Infected

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley — not literal ones, anyway. Really, it serves them right. The hoarding had been going on for decades by the time the first actual fire streaked the sky. The Earth had been plenty scorched already. The Draconta are convinced this latest evolution is final proof that our Mother is indeed a conscious creature, Herself unleashing one final defense against the virus that humanity proved to be.

If that’s the case, She certainly has a sense of humor.

I’ll be one of them, someday, if I’m not killed beforehand. It hasn’t manifested physically yet; the whites of my eyes maintain their natural clarity, not the dull yellow that takes over in the early days. But I can feel it: The apathy is starting to settle in, ever so insidiously. Just last week — month? — I listened to the incessant prattling of my sister as she went on and on about my nephew’s declaration that he was a Draconta.

“Aisha? Are you even listening to me?” Adelpha prodded. I hadn’t been.

“Will you please talk to him? He used to listen to you. He might still,” she pleaded.

I realized in that moment that I didn’t recall how to talk to people, not really, not even to my own family. I cerebrally understood that a young boy swearing himself to the Draconta was far from some frivolous or petty thing — it’s a lifelong commitment that can’t be unmade. Emotionally, though? I couldn’t make myself care. The Draconta are a religious sect that emerged shortly after the dragons. Their mantra is simple, as the most potent ones often are: Να παρατηρείς, να τεκμηριώσει, να καίω. It’s the old language, illegal to even whisper: To observe, to document, to burn. In Greek. The language of the philosophers. The ones whose words burned. Like so many things today, the Draconta choose a literal interpretation. They take oaths to observe this world, to document this chapter of history, and, once their work is done, to burn alive. Their ashes are then ground into ink, to be used for the next generation’s depictions. Some say it’s really spells they dedicate their lives to writing, but if that was true, surely they would’ve found one to break the curse.

If I’m honest? Given that so many of us are doomed to an illiterate future, the whole point feels a little moot. A chill should go down my ever-more-flexible spine at the thought, but like emotions, external temperatures feel just out of reach. After all, they — we — are not mere reptiles, but dragons. Fire is within us. The outside elements are of no concern.

At first, the infections were mostly inconvenient. For most people, it was a glorified rash, sometimes with a headache worse than your worst hangover and tearing abdominal pain. Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, they called it, caused by a tick now long extinct. When it jumped to the lizards, our newest Colorado fauna as Mother grew hotter and dryer, scientists started warning of serratia. But it was only infecting the very young and the very old, the vulnerable. With so much drought, fire, famine… Well, nobody had the capacity to care. Until the metamorphoses started. Then death felt like a stroke of good luck. A lot of people who lost loved ones were secretly relieved, even the mothers.

But I wasn’t one of them. When I lost my little Aggie, my whole being imploded on itself in an anguish I hadn’t previously known. So much blood, so much death where there was supposed to be life. It hadn’t been a difficult pregnancy until the moment it ended so violently. Despite everything, I viscerally wanted to be a mother. Griffin didn’t want to be a father. I made my choice and never looked back — neither did he. I wonder about Griffin some days, wonder if he, like me, is cursed. Wonder if it had all been for naught.

Now all I had left was to be a good aunt to Conroy. He’d grown so quiet in his teenage years, distant. It used to worry me — and my worry paled in comparison to my sister’s — but since the first, scaly rash broke out across my midriff, I can increasingly relate to cold and distant. Still, I knew Adelpha, and it was cruel that I hadn’t called since our last conversation about the Dragonta. Reluctantly, I dragged myself from my oversized reading chair and shuffled across the cluttered living room to where my phone was sitting on its charger.

It rang only once before Adelpha’s neurotic voice answered.

“I’ve been worried sick!” she screeched without salutation.

“Well hello to you, too,” I chided gently. It was taking more and more effort to infuse my own words with emotion, but I was trying. “I was calling to check in on Conroy.”

There was a heavy silence on the other end of the line, uncharacteristic of my usually chatterbox younger sister.

“Aisha, I don’t know how to reach him anymore. The other day, I put him to bed, and about an hour later I smelled something burning when I passed his room. I nudged open the door ajar and there he was, scribbling furiously into his journal by candlelight and muttering the same gibberish over and over again,” she said, without a single breath between words.

She didn’t have to say it; we both knew it wasn’t gibberish. It was Greek.

“I’m coming over,” I heard myself say, with an instant pang of regret washing over me. The last thing I wanted to do was leave my nest of a home to trek across town. Why did I say that? But it was too late. Adelpha let out a sigh of relief that meant there was no backing out now.

“Let me just get dressed. I’ll see you in about a half hour.” I practically choked the words out.

“Oh, thank you, Aisha! He may not say it, but he’ll be thrilled to see you, I’m sure,” she squealed in palpable delight.

I hung up the phone and closed my eyes, collecting the energy to venture outside. On the other side of my window, I could hear the wind whipping particularly harshly. Begrudgingly, I squinted open one eye and looked toward it. My tattered, burnt-orange curtain matched the outdoor hues. I had to admit, even with the blowing dirt staining the air and no doubt stinging my eyes and skin the moment I left home, the smoke tinted the light into a color spectrum that was objectively beautiful. I couldn’t see far into the horizon, of course, just the streaks of sunlight bent through the smoke’s prism into brilliant shades of yellow, orange and red.

And suddenly, as if meant to break the spell of my momentary meditation, a piercing call cracks the sky itself and I feel my heartbeat frazzle. One of them is close. If I was to keep my promise to Adelpha, I’d need to hurry. It wouldn’t be safe here for long.

I quickly rummaged through the top drawer of my dresser for a scarf to capture my long blond braid and protect my face. It was scorching hot outside — 106 degrees, according to the weather app on my phone — but I opted for long sleeves and pants, both linen. Even in my condition, I’m not so close to my fate that I can’t feel the punishment of the wind and the debris it wields.

Another dragon call sends trembles through the walls of my little apartment and I can feel the floorboards under my feet quake a bit. I shudder, too. I take one more moment, foolishly, before working up the courage to turn the doorknob. I visualize my path: slam the door quickly closed behind me as soon as I can, rush down the rickety staircase to the street and sprint to my old beater, the 2006 Mercury Grand Marquis that I affectionately called my Miracle. Twenty years old, and she’s still running.

“I can do this,” I whisper to myself. Hopefully all before getting cooked by the flying demon-lizard that’s clearly circling the area.

Before I even fully turn the doorknob, the old wooden plank — the excuse of a front door — flies open, practically ripping from its hinges. Immediately, I’m blinded by the rush of dirt and sand that lambasts my face, rushing past me into the entry of my apartment. For a second, I grumble to myself about the amount of sweeping I’ll have to do later before the adrenaline takes over my body.

I’m lunging on the other side of my door, in a battle of strength against the wind to get my door closed. Finally, I hear the faint sound of a latch amid the howling, and I immediately turn to face the staircase. I can feel a short sense of flight with every step downward, the air floating me for just a moment — slowing me down during a time that I absolutely do not have time to spare. I’m three-quarters of the way down the stairs when I see it: the fire. Like the olden days, when people watched lightning, hoping it didn’t make contact with the Earth, I felt relief when it seemed the creature’s breath didn’t start an on-ground blaze. This time.

There was no time to stare in amazement. When my weathered sneaker hits the ground, it becomes a launching point for my dead run. I don’t look around; I don’t acknowledge the grime piling on the frontside of my body as I lurch closer toward the Miracle; I just keep moving.

I can hear its flapping wings now. I can smell its acidic breath, lingering too close in the sticky, hot air. But I can’t see anything, not really, among the mess of Earth.

I run.

And there it was — the moment fire meets Earth, and the crack that stops time. Perhaps I’ll die before becoming one of them after all, I think. But then there was another voice: Conroy’s, almost like the occultists had taught him telepathy. “Go on, Aunt Aisha, run to me. Or don’t. Either way, we’ll both burn.”