellow room looks perfectly put
together apart from two dolls lying on the floor. I walk over and pick one up.

The
doll is a small wooden figure, not much bigger than my hand; the perfect size
to live in her pink dollhouse with blue shutters. Evie named her Hazel because
she couldn’t decide if her eyes were green or brown. Her red hair had become
tattered and matted with age. This was Evie’s favorite doll.

I
remember sitting on the floor to play with Evie some time after my parents had
passed. She asked me to play dolls with her, seemingly unaffected by the death
all around us. Of course, I couldn’t say no to her and she handed me the
black-haired doll named Isla.

“Isla
is sick,” said Evie. “I’ll get her some soup.” Evie walked Hazel to the
dollhouse kitchen, placed a white apron on her and pretended she was making
soup. It must have been a magic kitchen because the soup was ready instantly.
Deep down I just knew that Isla was going to die. That’s usually how kids deal
with difficult moments like death, through play and make-believe. But much to
my relief, Isla made a miraculous recovery with her magic soup.

“Mmm,
this soup is delicious,” I said with a high-pitched girlie voice. “I feel
better already!”

Evie
reached around the dollhouse and pressed a button that made a tiny ding-dong sound.

“Someone’s
at the door, let’s see who it is!” said Evie. Then we walked our dolls over to
the front door when the real doorbell chimed. I turned around, wondering whom
it could possibly be. Maybe some friends of my parents, stopping by to offer
condolences? No, that’s impossible. With all the craziness going on with the
virus, quarantines, and my obsession with protecting Evie, I never bothered
telling anyone close. I only had the very busy coroner stop by and officially
declare their deaths before I buried them. Perhaps they read it in the
newspaper, the published list of the deceased. Possible. I excused myself,
leaving Evie to play by herself for a little while.

At
the door, an older man wearing a long black trench coat and hat and holding a
clipboard with a huge stack of papers, some of them folded over the top of the
board. Behind him were three large men in unusual blue uniforms with matching
caps.

“Miss…
McRae, Pollen?” asked the man with the hat, lifting an eyebrow. His voice
sounded flat and cold, almost robotic.

“Yes,
can I help you?” I say.

“We
need you to come with us,” he says. Before I could eke another word out the man
in the trench coat backed away and one of the men grabbed my wrist. I tried to
wriggle away but his grasp was too tight. I swung my leg back and thrust it
forward into his shin and he released me. But now the other two men were on top
of me, pushing me to the ground, turning me over, and cuffing my wrists. As
they were cuffing me I couldn’t help but resist and one man dug his knee into
my back, causing intense pain, which forced me to cry out. When they finally
subdued me I lay my head to the floor, looking to my left where I saw Evie,
standing at the corner of the hallway watching the scuffle. I silently mouthed
the words “run” and “hide” to her, but it was too late. The other man in blue
walked over to her and picked her up. He handled her more gently than the
others did me. We were placed in the back of an enclosed truck with three other
people, and then shuttled off.
 
That was the last time I saw my house before today.

I
turn back, expecting to see Marcus there behind me, but he is not. I find him
back in the kitchen looking through the cabinets. There are some candles lit,
since it is getting dark, and several more unlit candles and flashlights on the
counter.

“Hungry?”
he says. “I thought I’d fix us up something.”

“Not
really,” I reply. “I’ve lost my appetite. Anyway, in case you hadn’t noticed we
have no electricity. Can’t cook anything.”

Marcus
closes the cabinet door and approaches me, placing his hand on my shoulder.
“You okay?” His eyes soften with the sweetness of honey.

I
look into his eyes, my eyelids swelling up. I feel so vulnerable, but at this
point I don’t care anymore. I’ve been through so much with Marcus in the past
few days there shouldn’t be any secrets between us anymore.

“I
remember.”

Marcus
escorts me to the dining room table and pulls out a chair for me before
bringing a candle in and sitting down himself.

“What
do you remember?” he asks. I tell him about my parents being sick, burying
them, and the men that took Evie and me. “Do you know where they took you?” he
asks.

“Crimson,
I think. I’m not sure. That part is still a little hazy. I remember being
strapped to a table, my head in a vise. I remember pain. Agonizing pain,” I say
as I rub my temple.

“I
was at Crimson,” says Marcus, staring off into space. “I remember the vise. And
the tattoo. And I remember you. You were at Crimson. But I can’t remember how
we met or how well we knew each other, but you were definitely there.”

“Why
didn’t you say anything before?” I ask.

“I
didn’t want to scare you off. And to be honest, I wasn’t really sure it was
true. My memories are hazy, too.”

“Do
you know how I got this?” I ask as I trace the scar across my face with my
fingertip.

“No.
Like I said, I only see bits and pieces. I can’t seem to put it all together
yet.”

“Being
here must be triggering my memories to return.”

I
pause for a moment, hesitating because deep down I know he’ll try to stop me. I
watch my hands as I rub them together furiously.
 
“I need to go back.” Then I look up to check his wide-eyed
reaction.

“Not
to…” Marcus starts, as if my eyes are projecting my thoughts into his.

“Yes.
To Crimson.”

Chapter
11

“Are
you insane?” Marcus stands and paces the dining room like a caged lion, looking
at the floor and shaking his head. “You heard Myra! You go back to Crimson
you’ll be tagged again. What exactly are you hoping to accomplish by going
back?” He stares hard, slicing into me with his penetrant eyes.

“I
have to find Evie. I can’t abandon her. I’m all she has left,” I whisper,
looking down at my hands. Then I wonder why I never noticed my bare fingers
before. I remember Glenn’s proposal, but there’s no ring anymore. Did I break
it off? Did he contract the virus and die? Or did I simply lose it out in the
woods? Marcus cuts off my unfocused thoughts and brings me back to the
conversation.

“There’s
got to be another way. We should have gone with the COPS,” he says, rubbing his
fingers and thumb on his forehead. “We can still find them again.”

“Not
yet. They’ll never let me go back to get Evie. Look, I’m not suggesting we just
walk up to the front gate and surrender. There’s got to be a weakness in
security somewhere. There always is. How else would we have escaped before?”

Marcus
grinds his teeth as he stares out the window to the darkened sky. The wind is
howling and heavy raindrops hammer the roof.
 
It’s getting late in the evening and the storm is right
above us. “You know I won’t let you do this alone.” He looks back at me,
frustration choking his stormy eyes. “But we will have a plan before we do
anything.”

Marcus
walks back into the kitchen, leaving me alone at the table. Now that I have a
moment to reorganize my thoughts I let them turn to Glenn and my naked finger.
I don’t have any memories of breaking off our engagement or of his death. Maybe
it was taken when I went to Crimson. I have to find out if Glenn is okay. But
can I convince Marcus to go with me to Glenn’s house?

Marcus
comes back with a half-empty bag of stale potato chips and sits down across
from me. He turns the bag to offer me some.
 
I reluctantly take a small handful to nibble on.

“I
want to go to Glenn’s house, to see if he made it,” I say to Marcus, who is
leaning back in the chair munching on his chips.

“He
won’t be there,” he says.

“I
know,” I say, “but right now I don’t know if he is alive or dead. I think if I
look around his house, I should be able to determine if he survived or not. And
if he did, I know where he is.”

Marcus
rolls his eyes and sighs deeply. “And I suppose we’ll have to rescue him too.”
I sense a steel edge of jealousy in Marcus’s voice. I don’t know why. I’ve only
known him a few days. I’ve been with Glenn for five years. He must have read
too much into that kiss last night. Then again, maybe he didn’t. I don’t know
if it’s the recent events or if there are actually real emotions behind it, but
I feel more and more drawn to him every minute we are together. Like some
unseen bridge has connected us to each other in an emotional bond. And Glenn is
the river flowing beneath us. Regret overwhelms me as I try to erase the memory
of the passionate kiss.

“It’s
getting late and we need some rest. If you really want to check his house,
we’ll do it in the morning,” says Marcus. He rolls the bag of chips back up and
tosses them on the table. The flickering candlelight accentuates his masculine
features--his square jaw, strong brows, bulging biceps. The scruffiness on his
jaw line makes him appear slightly older, more mature. How could I help but
feel attracted to him? And being so lonely and vulnerable puts me in an awkward
position. The only thing that keeps me from falling for Marcus is the undying
hope that Glenn is still alive.

“I
thought you were going to eat,” I say, as he stands up the leave the room.

“I’ve
lost my appetite too,” he says, avoiding eye contact and stomping away.

I
stand to follow Marcus into the kitchen where he holds a flashlight in each
hand, deciding which one to use. He flicks on a thin, silver one and hands it
to me.

“I
think we should stay in the bunker tonight. Just in case there are any bounty
hunters around,” I say.

Marcus
nods, “That’s probably a good idea. Where is it?”

“You’re
standing on it,” I say. In the middle of the kitchen floor is a thick, woven
rug with an intricate knot work pattern. When Marcus backs up, I lift up the
corner of the rug and shine the flashlight on a heavy steel trap door. There
are no knobs or handles, just a thin slit in the metal, too narrow for fingers.

“We’ll
need to pry it up,” I tell Marcus. “I’ll go get the crowbar.”

My
dad kept the crowbar in the garage with all of his other tools. While Marcus
gathers the candles and flashlights, I enter the garage, scanning the shelves
with my flashlight. I pass by cans of motor oil, various sets of tools, and
other metal gadgets that I am clueless about. Probably parts for the car.
Beyond the shelves is an area to corral some brooms, rakes and other long
handled yard tools. There it is, leaning against the side of the recycling bin.
As I bend over and pick it up, a crumpled piece of newspaper in the bin steals
my attention. My father always taught Drake and me to lay papers flat in the
bin, so that we can fit more in there. Although a balled-up piece of paper may
not look odd to someone else, it does here.

I
set down the crowbar so I have a free hand to flatten out the paper. Flashing
my light on it, I review the contents. It’s a special edition section of the
Endmore Times, the local newspaper. They usually release special editions when
there is a major local or worldwide event taking place, such as an election,
memorial, or catastrophe. This particular section appears to contain a list of
the deceased.

Butterflies
start colliding in my stomach and I start to feel queasy. My throat is
beginning to close up and for about two seconds I consider crumpling the paper
back up and throwing it in the recycling bin, without reading any further. But
I can’t. I can’t stop reading. There must be a few thousand names on here. All
in alphabetical order. And I find myself looking only for one name. I search
the names beginning with M. My hand holding the newspaper is trembling so
violently I keep losing my place. Frustrated, I turn around and hold the
newspaper down against the hood of my father’s car. In my right hand I hold the
flashlight, with my forearm holding down the paper, and with my left trembling
finger I slowly descend the column of death. Dread coils around my soul
squeezing the life out of me when I spot his name: Malek, Glenn – 22.

I’m
paralyzed. I can’t speak. I can’t think.
Is this a dream?
It must be a horrible nightmare and I can’t wake
myself up. Inside, I’m a mad woman. I’m screaming, sobbing, crying out to a
deaf god, “Why?!” But on the outside, I’m completely numb.

The
door squeaks open, awakening me from my catatonia.

“Did
you find it?” Marcus asks.

I
try to walk toward Marcus, but my knees give out beneath me and this time he is
not close enough to catch me. I hit the floor with a thud. Luckily, my forearms
cushioned the fall and it seems to have snapped me out of my trance.

“Are
you okay?” Marcus runs to me and helps me up.

“I’m
fine,” I say, still in disbelief. “I just got dizzy. Maybe I should eat
something after all.” I pick up the crowbar and my flashlight and go back to
the kitchen, leaving the newspaper where it fell on the floor. I hand Marcus
the crowbar, and admire his sinewy form as he pries up the door to the bunker.

Marcus
follows me as I descend into the cavernous bunker. The hollow aluminum stairs
echo as we step down each one. Darkness envelops us. Although I can maneuver
this place with my eyes shut, Marcus stands at the bottom of the stairs
scanning the room with his flashlight, taking in his surroundings. In his other
hand he holds a candle from upstairs. From that flame I begin lighting other
candles to place around the bunker.

The
bunker is larger than I remember, maybe because it’s a little less crowded
without my parents and Evie here. There is a large central area that serves as
a common area with a small kitchen, dining and sitting areas. A large, heavy
padlocked door that leads to the Web is on the wall to the left, just beside
the mounted television. The far wall is divided into three enclosed areas: two
bedrooms divided by a single bathroom. Behind us, against the wall and under
the stairs is extra storage space, which contains nonperishable foods,
toiletries, and other things that have been put there throughout the years.

As
I place candles around the room, Marcus studies the picture frames on the shelf
below the TV. Then he wanders back into the storage area. “It’s just food back
there,” I call out to him. “Help yourself if you’re hungry.” The sound of
shuffling distracts me and I see the light of his flashlight between the steps.

“Hey
Pollen,” Marcus calls out. I finish placing the last candle and join him under
the stairs. He shines his flashlight on a crib. Lex’s crib. “Was this yours?”
he asks.

Maybe
it’s time for me to let it all out. I don’t want to keep any more secrets.
Emotions have flooded and overwhelmed me. I am a bottle of soda, shaken up and
ready to explode as he slowly untwists my cap.

“No,”
I start. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves and prepare myself for the
rejection I know is coming. “That was my son’s.”

“You
didn’t tell me you have a son,” says Marcus.

“No
I didn’t. Because I don’t. Not anymore,” I say. Marcus gives me a look of pity,
which would crush my spirit if I weren’t already at the bottom of the pit of
despair. “Remember last night? When you asked me what my biggest regret was? It
was him. It was my fault he died.”

Marcus
remains silent, signaling me to continue with the story. I tell him everything.
About Glenn. About Lex and the blanket. Everything I could remember up until my
engagement on Liberation Day. By this point I’m sobbing because in the back of
my mind I know Glenn is gone. Everyone I love is gone, except for Evie, maybe.
Marcus wraps his arm around me and guides me to the loveseat situated in front
of the TV, opposite the kitchen and dining area.

My
breathing is labored, and I gasp for air between weeps. This must be what it
feels like to have a nervous breakdown. Perhaps I am. Too many sad memories all
at once and I haven’t even told Marcus about Glenn yet. My body can’t contain
anymore. My words come out as sniveling gibberish and I it reminds me of the
way Evie would talk after she’d fall and scrape her knee. Marcus is holding me,
stroking my back, trying to calm my shivering body. It feels so warm and
comforting in his arms. It feels so…right.

Finally,
after I catch my breath, I ball up the nerve to look into his eyes, afraid that
I may be drawn in to him as I was before. Inches away, I can see him struggling
to distance himself from me emotionally, yet still trying to console me. I want
to kiss him again. So badly. But I hold myself back.
What’s wrong with me?
I should be mourning Glenn, not seducing a man I
barely know.

“Glenn
is dead,” I say and a feeling rushes me that I can’t quite explain, somewhere
between despair and relief, before the tears start to flood my cheeks again.
Marcus grabs me and holds me tightly this time, intent on not letting me go. I
bury my face in his neck, trying to stifle the dampness seeping from my eyes.
His smell fills my nostrils and I’m oddly aroused, despite the loss of my
family. This isn’t right, I tell myself. But my need to feel close to him
overpowers my sorrow.

I
don’t want to let go, but Marcus pulls away from me momentarily and looks
deeply into my eyes. “How do you know?” he asks. Although I’m still sniffling,
I manage to pull myself together enough to talk. “I found a newspaper in the
garage with a list of the deceased. His name was listed.” He grabs me again and
I lift my feet up behind me and lie in his arms. For the next hour, we just lie
together, in unspoken serenity that just feels right.
Why does this feel so
right, so normal?

Every
stroke, every touch from him is like the tingling of fairy dust preparing me to
take flight. Being enveloped in his arms stirs something inside me I haven’t
felt before, even with Glenn. My skin shivers in delight with the warmth he
offers. Maybe it’s just the ambience in the room. The romance of darkness lit
only with the dancing golden flames from the candles. That’s likely to turn any
woman on. But this feels different.

Finally,
I pull away slightly to turn and lay against Marcus, chest to chest, and gaze
into his eyes. He winces slightly and I can see he is clamoring to withhold his
feelings.
 
I lean in and brush my
lips against his. For a moment he does nothing, then reluctantly accepts and
kisses me back. Electric shocks jolt through my heart, then release throughout
my body. Marcus cups my face in his hands, then gently pushes me away.
Did I
do something wrong?
My body tenses up with
a twisting knot of heartache.

“Pollen,
we can’t do this right now,” he says. Rejection consumes me and I pull away
from him, covering my face to hide my embarrassment.

“You’re
too vulnerable,” he continues. “I don’t want to take advantage of you. And I
don’t want to get hurt either. I can’t handle it.”

“I
would never hurt you,” I say under my breath.

Marcus
stands and paces the floor. “You don’t understand, Pollen. I like you. A lot.
More than you know. But I can’t act on my feelings when I’m unsure of yours.
You are hurting right now. I get that. But I don’t want to be used and thrown
away when you don’t need me anymore.”