Mass Extinction Event (Book 2): Days 9-16 (19 page)

"Is it still alive?" Shauna whimpers, her eyes filled with tears. "Please God, tell me it's still alive..."

Epilogue

Thirteen days ago

"Forward," Eriksen says, kneeling next to Shauna's sunbed. "Just a little more."

With a little difficulty, Shauna leans forward, allowing Eriksen to slip the cushion behind her back. Letting out a relieved sigh, she sinks back into the cushion, feeling her aching body start to relax.

"Better?" he asks.

"Much," she replies, smiling as she turns to him. "I like this new side of you."

"New side?" he asks. "What new side?"

"The side that isn't wasted all the time," she continues, placing a hand on her swollen belly. "The side that actually gives a crap." Turning to him, she pauses for a moment. Over the past few months, she's watched him slowly become more attentive and more caring, as if he's genuinely starting to smooth out his rough edges. For the first time, she's starting to genuinely believe that he might be a good father, maybe even a good husband one day. "You surprise me sometimes," she adds. "Did you know that?"

He sniffs. "Well," he says after a moment, "when your girlfriend's as big as an elephant all of a sudden -"

"Hey!" she replies with a grin. "It's your goddamn fault! If you hadn't got me pregnant, I'd still be thin as a rake." She pauses. "I'm really gonna get the baby weight off after it's born, you know. I've been reading about it, and there are all these exercises and diets you can do. I'm gonna try the one that Beyonce used right after her first baby, 'cause all her weight just seemed to slip off so fast, it was almost like it wasn't there in the first place." Leaning over to him, she plants a kiss on Eriksen's cheek. "You're so fucking cute when you're being responsible, you know."

"Don't swear in front of Mick," he replies.

"Mick?"

He places a hand on her belly. "If it's a boy, we're naming him after Mick Jagger. If it's a girl, Debbie Harry. I can't believe you'd even question such an obvious choice."

"Is that what you think?" she asks.

He nods. "You can name the next one, but it's rock gods for the first-born." He pauses. "And seriously, we should probably cut out the swearing. You never know how it might affect the kid, hearing all those harsh words. I mean, my Dad swore all the fu -" He pauses again, catching himself just in time. "He swore all day, every day, and look how I turned out."

She stares at him for a moment. "You turned out okay," she says eventually, with a look of wonder in her eyes. "Do you remember how you reacted when I first told you? You were blatantly not that interested in being a father. I
know
you wanted me to get another abortion, but I was willing to go it alone without you, if necessary. I..." She takes a deep breath. "I'm not saying it was wrong to terminate the first pregnancy, Carl, but it's something that's never really left me. I think about it a lot, and now we've got a second chance to do things the right way. It's like the baby we were going to have the first time has just waited and now it's coming this time."

Eriksen turns and looks across the park, his eyes fixed on the New York skyline in the distance.

"Sorry," Shauna continues. "Does it make you uncomfortable when I talk about that kind of stuff? I can stop, but..." She pauses. "It's just something that I think about a lot. That first baby, you know? I didn't mean to freak you out or anything."

"It's not that," he replies, "it's just..." He pauses for a moment. "Doesn't everything seem kinda quiet to you?"

"Like what?" she asks.

"Like there's nothing going on." He gets to his feet and stares at the distant skyscrapers. "There's no hum. No traffic. No noise. No nothing."

"What hum?" she asks. "Carl, what the hell are you on about?"

"That hum you get everywhere," he mutters with a frown. "You know, like the background hum of the world as it gets on with its shit. It's that ever-fucking-present buzzing sound. Air-conditioners and cars and people talking and planes going overhead and a million other fucking things that never really go quiet. It's like everything's stopped. The only thing I can hear is a bunch of fucking birds."

"I don't think everything's stopped," she replies. "Come on, Carl, is this a joke? Stop trying to freak me out. It's not good for the baby." As she speaks, however, she starts to realize that maybe he's right. After all, the world
does
suddenly seem much calmer and less noisy. Sitting up on the sunbed, she stares at the city for a moment. "Maybe there's a power cut," she says eventually. "That kind of stuff happens all the time. The power grid's old as fuck anyway, so it's not like it's even a surprise anymore. Someone probably just forget to push the right switch, or they're drunk at the controls, and now fucking Manhattan has lost its power for a few minutes."

"Maybe," he replies, taking his phone from his pocket and checking the screen. "No fucking reception, either."

"Like I said," she continues, "it's a power cut."

"Would that affect my phone?" he asks.

"Then what do you think's happening?" she continues, starting to get a little tired of his constant fears. "A zombie apocalypse? Alien invasion? Come on, Carl. Relax. It's kind of nice to think that the world's slowed down for a few minutes. I'm sure the power'll be back on soon."

"I just don't like it when the world fucking disappears," he replies. "That's all. It's freaky. I don't like it when people don't do their jobs, either. There's people who're supposed to be well fucking down with this kinda thing, and they're not doing what they're supposed to be doing. They're sleeping on the job or whatever. It pisses me off."

"You worry too much," Shauna says, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward her. "Relax."

"I just don't want this kid coming into a fucked-up world," he continues, sitting next to her on the sunbed. "I don't want our kid inheriting a world where idiots are in charge of everything. I want stuff to just work." He fiddles with some settings on his phone, but nothing seems to be working. "I paid for this goddamn thing," he mutters, "so why the hell isn't it working?"

"Chill," she replies, grabbing the phone and putting it on the little camping table next to the sunbed. "You're gonna give yourself high blood pressure, baby. Come on, calm down. Maybe you
should
have a beer if you need one." Reaching into the cool-bag, she grabs a bottle and hands it to him. "Drink."

"I don't want to," he replies, still staring at the strangely subdued city skyline.

"Baby, please," she continues, opening the bottle and forcibly putting it into his hands. "You stress me out when you're sober, you know that? I mean, it's great that you're able to cut down on the drinking and all that stuff, but once in a while, it doesn't hurt to take the edge off with a cold beer." As if to prove her point, she pulls the bottle toward her and takes a sip. "I'm sure a little drop won't hurt the baby, either," she continues with a smile. "Might even strengthen him up."

"So after all this fuss about getting me to cut down, now you're trying to get me back on the damn stuff again?"

"I just can't handle you when you're so tightly-strung," she replies wearily, before raising the bottle to his lips. "Drink, baby. For the love of God, if only to give me some peace."

Sighing, he takes a swig of beer, but his focus is still on the distant skyline. He's looking for any sign of life, anything at all, just to reassure him that there's not a major problem. So far, however, the city looks like a cemetery, and he has a growing feeling deep in his gut that something must be seriously wrong.

"Jesus," Shauna says after a moment, "remind me never to go on holiday with
you
again. You're a real barrel of fucking laughs, Carl."

"I'm just worried," he says quietly.

"You're bringing everything down!" she replies, her voice taking on a kind of whiny quality. "Seriously, you're stressing me out, Carl. It's not good for me to be stressed, not when the baby's due so soon. Do you want to cause, like, complications and stuff?"

"I'm sorry," he replies. "I just -"

"I don't want to hear it," she continues. "Seriously, just forget about it."

"Something's wrong," he mutters after a moment, unable to shake the feeling of foreboding that's starting to creep through his soul. He takes another swig. "I've never seen New York so goddamn quiet. Something's definitely up."

Day Fourteen

Prologue

Twenty years ago

"What did you do?" he asks, standing in the kitchen doorway and watching as the girl frantically scrubs the floor. "Sara, look at me."

With fear in her eyes, the girl looks up at her father. She knows what comes next. Every time she makes even the slightest mistake, he brings punishment and vengeance down upon her soul. She has prayed so many times to be delivered from his evil, but God has never offered her even a sliver of hope. All she can do is hope that the old man drops dead as soon as possible. This is the hope that has kept her going since her childhood, and she can only beg and pray that one day, eventually, she might be set free.

"Now tell me," he continues. "What did you do?"

"A cup fell off the table," she stammers. "There was coffee in it."

"A cup
fell
off the table?" he asks with a frown. "Now how did it do that? The last I heard, cups weren't given to involuntary movement, so I'm thinking..." He pauses. "Did it really fall off, all by itself?"

"There was -"

"Did it inch closer to the edge all on its lonesome?" he continues. "Did it decide it had endured enough of this life? Did it long keenly for death and leap down to the floor?"

"I..." The girl pauses, her teeth chattering with fear. "I knocked the table," she says eventually. "I bumped into it when I was sweeping, and the cup was close to the edge so..." She waits for him to respond. She knows that this could go either way. Some days, her father doesn't give a damn about anything and she could break a hundred cups without suffering any punishment; other days, the old man flies into a rage about the smallest little thing. "I'm cleaning it up," she continues. "All the pieces are in the trash, and I've just about got all the coffee off the floor, so it's as good as new, really."

"Is it?"

She nods eagerly.

"Huh." After a moment, he walks over to the stove and sets a kettle of water on to boil.

"I'm sorry, father," the girl says, hoping that she's escaped punishment this time. "I promise, it won't happen again."

The old man nods as he grabs another cup from the cupboard and pours out some instant coffee from a jar. After a moment, however, he picks the mug up and examines it more closely. "I don't like this mug," he says slowly. "It's not my favorite. My favorite is that old one with a picture of General Custer on the side. Where's
that
mug?"

"That mug?" Sara replies, her heart sinking. "I... I don't know. I..."

"Is it dirty?" he asks calmly. "Is that why it's not in the cupboard? Did you not get around to cleaning it yet, on account of you having to wash coffee off the floor?" He walks over to the sink. "I don't see no washing waiting to be done."

"I've done all the washing, father," Sara stammers.

"Did you take anything up to your mother?" he asks. "Maybe
she
has my favorite mug. God, wouldn't that be something? That woman knows how much I love my favorite mug, but she still takes it for herself. I never took your mother for a selfish, ungodly woman, but I suppose maybe in her old age she's starting to curl up at the edges."

"She only wanted water," Sara says. "She had it in a glass."

"Huh." The old man walks over to the trash, and after glancing at Sara for a moment, he leans down and lifts the lid. "Huh," he says again, with a hint of theatrical contemplation in his voice. "Well what do you know?"

"Father -"

"Here it is," he says, reaching down and lifting up a broken piece of china. "It looks to me like the mug you broke was my General Custer mug. I've had that mug almost my whole life. Looked after it, too. Only a goddamn careless fool wouldn't be able to look after a mug."

"I'm sorry, father," Sara says, trying not to let her fear show too strongly. She knows that her father hates it when she seems weak and scared, even though he's the one who always sets her on edge. "I'll find another one for you. I'll find someone who sells them and I'll get you a replacement."

"I doubt it," he replies, turning the piece of broken china over in his hands. "No, I don't think you'll find anything even remotely similar to this, not anywhere. This was a one of a kind, genuine antique. I got it over in...." He pauses. "God damn, I'm getting old. I don't even remember where I got it. That's something, isn't it? Maybe my mind's starting to let me down." He pauses again. "No, you won't be able to get a replacement."

"I'll try."

"Trying's not the same as doing," he says quietly, before dropping the piece of china back into the trash. "Well," he mutters. "Can't fix everything, can we? No point crying over spilled milk."

Sara watches as her father walks back to the stove and takes the kettle off the heat, pouring the boiling water into another mug. He seems strangely, unusually calm, and although Sara wants to believe that he's having one of his rare days of kindness and benevolence, she can't help but worry that this is the lull before a storm. It's as if he's pondering the nature of the punishment he's going to mete out to her, and she knows that the longer he thinks about it, the more inventive and cruel the punishment will be when it finally arrives.

"So you're not angry?" she asks eventually.

"No," he replies after a moment. "I'm not angry." He takes the mug and walks over to the door, before stopping and looking back at her. "I'm sad, but I'm not angry."

"I'm sorry you're sad," she says. "I'll soon -"

"Put your hand on the table," he says suddenly.

She stares at him.

"Put your hand on the table," he says again.

Slowly, cautiously, she places her right hand flat on the table.

"Good," he says, walking over and staring down at her for a moment. He glances at the hot water in his cup, and then he smiles. "I don't like being sad, Sara. I try to shield you from those moments as much as possible. When I lock you in the basement, for instance, it's usually so that you don't have to see me being sad. You might not appreciate that gesture, but I feel it's important. It shows you the value of freedom, Sara. It shows you that even though your life might not seem terribly exciting, you still have reasons to be thankful, not only to the Lord but also to me, and to your mother."

"Yes, father," she says eagerly, slowly moving her hand away from the table and hoping -
praying
- that he'll let the matter drop.

"Keep it there," he says, holding the cup out. "Keep your hand right where it is." He pauses. "I hope you've got a strong constitution, Sara. I hope you can take a little pain as punishment for your clumsiness." With that, he tilts the cup and lets a thin dribble of boiling hot water fall into her hand.

"Father -" she says, before gasping as the pain hits her. Water is dribbling all over the back of her hand now, but she knows she has to let him do this. After all, the penalty for disobeying him would be far, far worse than the penalty for breaking a mug. She knows that she has no choice but to do what he wants, despite the agony.

"Yes," he says after a couple of minutes, as the last of water flows from the mug. "Yes, indeed. I think I've made my point." He drops the mug onto the floor, where it smashes. "You'll have to clean that up," he says with a smile, "
before
you go putting cold water or ice on your burns. You understand? You've got to prioritize things and perform your chores before attending to your own needs. Is that clear, girl?"

She nods, even though the pain is almost unbearable.

"Go on then," he says, taking a step back. "I'll watch, to make sure you don't cheat. Start cleaning, and don't even think about putting cold water on that hand until you've finished all your chores. Every last one."

Looking down at her scalded hand, she sees that the skin is already turning bright red. Even though the pain is intense, she starts picking up the broken pieces of the second mug. All she can do is hope that, this time, she'll please her father enough to make him leave her alone. She doesn't want to anger him. She just wants to get things right and avoid his wrath. She knows full well that when he's
really
angry, the consequences can be a thousand times worse than a burned hand. He has done worse things to her in the past, and he will undoubtedly do worse things in the future.