Relatives

It might have been Friday when the emergency generators finally gave up and the room lights blinked out. The screens that used to show Alice's vital signs went from flat-line to dark.

Smith couldn't trust time anymore, but he figured it had been at least a day and a half, maybe twice that, since the last nurse's visit.

He did know that Alice had been gone since sunrise, and that evening light now pushed through the vertical blinds. He placed her hand back by her side and stuffed her locket, the only thing she had left, in his pocket.

Much later, he would wish that he'd raided the hospital's vending machines on his way out, but he had other things on his mind. He always had other things on his mind.

At some point, the present had swamped the future in his understanding of the world. There was no future. And so he picked his way through the wheelchairs and gurneys that were abandoned in the hallways. And he noted that the smell of something dead rose and fell, like the breath of the wards, as he made his way out. And he reflected on the fact that the red "Exit" signs and their companion floodlights, must be battery operated, the last, futile glimmer of hope after the generators ran out of fuel.

When Smith broke through the final revolving door, he found himself outside again for the first time in . . . how long? It was that time thing again.

He saw a few cars that had made it to the hospital's parking lot and never left. Someone might jimmy the locks, siphon a reserve of gas, hot-wire ignitions, escape with a plan. Smith didn't know how to do any of those things. He saw the last car was still occupied by a driver who had departed without the benefit of natural causes.

And this was why he walked.

*

They called it "STB," for the Show-Time Bug, because early on some talking head with dark, curly hair, a Boston accent and a name that started with "K" had noted that the first three waves that rocked the Mourning Twenties were looking like mere dress rehearsals for this new, perfected catastrophe. That guy turned out to be one of the first really famous victims. But now, nobody -- meaning Smith -- could remember his name, beyond that initial K.

The symptoms played out over a few weeks, beginning about a month after infection. In a world where nothing held, the signs flashed with clarity. The tongue swelled. Speech slowed and then thickened into some strange new language whose singular message could be translated as "Get back! Run!" Esperanto of the apocalypse.

Breath shortens. Convulsions. Coma. Death. Drugs and apparatus be damned!

Before mass communications collapsed, there was some discussion about how a bug that was so efficient at killing its host could survive. Smith often thought he should have paid more attention to things, to the world, to knowledge. Now he thought it was kind of late for that.

At the same time, some people seemed to have immunity. Smith himself gave up samples of blood, urine and cruder things like he was the bottomless cup at the buffet line. He submitted to a rigorous battery of tests. And his doctors all died before they figured it out.

*

He woke up on Grand Boulevard's grassy median as the sun rose above the strip mall to his right. He was thirsty and a little hungry, and this was the first time he thought back to those vending machines he might have harvested at the hospital.

He was beginning -- just beginning -- to adapt to life without coffee, but he was also grappling with the concept of a personal future beyond the present moment. Right now, it was just a directional thing. Where was he? Where was he going?

He fished through his pockets and came up with his wallet. Driver's license, credit cards, some cash, an old receipt. It all seemed ridiculous, but he didn't throw it beside the road. Probably the driver's license had some sentimental hold.

In his front pocket, he found Alice's heart-shaped locket. He opened it and squinted at the black and white photo of the young woman in the floral print dress who was Alice's oldest relative that she could remember meeting.

It was her great grandmother. Or her grandmother's sister? Grandmother's aunt? He couldn't be sure anymore. There was a story about her. There was a long story that Alice used to tell, but now there was nothing more meaningful left than a lock of hair marking a place in a book, a phantom bio.

*

The dog spoke from a distance, gauged Smith's reaction, then stepped a little closer.

It was a large, black, soft-eyed dog, and here again, Smith felt the slight pressure of his ignorance coming to work. It seemed like everyone but he used to know dog breeds on sight. This was a family kind of dog, good with kids. Maybe a black Lab?

It spoke again, and stepped closer still, offering Smith an epiphany. He hadn't seen a living person since leaving the hospital, and for all he knew, he had become the proverbial last man on earth, although he wasn't ready to grapple with that quite yet.

In any case, he could assume control of the language now without fear of contradiction. He'd already begun talking to himself to break up the monotony of his trek. If he declared this to be "Lab Dog," who could argue?

The dog spoke once more and came close enough to lick the back of his hand. Then he turned back the way he'd come from, calling for Smith to follow, which he did, finding some relief from his indecision.

They came to a house with a back door that opened to a cupboard. There was a pair of empty bowls on the floor, beneath a shelf of canned dog food. Smith filled the water bowl and split a can with Lab Dog. It wasn't so bad, he thought, but the hash would be repeating on him for the rest of the day.

He bundled the cans in a bath towel, slung it over his shoulder and they set off together.

Not even Alice had known that Smith would belt out Gershwin in the shower. He never sang in public, but he had to be sure Alice was out of the house before he'd send "I Got Rhythm" or "Summertime" echoing off the bathroom tiles.

Now there was no need to be shy. He bellowed out the tunes and Lab Dog cocked his ears and howled as they made their way down Grand Blvd. Sometimes, you could almost forget it was the end of the world. Everyone had gone somewhere else to die, leaving behind a quiet city without traffic, like Thanksgiving morning, ahead of the big game.

The girl found them where Grand crossed 33rd Street. She ducked behind a light post that did a poor job of hiding her.

"Hello," he called out and waved. "Don't be afraid."

They circled around each other in the intersection. He was calming, she was wary, and Lab Dog was eager to play. They weren't coming any closer together.

Smith spread his arms and broke into "Your daddy's rich, and your mama's good lookin'…" But that just made the girl edgier.

Finally, he took Alice's locket and looped it over Lab Dog's neck and sent him across the gulf between them. "I've got something for you. He'll let you take it."

She petted the dog and lifted the delicate chain over his head.

"There's a picture inside," he called to her. "You can open it."

Her name was Lucy. She was nine years old, lost and hungry.

"All we have is dog food, but this is a special occasion," Smith said. "I'll bet we can do better than that."

He wound up throwing a trash can through the window of a small grocery and they foraged the half-looted aisles. Maybe things would be okay.

Smith wished that he could share the secrets of starting a fire, how to snare a squirrel, or how to find your way back out of the woods, but he'd never learned those things himself.

"She was pretty," Lucy said, looking at the photo in the heart-shaped locket. "What was her name?"

"Her name was Lucy," Smith said, and he felt his breath catch ever so slightly in his chest.

"I'm Lucy," she protested.

"And so was she," he said, but his tongue was losing its discipline. He had to speak with great precision to be understood. "Sit over there with Lab Dog, and I'll tell you her amazing story."