“You haven’t heard?” he asks.
Heard? “I got here in late August, so if it happened after that, then no?”
“You know about the Netherlands’ and the UK’s quarantine, right?”
I nod. Full-on, closed-borders, violators-shot-on-sight quarantine. Italy picked up after—using their experience with COVID to try toget ahead of the superflu—and Germany followed suit.
“Apparently it worked. Their numbers dropped off and word is they’re sending help. I figured I’d head south and see if help actually comes.”
“Who did you hear this from?”
He’s silent for a moment. “Just some people on the road. And there’s graffiti everywhere. It says ‘DCA 6/10.’”
“What’s that mean?”
“I didn’t know at first, but apparently it’s the airport code for Reagan National Airport outside DC. And 6/10 is June tenth, the date the new EU is supposed to arrive.”
So Alexandria must be a stop along the way, or just a random bookmark and it means nothing.
“If it’s the EU coming, wouldn’t it mean October sixth?”
He sighs loudly behind me. “It’sAmericansspraying the graffiti, Jamie.”
I turn to look at him, trying to figure out if this is all a joke. “You really think someone’s coming?”
He shrugs, and when he finally speaks again he sounds defensive. “Better than doing nothing. It’s the end of the world, doyouhave another place to be?”
“Is that why you decided to walk through the wilderness and get caught in a bear trap?” I meant it as a joke but it still sounds like I’m scolding him.
For a moment he looks like he’s about to yell at me. But when he speaks, his voice is even, calm. “I got off the main road because thereisnothing better out there.Nothinghas gotten better. You’ve been herefor how long? You don’t know what it’s like out there.”
“I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant.”
“People out there aren’t like you, and maybe I tried to get off the road so I didn’t have to keep...” He lets out a frustrated sigh and looks away. “Can we change the subject?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” I stir the beans. “Do you want any more pain meds?”
He doesn’t answer at first, then says, “Yes.” As I leave the kitchen he adds quietly, “Please.”
I don’t know what happened to him to make him leave the road, but whatever it was, he doesn’t seem to want to talk about it, so I’ll leave it at that. It’s none of my business. He’s stuck here till he heals, and then he’s gone, back on the road. Then I can come up with other ways to distract myself from the memories and nightmares.
I return to the kitchen and pass the pills to Andrew—adding in two antibiotics—and hand him a glass of water. He downs them and remains quiet while I continue to reheat the beans. Out of the corner of my eye I see the wood piled in the bucket next to the stove is low. Only three more split logs left.
The silence in the room is awkward, and this is the perfect excuse to leave.
“I have to get some more wood.” As soon as I say it, I expect him to make a dirty joke.
But all he says is, “Okay.”
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed.
When I step outside onto the small deck off the dining room, the air is thick with fog. The deck shines with dampness, which means thewood will be damp, too. I’m glad I came out for it now; this way it has some time to dry off in the house.
I make my way across the wet grass to the shed. The wood is still piled high and in two rows along the entire length of the eleven-foot-long shed. I undo one of the bungee cords that keeps the blue tarp across the wood. We didn’t chop trees down for it; this was all a mistake purchase from over a year ago. The winter before the superflu, my mom ordered four cords of wood, not realizing a cord was 128 cubic feet of wood. It used to surround the entire shed, but now I’m down to this final couple of rows.
I pull up part of the tarp to grab a few split logs. When I reach down to grab the bungee cord from the grass to resecure the tarp, I stop.
There, in the grass next to the bungee cord, are four cigarette butts. I swallow hard and look up at the trees surrounding our yard. The fog is still and lifeless. I listen, trying to ignore the thump of blood in my ears, trying to hear a twig snap or shuffling feet or even the rough exhale of smoky breath. But there’s nothing. No birds—all of them probably dead from the superflu—no insects, no people.
