“I went back home, meaning to tell them all to go inside. Not for any clear reason. Just some . . . vague apprehension. They were right where I left them, staring up at the smoke. They were standing there together in the snow. It had begun to snow, you see. Big goosefeather flakes of ash. Falling in everyone’s hair. Falling in the birthday cake.
“A couple weeks later, Nick woke Sarah and me up to show us the stripe across his wrist. He didn’t even ask what it was. He already knew. I found my first mark later that afternoon. Within four days we were all scrawled with Dragonscale . . . all of us except Sarah.”
8
“All except Sarah?” Harper asked.
“Story for another night, I think.”
“You must miss her very much.”
His voice had tailed off and he stared across the room, into the open furnace, with blank, tranced eyes. He roused himself slowly, looked around, and smiled. “She’s still with me.”
Harper’s pulse whumped in her throat. “What?”
“I talk to her almost every day.” He narrowed his eyes to slits, peering intently into the flickering gloom, as if picturing her somewhere over there on the other side of the shed. “I can always imagine just what she’d say to take the piss out of me. When I ask myself a question, it’s her voice that answers. We are taught to think of personality as a singular, private possession. All the ideas and beliefs and attitudes that make you you—we are raised to believe them a set of files stored in the lockbox of the brain. Most people have no idea how much of themselves they store off-site. Your personality is not just a matter of what you know about yourself, but what others know about you. You are one person with your mother, and another with your lover, and yet another with your child. Those other people create you—finish you—as much as you create you. When you’re gone, the ones you’ve left behind get to keep the same part of you they always had.”
She pursed her lips, exhaled a whistling breath. He was talking about memories, not ghosts.
His gaze drifted back to the open hatch in the side of the furnace, and she thought, Ask him about what you saw—ask him about the face. Some instinct for caution prevented her. She thought if she pressed him now, he would play dumb, pretend he didn’t know what she was talking about. And there were, after all, other, more important matters to press him on.
“You hardly touched your coffee,” she said. “It’s gone cold.”
“That is easily remedied,” he said, and lifted his tin mug in his left hand.
The gold hieroglyphics marking his Dragonscale brightened and flashed. His hand became a chalice of flame. He rotated the mug slowly in his fingers and the brew within began to steam.
“I wish there was a way to treat you for being such a shameless attention hog,” she said.
“What, you think I’m showing off? This is nothing. Yesterday, stuck in my bed, dying as much from boredom as from my staved-in chest, I taught myself to fart smoke rings in three different colors. Now that was impressive.”
“I’m glad someone is having fun with the end of the world.”
“What makes you think the world is ending?” He sounded genuinely surprised.
“Sure looks like the end of the world to me. Fifteen million people are infected. Maine is like Mordor now—a belt of ash and poison a hundred miles wide. Southern California is even worse. Last I heard, SoCal was on fire from Escondido to Santa Maria.”
“Shit. I knew I shouldn’t have put off going to Universal Studios.”
“What part of the end of the world is funny to you?”
“All of it. Especially the arrogant notion that the world will end just because humans might not make it through this century. We were never properly grateful for making it through the last century, as far as I’m concerned. Humanity is worse than flies. If even one dried nugget of offal survives the flames, we’ll be swarming all over it. Fighting about who owns it and selling the most fragrant chunks to the wealthy and the gullible. You’re afraid it’s the End Times because we’re surrounded by death and ruin. Nurse Willowes, don’t you know? Death and ruin is man’s preferred ecosystem. Did you ever read about the bacterium that thrives in volcanoes, right on the edge of boiling rock? That’s us. Humanity is a germ that thrives on the very edge of catastrophe.”
“Who do you make these speeches to when I’m not around?”
He barked with laughter, then hunched over and grimaced. “The idea of dying while laughing is more romantic in concept than reality.”
She turned to face him, and crossed her legs like one preparing to meditate. “Teach me to do what you can do.”
“What? No. I can’t. It’s no good asking me how I do it. I don’t understand it myself. I can’t teach you because there’s nothing to teach.”
“God, you’re a terrible liar.”
He put his bowl of oatmeal on the floor. “That was dreadful. Like eating paste. I would’ve been better scraping bugs off the bottom of rocks. What do you have in that bag of yours for painkillers? I need something powerful to knock me out. I haven’t slept longer than ten minutes at a time in the last three days.”
She rose and dug through the cloth shopping bag on the floor. She returned with two slippery plastic pouches of Advil. “All I can spare for you. Wait at least six hours before you take the second—”
“What in the name of the holy pussydrill is this?” he cried. “Advil? Just Advil? You’re not a nurse. You’re a third-world torturer.”
“I’m desperate is what I am, Mr. Rookwood. See that little grocery bag? There’s a first aid kit in there. It contains over half of all the medical supplies I have to look after a hundred and fifty people, including an elderly coma patient with a quarter-inch hole in his skull.”
He gave her a haggard, exhausted look. “You need provisions.”
“You have no idea. Plaster. Morphine. Antibiotics. A shitload of second-skin burn pads. Antihistamines. Heart-start paddles. Norma Heald has rheumatoid arthritis and on a cold morn ing can hardly open her hands. She needs Plaquenil. Michael is diabetic and ten days from running out of insulin. Nelson Heinrich has high blood pressure and—”
“Yes, yes, all right. I get the idea. Someone needs to rob a drugstore.”
“Someone needs to rob an ambulance.”
“Yes, I suppose that would do, wouldn’t it?” He gingerly touched his side. “I’ll need four or five days before I’m ready. No, better make it a week. I’m too sore and tired to do what needs doing right now.”
“You won’t be ready to go anywhere for two to four weeks. I doubt you could walk as far as the chapel, in your current state.”
“Oh, I’m not going. I’ll send my Phoenix. Now listen. There’s a house—”
“What does that mean, send a phoenix?” As she spoke, Harper remembered the Marlboro Man’s pal Marty, half babbling: This giant fuckin’ bird of flame, thirty feet from wing tip to wing tip, dive-bombed ’em. It dived so close the sandbags caught fire!
“Oh, another of my little goofs. A bit of fireworks to impress the natives and fortunately something I can manage from long range. You and a few reliable hands will want to find a side street well away from camp. Verdun Avenue would be fine, that’s across from the graveyard, and I happen to know number ten is empty. Park in the driveway there and—”
“How do you know number ten is empty?”
“Sarah and I used to live there. One week from tonight, I want you to call 911. Use a cell phone, I think Ben held on to a collection of them. Tell emergency services your dear old dad is having a heart attack. When they ask, promise them you don’t have Dragonscale. Tell them you need an ambulance and wait.”
“They won’t send an ambulance without a police escort.”
“Yes, but don’t worry about that. That’s what the Phoenix is for—my little light show. When they pull up out front, I’ll see that everyone is chased away and you can scarper with all the supplies you need. I wish you could simply drive off with the ambulance, but—”
“It’ll have LoJack. Or some other way to trace it.”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t want anyone hurt. The people in the ambulance are risking their lives to take care of others.”