Z for Zachariah (11 page)

No. I have a better idea. When Mr Loomis calms down a little, as he seems to be doing, I will run out, take Faro's food with me, and get the safe-suit. I will bring it in and put it by the bed where he can see it. I will humour his dream to that extent. It will make him less worried.

Afternoon

I
got the suit and brought it in, but a few minutes later that particular nightmare ended, and he was in another, even worse, perhaps brought on by the sight of the suit. He was back in Ithaca having a most desperate quarrel with Edward. I am glad it was only a dream, because it sounded as if one of them was going to murder the other. As he did before, Mr Loomis was carrying on a conversation, and I could hear only half of it, but he was hearing both sides. His voice was faint and mumbling, but even so it sounded cold and full of hate, and dangerous. I suppose when two men are shut up together in a confined area, the tensions between them grow terrible.

When he began talking I was sitting by the window and did not hear the first few words. Then it came clearer.

"… not for just twenty-four hours, Edward. Not even for twenty-four minutes. If you want to find your family go ahead. But the suit stays here, and the door stays locked. Don't try to come back."

A pause. He was listening to Edward's reply.

Poor Edward. It was not hard to understand the situation. He and Mr Loomis were locked up in the underground laboratory, apparently alone. They must have been staying there, working late, perhaps getting some last-minute things done, expecting the people from Washington, when the bombing began. They had a radio—maybe even television—so they knew what was happening. I suppose they had a telephone, too, but that would not have done much good after the first hour.

Edward was married. He had a wife named Mary and a son named Billy, and he was frantic with worry about them.

I don't wonder—I know how he felt. Apparently at first he was afraid to go out—they had real exploding H-bombs in that area, not just drifting fallout. But after the first few days, when things quietened down, he wanted to go and find them, and that is when the fight began.

They knew that the air was poisonous with radioactivity, and they had in their laboratory the only suit in the world that would protect against it. One suit, and two people. That was the situation. That is why, in his dream, Mr Loomis kept reminding Edward that his wife and son were dead; and I suppose Edward had a wild hope that some people might have survived, that they might be alive in a cellar or a shelter.

That was why he wanted to take the suit, even for twenty-four hours. To find them, if they were alive; and if they were dead, to settle the anguish once and for all. Perhaps to see them one more time, perhaps to bury them. I do not know.

Mr Loomis was not married; at least I do not think he was, though he has never said anything about it. And he did not want Edward to take the suit. What was the use, if they were dead? In the dream he said:

"How do I know you'll bring it back? Suppose something goes wrong?"

And later:

"Of course they're dead. You heard the radio. There isn't any more Ithaca, Edward. And even if you found them alive—what then?"

A pause.

"You mean you would leave them to bring the suit back? You're lying, Edward."

And again:

"The suit, Edward, the suit. Think about it: it may be the last useful thing anybody ever made. You're not going to waste it on a visit to your dead wife."

Poor Edward. He kept pleading. I found I was wishing Mr Loomis might lend him the suit, though I could understand why he would not. And I wondered why Edward did not just take it, or at least try. For instance, I thought, Mr Loomis would have had to sleep some of the time.

And then I learned; that is just what he did do. And that led to the worst part of the nightmare, for Mr Loomis, weak as he was, was trying to shout in anger and in dread, and it came out as a horrible, thin whimper. He was also trying again to get up from the bed, to sit, to raise his arms. But he was so weak I did not have to hold him. He could not do it.

I understood now why Edward had been pleading. Because Mr Loomis was holding, or dreamed he was holding, a gun. I could understand most of what he was saying; he was cursing Edward in terrible language, profanity which I will not write down here.

And then he said;

"You're a thief and a liar, Edward, but it's no use. Stand back from the door."

A pause.

"No. I warn you. I will shoot. The suit will stop radiation, but it won't stop bullets."

I remembered. That was the first thing he had said to me when I found him sick in the tent, when he saw my rifle. The sight of it had brought him back to this moment, and now he was in it again. He was threatening to shoot Edward, as he had in the laboratory, where he had been guarding the door.

In a few more seconds it was over. He gave a desperate groan, a deeper sound than before, and then a series of strangling noises. I thought he must be trying to cry. Then he closed his eyes and lay still, except for his breathing, which was very fast and light, like a small animal that has been running. I tried to take his pulse, but all I could feel was a fluttering, so faint I could not count it.

I wondered if he had really shot Edward, and if so how badly he had injured him. An idea came to me which I did not like, but I decided I must do it anyway. I went to where I had put his suit, folded up on a chair beside his bed. I unfolded it and took it to the window, into the light.

What I had feared was true. There were three holes, spaced about two inches apart, across the middle of the chest. They had been patched—that is, new plastic had been welded over them so that they were airtight—but from the inside you could see that they were bullet holes, round and quite large. If Edward was inside the suit when they were fired, then he had certainly been killed.

Night

It is about ten o'clock. I am in the bedroom, sitting by the window with the lamp. His dreams seem to be over; he is peaceful, but I do not know if he will live through the night. His hands and feet are ice-cold; his breathing is faint, almost undetectable. I have not tried taking his temperature again. It would only disturb him, and would do no good. There is nothing more I can do for him.

I realized that later this afternoon, an empty despairing feeling. There was not even any use in my staying with him continuously, since he could no longer get out of the bed, or even fall out. His hands were already turning cold, so I got another blanket and the hot water bottle. I lifted his head on my arm and tried to get him to drink more of the tea. He may have swallowed a little; I could not be sure. He did not open his eyes. His face was pale blue, his eyelids almost purple, and translucent.

Then I had a thought, something that might do him some good. I checked his bedroom one more time, and then I went out and closed the door, left the house and walked to the church, taking the Bible with me. I do not want to make it sound as if I am extremely religious, but I did not know what else to do, so I thought I might pray. I said it might do him some good; maybe what I really thought was that it might do me some good. I cannot be sure. But I knew he needed help, and so did I.

The sun was setting, and it was pretty again, but I could not admire it. I felt too bad. Faro came with me, and I was glad at least to see him. When I got to the church he wanted to come in with me, and I let him but made him lie still.

The inside of the church is painted white, though the paint has faded somewhat, and in the late evening light it looked pale grey. It is very small, a square single room; there are seven pews, but only two of them have backs; the others are really just benches. There are two narrow windows behind the altar (there is no pulpit, but just a high oblong stand to read from), and two more set in the side walls, also narrow, so that it is always dim inside, and quiet.

I sat in the front pew, where the light is best, and read the Bible for half an hour, and I prayed for Mr Loomis. I prayed just for him to live through the night. Even though he may be a murderer, I do not want him to die.

Chapter Twelve

June 5th
Morning.

He has lived through the night.

Once I was sure he had died. I slept on the sofa in the living room, and all night he did not make a sound. I could not really sleep for any length of time, but dozed now and then, and in between I would go in and see how he was. At about two in the morning I went in, listened for his breathing, and did not hear it. I felt so frightened I thought my own heart was going to stop. I said a prayer, and crept closer. Finally, from about a foot away, I did hear it, terribly faint and fast. Each time after that it was the same, but it did not stop. I kept the fire going and changed the hot water bottle every hour, putting it next to his feet. They are so cold I am sure they are not getting any circulation.

Morning finally came, and I made myself some breakfast and coffee; though I have no appetite I must eat. I also went and milked the cow; I am afraid of her going dry immediately if I neglect that much more, since the calf is now beginning to graze. When I came back the room was light, and I looked at him: He was so pale it was frightening. I did not try to take his temperature, but I did count his respiration. He was breathing almost fifty times a minute; I recall from my high school course that normal is about sixteen. His lips looked puffy, grey and cracked, and when I touched them they felt as dry as cardboard. I got a clean cloth and soaked it in water; I held it to his lips and moistened them, squeezing the cloth gently so that some of the water might trickle into his mouth. I did not dare try to give him water from a glass, for fear he might strangle. I washed his face, which was cold and sticky.

Then I fed Faro and walked to the church again. This time I knew it was mostly for my own benefit; I was so worried I could not think clearly; I felt dizzy and ill, I suppose partly because I had had next to no sleep. But there was nothing to be gained by sitting in the house and watching. Either he was going to die or he was not. My being there would make no difference.

Anyway, I was worried not just about whether he would live, but about what had happened in the laboratory—what I had
heard
happening in the laboratory—because that is what I had done, just as surely as if it were a recording. And that was a reason I needed to be able to think clearly.

Faro bolted his breakfast and caught up with me. We went into the church together, and I was just realizing that I had forgotten the Bible, and considering whether I should go back for it, when I noticed that he had come to a point, and was inching along the church floor towards the altar. I could see nothing there, and it gave me an eerie feeling—in the stillness, for a second I thought he might be stalking a spirit or an angel.

I motioned him to lie still, went forward myself, rather fearfully, and then I saw it: a small, rumpled black thing—a baby crow, no bigger than a sparrow, its furry down just beginning to sprout feathers that would be wings and a tail. It fluttered away from me when I came near, but it could not get itself off the floor. Where had it come from? And how had it got into the church? I looked up, and above me rose the square opening that formed the inside of the steeple, actually more like a high cupola. Near the top there was a criss-cross wooden framework of two-by-four built to support a church bell, though no bell had ever been brought here. On one side of this, just inside the eaves of the roof, I saw a rather untidy collection of sticks, leaves and straw, a nest. A pair of crows had built there, and one of the babies had fallen out.

I watched it and it watched me, with very lively small black eyes. I moved a step closer; it fluttered a step further away, until finally it was against the wall behind the altar. Then it just gave up and sat there.

I had found baby birds before, of course. All of us had, and my father told us that we should always leave them where they were, since the parent birds were usually watching from a nearby tree, and would rescue the baby if we stayed away. He was right. I have seen them do it. But I did not think it likely that the adult crows would venture down the steeple into the church, or that they would even realize that was where the baby had fallen.

So I picked it up, holding it as gently as I could in both hands. It did not struggle but sat there quite trustingly. I was tempted to take it home and feed it, but realized that I had enough to think about without a pet to take care of. Also, as soon as I carried it outside I heard a raucous sound, looked up, and there were two big crows flapping overhead. One of them came to rest on the steeple, so I knew they must be the parents, and had seen what I held in my hands. I set the baby down in the grass where they could not miss finding it, and when I had retreated up the road a short way (calling Faro with me—he was intensely interested in the whole procedure) I saw that they had already flown down to it. I never heard of crows' nesting in a steeple before, but I suppose they change their habits when there are no other birds around.

As I walked back to the house I thought, it might be a good omen. I am a little superstitious, and have always thought that birds bring good luck; when I wake up in the morning, look out of the window and see a bird the first thing—especially if it is close up, and looking towards me—I feel as if it is a symbol, and that something good will happen that day. I suppose that it is because when I was about four, and first heard about prayers, I was told that they flew up to heaven. So I thought of them as rather like birds, with wings, flying upward, and when I saw a bird flying after I said my prayers I would think, maybe that was mine.

This one, of course, flew (fell!) downwards from above, the wrong direction for a prayer. Still it made me feel a bit more cheerful as I walked back to the house, even when I remembered that I had forgotten to say any prayer at all.

Evening

He is still the same. I do not know what keeps him alive. I do not dare to try to move him; I have the feeling that the least disturbance, even a loud noise, might snap the thread. So I still have not changed the bed, though it is soiled.