The Brief History of the Dead (6 page)

He woke up early the next morning to the smell of something cooking. He went into the kitchen.

The blind man had found a jar of batter in the refrigerator and was pressing waffles into shape between the hinged metal pans of a waffle iron. Luka could see the batter sizzling and darkening as it spilled over the circumference of the pan.

“You know you talk in your sleep,” the blind man said.

As far as he could tell, Luka had not made so much as a sound as he entered. “I do? What do I say?”

“‘They’re still down there.’ ‘The best thing I’ve ever done.’ That sort of thing.”

Luka thought about it for a minute. “I have absolutely no idea what that means,” he said.

He ate a plateful of the waffles, which were surprisingly well cooked—a perfect crisp brown at the edges, but fluffy at the center—and then the two of them set off into the city. They explored the same terrain they had covered the day before, but in straight lines this time rather than linked circles, to make sure they hadn’t missed anybody. They had to take shelter under the awning of a liquor store during one of the city’s sudden thunderstorms, but the rain lasted only a few minutes, and then they were off again.

It wasn’t until late that afternoon that they found another survivor.

~

Her name was Minny Rings, and they spotted her trying on gloves behind the window of a discount clothing store. She gave a start and clutched her chest when Luka tapped on the window. Then she rushed outside exclaiming, “Thank God! Thank God!” She looked as though she wanted to wrap her arms around the two of them. Instead, though, she just put her fingers to the cuffs of their jackets for a moment. She had been dead less than a week, she said, when the only other people in her building, an old Russian woman and her son, who was even older, slipped out the bottom of the funnel. She hadn’t seen anybody since. She had spent the last few days walking around her neighborhood, watching the birds fly from rooftop to rooftop, and rattling doorknobs to find out whether they were unlocked. She had made her way into dozens of empty shops and apartments, looking through piles of clothing, stacks of antique maps, and display cases full of jewelry. She had turned up a library of old books inside someone’s painted wooden trunk, and she had filled most of the last couple of nights reading one of them.

“What book?” Luka asked.

“The Master and Margarita.”

“Mikhail Bulgakov. I love that book.”

“Me, too,” she said. Luka watched as she brought her thumb and her forefinger to the corners of her lips. It looked as though she were trying to tug her smile down into a frown. A nervous tic, he supposed.

The blind man, who was leaning against the wall, took off one of his shoes and beat at the heel until a pebble rolled out. Then he squeezed his foot back inside. “The air is getting colder,” he said suddenly, and sure enough, the sun was falling. The tops of the trees still caught its full light, but the trunks and the scaffolding of the lower limbs were sliced off by the hard shadows of the buildings, so that when Luka’s vision blurred, he saw only the very highest branches. They looked like ornaments floating in the sky.

Minny touched Luka’s arm. She asked, “Are you okay?”

“Why?”

“You looked like you were about to faint there.”

“Did I? I’m just tired from walking, I guess. Tired and hungry. We haven’t eaten anything since this morning.”

“Mm-hmm. Look, what do you think about the two of you coming back to my place with me?” she said. “I don’t want to be too—what? Forward. Pushy. But I’d rather not let you out of my sight right now. I’m just around the corner,” she said hopefully, and she pointed her finger.

So Luka and the blind man followed her back to her apartment, which was a small one-bedroom on the ground floor of a converted school building, sparsely furnished with a few folding chairs and a coffee table. She brewed a pot of coffee, and later, after they had eaten, as the dishes soaked in the sink, she brought their talk gradually around to the crossing and the other world. She wanted to know how the two of them had died.

“A car accident,” Luka said. “I always knew I would die in a car accident, and that’s exactly what happened. I was on the highway, and I hit the front wedge of one of those concrete dividing walls, and the car broke apart into a million pieces. It was like my body stopped and the rest of me just kept on going. Like a dream almost. It wasn’t even raining. I just lost control of the wheel.”

“And what about you?” Minny asked the blind man.

“Old age,” he said after a short pause, which, like all his pauses, might have been either thoughtful or oblivious—Luka couldn’t tell. “Old age and neglect.”

The night had deepened outside, so that the lamps in the apartment, which had seemed so weak just an hour or so before, glowed like miniature, shining suns.

“And what happened to you?” Luka asked Minny.

“The same thing that happened to everyone else,” she said. “The Blinks.”

She seemed reluctant to say anything more, and Luka didn’t press her.

He already knew most of the broad details, anyway. The rapidly progressing illness that began with an itching behind the eyes. The flight of the population from the coasts and the cities. The looting and the vandalism. The desperation and the brutality. He must have conducted a hundred interviews in the last few weeks of the newspaper, and the story had always been the same.

The conversation fell away, and the three of them sat quietly listening to the faucet drip into the sink. Every so often, the water would strike the edge of a metal pan with a whispery, cymbal-like brushing sound before it shifted and began falling into the soapy water again.

After a while, Minny excused herself to go to the bedroom. She wanted to finish reading her book. “I’m only about twenty pages from the end. It won’t take me long. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Fantastic.” She came back half an hour later, already dressed in her pajamas, and slipped the book onto a small wooden shelf that was recessed into the living room wall. She stood there for a long while with her hands resting on her hips. “I’m trying to remember what it was I was supposed to do,” she said to herself. Then, after a few seconds, “Oh, well. I guess it will come to me eventually.”

They stayed up another hour or so discussing their plans for the next day. Though Minny knew almost nothing about the city as it existed beyond the few blocks of her neighborhood, she wanted to join Luka and the blind man in their hunt for other survivors. It was decided that when morning came, if the three of them were still there and no one had disappeared, they would head deeper into the conservatory district together. It was Luka’s feeling that where there were three people there were bound to be four, and where there were four there were bound to be five. “I’m not so sure about six and seven, though,” he said. He tried to work up a little chuckle, a half-laugh for his half-joke, but he was too tired and it came out as a yawn.

The blind man had already fallen asleep in his chair. Luka swallowed a second yawn, and Minny took his arm.

“Look, I only have the one bed, but you’re welcome to one side of it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mm-hmm. I’ll sleep better that way.”

“All right. Good,” Luka said. He ended up brushing his teeth with his index finger, then washing his face with a shell-shaped piece of soap he found sitting on the rim of the bathroom sink. By the time he was finished, Minny had already turned off the bedroom light, but he could still see well enough to find his way to the other side of the bed. He stood above her for a moment. He was trying to adjust himself to the idea of sleeping next to another body. The world had swung around like a carousel, it seemed, and given him another chance.

“I think I need to finish my story,” Minny said.

“The Bulgakov? I thought you did finish it.”

“No, the other story. My story.”

He pulled the blanket down and slid beneath the covers. “Shoot.”

“Well, I was away from home when the virus hit. That’s the important thing.” She spoke slowly and deliberately, as though the story were a complicated maze of rooms she was trying to pick her way through for the first time. “I was at a sales convention in Tucson, Arizona. Office supplies. I used to sell office supplies to hospitals and state agencies. There were probably five hundred of us in the hotel, from all over the country. When the news came through, we all rushed for our rental cars. I just kept thinking that I wanted to see my dad again. Isn’t that strange? It didn’t make any sense. I hadn’t spoken to my dad since I was a kid, and he was dead anyway, but he was all I could think about. Not my mom, not my boyfriend. My dad. But the hotel had set up a quarantine around the edge of the parking lot, and they wouldn’t let any of us leave. I guess they thought somebody might have carried the virus in from out of state. I don’t know. I managed to get one of the last few Cokes out of the vending machine in the lobby, then I went back up to my room. Most of the TV networks were already down, but a couple were showing footage of the virus from Great Britain. It was horrible. Bodies lying dead on the grass or propped up against trees. You’re lucky you didn’t have to see it.” She shuddered. “Honestly. There was this one shot, from London, of these hundreds of shoes lying scattered around on a flat stretch of highway. Nothing but shoes. People must have thrown them off when they were running from something, I guess. Who knows what? I couldn’t help turning the TV back on every so often to see if there was anything new, but there never was. By the end of the day the networks were nothing but static, except for one of the gossip channels that was airing some show about Hollywood weddings. A repeat, of course. No more Hollywood weddings. I think it was the next morning that I started to feel sick. I remember going into the bathroom for a glass of water, but not much else after that.”

Here she stopped for a moment, and the remembering tone fell out of her voice. “I guess that’s the whole story. I’m sorry. I just had to tell somebody.”

“Can I ask you one question?” Luka said.

“Ask.”

“How long was it before you died?”

“I don’t really know,” Minny answered. “My guess would be that I didn’t make it through to the night.”

She was resting on her side, hunched and facing away from him. All this time her feet had been swaying in slow half circles beneath the blankets, one grazing on top of the other, like waves covering each other over on the beach. He felt as though he could listen to the rustling sound they made forever. Just before he fell asleep, he heard her mutter, “The dishes,” and the next thing he knew it was morning.

Once more, the blind man was already awake. He was helping Minny in the kitchen, filling the coffeemaker as she plugged the toaster oven into the wall. The three of them ate a light breakfast of English muffins with strawberry jelly, and then they started off into the city.

The streets seemed even emptier than before. Most of the trash—hamburger wrappers, ticket stubs, styrofoam cups—had been blown down to the river or collared inside the necks of various alleyways. The few pieces that remained were either too heavy or not aerodynamic enough to be lifted by the wind. A windup alarm clock. A rubber doorstop. A compact disc. They looked like part of some vast, citywide art installation:
Things We Left Along the Way
.

A banner was flapping between two flagpoles on the side of a building, tightening and relaxing like a sail luffing in a gentle breeze, but on the pavement everything was perfectly still. Luka kept his eyes open for any sign of human activity. He matched his step to Minny’s. The blind man stayed a few paces ahead of them, running his hand along the walls and the windows, never stumbling as he stepped over the curb into the intersections of the empty streets.

Luka planned to lead them back to his office before the day was out. He was afraid he had neglected to close his window. Whether or not they found anybody, he didn’t want to leave his equipment exposed to the rain. The mimeograph machine, in particular, barely worked on even the best of days: the crank often got stuck, or the drum fell loose, or the paper came through clotted with ink. He hated to imagine how it would operate with a few gallons of rainwater irrigating the machinery.

They stopped for a few minutes at a small, enclosed park on the corner of Seventeenth and Margaret Streets, where they lined up on one of the wrought-iron benches to rest their legs. Minny took her shoes off and began rubbing the soles of her feet, massaging them with her thumbs and then with her knuckles. “This is what a lifetime of driving from the door to the mailbox will get you,” she complained. “Little-girl feet.”

A pair of basketballs had drifted to a stop against the chain-link fence. Every so often a gust of wind would pass between them, and they would roll apart and come back together again with an oddly resonant thumping noise. Minny slipped her shoes back on, Luka tapped the blind man’s shoulder, and the three of them headed back out toward the conservatory.

It was still early in the day when the blind man brought them up short, extending his left arm. “Did you hear that?” he asked.

Luka hadn’t noticed anything. Neither had Minny.

“It sounded like a gunshot,” the blind man said. “A few miles away.”

He cocked his head and pointed. “There! There it was again!”

All at once, and without another word, he struck off at a fast walk. Luka and Minny had no choice but to follow after him. He appeared to know exactly where he was going. He made a right onto Third Avenue, sheering around a car that was tilted up onto the sidewalk, then took a left by the Ginza Street Shopping Mall. He never turned down a blind alley or into a courtyard, never even paused. Luka couldn’t figure out how he did it. Maybe it had something to do with the shape of the wind, the way various sounds came together or frayed apart in his ears. Or maybe it was his sense of equilibrium, which must have been as finely calibrated as a compass. Luka made a note to ask him whenever they got where they were going.

The blind man took them past a library and a gymnasium—four blocks, eight blocks, ten—leading them swiftly toward the river and the monument district. By the time the next gunshot was fired, the sound was much clearer. “Damned if I can’t hear it,” Luka said.