She doesn’t think she’s had another flare of the Violence, but she hasn’t been tempted to venture beyond her room and act like things are back to normal, either. She would give everything in the world to feel Brooklyn’s weight in her lap, but she loves her baby too much to risk it.
According to the internet, things are bad outside and only getting worse. As spring moves into summer, the disease has spread well beyond Florida, popping up in other states, clustered around the South. It’s in other places around the world, Brazil and Vietnam and Nigeria. Someone finally connected the dots and figured out that it’s spread by mosquitoes—hence why it’s in all the hot places—but they don’t yet know what triggers the violent outbursts. Most sufferers have their first attack shortly after being infected, but after that, it’s anyone’s guess. With the return of the same bumbling politicians who botched the Covid response, everything is being mishandled and sometimes even touted as fake news, especially in places where mosquitoes can’t spread the sickness. It turns out that most people still want freedom more than communal safety. The smartest thing to do, for the infected and uninfected alike, is to stay home.
Chelsea’s worry now is that she’ll become symptomatic near her daughters, not that she’ll give them the disease. She orders their food online, has it delivered, and grabs what she needs while the girls are locked in Ella’s room. Once a week or so, they order pizza, which is left on the doorstep. It feels a lot like the early days of Covid, except that no one is posting about dolphins in the Italian canals or the lifting of smog over the LA freeway. Nature is not returning, not in that sweet, touchy-feely way. This is the dog-eat-dog sort of nature, and everyone is still too exhausted from the first pandemic to be altruistic and kind.
Her mother sends obnoxious emails about how the Violence is a hoax, and then how it’s real, then how she’s at a spa in Utah, and lastly how she’s home briefly but will soon be jetting off for Europe. Patricia doesn’t ask any questions about how they’re doing, so Chelsea doesn’t have to lie. She can only assume that with as much money as her mother has, she can buy her way out of any real problems.
Her own money is getting short, but Chelsea hasn’t told Ella that. She has some cash—basically useless now since she can’t leave the house—what little is left in the bank account, and David’s secret emergency credit card. Since her name isn’t on it, she doesn’t care about maxing it out. Every time she clicks the ORDER button online, she waits for that card to be rejected. Their main credit card is already shut down.
Because that’s the thing: As far as she can tell, they really are broke.
Apparently David made some investments, and they didn’t turn out so well. Their savings are drained and their main checking account is only barely afloat because David had amassed so many vacation hours that his work has to keep paying him while he’s on leave, plus the payments are on a two-week delay. Chelsea suspects the most recent paycheck that landed was the last one she can count on. David is still gone, and she has no idea where he is or when he might return. She dug that business card out of the trash and called the number to find out, but all she got was a recorded message about how the system is overburdened and families will be contacted as information is available.
Each long day that passes is one day closer to David coming home.
As she’s yet again trying to guess the password on his laptop, the doorbell rings, and the house goes silent.
Pull back the barricade, go upstairs and lock yourselves in your room, Chelsea texts Ella.
k, her daughter texts back.
The couch and chairs and tables outside her door scrape away one by one, and then footsteps patter up the stairs. Ella texts her, we’re in here.
Chelsea looks in the bathroom mirror. She’s a mess. She’s still showering, but she’s not doing her hair or makeup, and she pulled off her gel nails, leaving a ragged pink mess. Her bruises faded weeks ago and her cuts healed, but she’s grown accustomed to the feeling of not being looked at. She’s in her house uniform, yoga pants and a hoodie. Seeing the cop car in the driveway through her bedroom window, she assumes it’s Huntley. Funny that she could spend her entire life being good, following rules, driving the speed limit, hands at ten and two, and now she’s going to have to lie to a woman-hating cop who’d love nothing more than to destroy her life for sending her abuser to jail.
The doorbell rings again, twice, a little pissy, and she slips her phone in her pocket and hurries to push past the door and out into the living room. Not that having her phone is going to help her—Chad is the police, and he knows all the local officers, and according to the internet dialing 9-1-1 doesn’t always get a response these days. Everyone’s just too busy with too many emergencies.
“Took you a while there, Chel,” Huntley says when she opens the front door. It’s still all busted around the locks that no longer function, but it’s not like she has the money to get it fixed. Ella is supposed to put a kitchen chair under the knob every night. A chair, a chain, and the security system are all that stand between Chelsea’s girls and whatever new horror the world might send their way.
Chelsea steps outside and softly closes the door behind her, hoping he won’t come inside and see the wreck the girls have made of the house and the huge pile of damning junk outside her own bedroom door. The barricade the girls built is pretty pathetic, but they all know that if Chelsea tries to break through it, the girls are supposed to run and not stand around to check out the success of their handiwork.
“Can’t be too careful these days,” she responds.
Huntley smiles big around his cinnamon gum, showing his bright white teeth. “No, you can’t.”
His frown quickly returns, and his sunglasses show twin images of her, looking lean and frazzled. And angry. She tries to make her features settle into the gentle smile she developed to placate David. Not big enough to seem like she harbors thoughts of superiority, not small enough to make her seem ungrateful. Soft. Compliant.
“So I’ve got good news. Took me a long time to find him, but David’s in a county facility. I been keeping an eye on him, making sure they’re taking care of him, and he’s doing fine. In case you’re worried.” He pauses, chewing his gum like cud, waiting for a kowtowing response.
“Of course I’m worried. I’m so glad he’s okay. Thanks for checking up on him. No one else has contacted me—”
“Naw, we’re a little too busy trying to save lives to have little chitchats. But here’s that good news I was talking about. There’s finally a test for the Violence, and a truck full of test kits is gonna show up any day this week, and David’s one of the first people on the list to get swabbed. If he doesn’t have it, I’ll be bringing him home myself.”