Isolation (Book 2): Going Out Page 18

  “I'm sorry, sweetie,” he said quietly. “He didn't make it.”

  His daughter began to cry, further twisting his heart; they hadn't had long to talk to Mack before he fell unconscious and never woke up, but it had been long enough to come to like the man. For Tallie especially, bedridden and bored out of her mind, having someone else to talk to had made Mack an instant friend.

  Nick made his way over to her bed and gathered her up in his arms, spending a few minutes comforting her and grieving together. Then he reluctantly stood. “I need to take Mack outside, and talk to Gen or the Norsons about letting his family know he's gone. We'll need to arrange a funeral for him.”

  That set Tallie to sniffling again.

  He spent a few minutes cleaning Mack's face and trying to make him look as presentable as possible. He wasn't sure exactly what morticians did to make bodies look acceptable to grieving loved ones, aside from some sort of makeup, he supposed. And formaldehyde?

  Anyway, the best he could do was wipe away the blood and sweat and try to arrange the man's hair. Then he laboriously got Mack moved onto the sled, wrapped him in the blanket again, and dragged him outside.

  He'd expected to have to spend a few minutes waving at the house to get someone's attention, since even Billy usually didn't spend too much time looking out windows. But apparently the sight of him dragging Mack out of the shed was enough to draw the family's attention; when he straightened from the sled and turned towards the house he saw the door opening and all four of its residents, even Billy, coming out to stand solemnly on the porch.

  Winn had her hands to her mouth, eyes filled with tears. “Is he...” she whispered tremulously.

  Nick looked away. “I'm sorry.”

  She sobbed and buried her face in her husband's arm, while he looked stricken with grief. Gen put a comforting arm around the older woman's shoulders, and Billy sat down on the top step of the porch and began to cry.

  After a minute or two of grieving, Winn reluctantly pulled away and started down the steps. “I'll go tell his family,” she said, voice heavy. “Can you be ready to take him to the cemetery? It's a few miles away.”

  Nick wasn't thrilled by the prospect of dragging the sled that distance, but he nodded; it was the least he could do under the circumstances.

  While she was gone, Bruce and Gen cautiously moved as close as they could to solemnly view Mack's body, saying their silent goodbyes. Nick headed back inside to comfort Tallie and give them some privacy, the minutes dragging by as he waited to find out what was needed of him.

  While he waited Gen came around with some lunch for everyone, and they ate together separated by their respective boundaries. There was little conversation, the mood somber, but it was nice to be around people at the moment.

  Finally, Winn returned with Mr. and Mrs. Gerson walking with her. Nick retreated back into the shed while the couple viewed their son, although he could hear the heart-wrenching sounds of their grief.

  “I hate Zolos, Daddy,” Tallie said, cuddling closer to him with tears glistening on her cheeks. “It's not fair that Mack had to die.”

  “It's not,” he agreed heavily. “But that's how the world is, and we just have to do our best.”

  “Is Mommy going to get sick?” she said in a tiny voice, as if sharing a fear she'd harbored for a long time.

  Nick hugged her tighter. “Of course not, sweetie. She's safe in the quarantine camp, and she'll be able to leave in just a bit more than a week. As soon as she gets out she's going to come straight to the apartment, where she'll see my note and come find us.”

  She seemed to accept that, and looked a bit comforted. They sat for a few more minutes until he heard Mrs. Gerson calling for him, then he gently disentangled himself from his daughter, kissed her forehead, and headed back outside.

  Mack's parents looked like they'd aged years since he'd seen them last, shoulders slumped and eyes red. Mr. Gerson cleared his throat as Nick approached, never tearing his eyes off his son. “I wonder if we could ask you for one last favor, Mr. Statton.”

  “Of course.”

  The older man took a shuddering breath. “We've decided to bury our son in our yard, in the back under an apple tree he helped us plant when he was a boy. We were wondering if you'd be willing to dig the grave while we gather our friends and family for the funeral, then see him respectfully buried after the service.”

  “I would be honored to.” Nick shifted slightly. “I'm sorry for your loss. I didn't get to know Mack for long, but long enough to know he was a good man.”

  Mr. Gerson's shoulders shook violently, as if he was about to break down into tears again, and he turned away hastily. Mrs. Gerson put an arm around her husband, turning back to look at Nick. “Thank you, Mr. Statton. It was a long shot that he'd pull through this, but at least you were able to make his final hours more comfortable. We won't forget that.”

  He nodded, ducking to grab the sled's ropes. “I'll take him home and get started on the grave.”

  After a moment's pause, he dropped the ropes again and ducked into the shed. Not only to let Tallie know where he was going, but also to retrieve the shovel he'd used to dig their latrine pit, since it was already contaminated. “Be right back, sweetie,” he said. “Need anything before I go?”

  She shook her head. “I think I'll take a nap. It was hard to sleep last night because I was so scared for Mack.”

  He nodded in agreement; he'd been up the entire time caring for the young man, and he'd seen how often his daughter had been awake. “See you soon.”

  Outside, he made sure Ricky would be okay on his own, and got Gen to agree to keep an eye on the kids while he was gone. The Norsons were going to the funeral, but they all agreed it would be safer for Billy if he and his mom stayed home, to reduce the chance of exposure to Zolos. And she'd be able to watch the kids while the rest of the adults were gone.

  With all the preparations made, it was time to take Mack home.

  For a moment Nick struggled to figure out how to take the shovel with him, since it didn't seem respectful to deposit it on the sled with the body. Especially not with the young man's parents right there. Finally, he rigged up a way to wedge the shovel through the towing rope and use it as a sort of push bar, which actually made moving the sled easier.

  Mr. Gerson went with him to point him to where he wanted the grave dug, although he kept a cautious distance. Meanwhile his wife and Winn hopped in her car and drove away, presumably to inform friends and family of their loss and invite them to the funeral.

  The grave site turned out to be a lovely spot, in one corner of the backyard with the apple tree spreading overhead and a carefully tended herb garden nearby. Mick's dad directed him to a specific spot, in view of the house but closer to the fence, and Nick got to work digging.

  It wouldn't be the first time he'd dug a grave, since he'd buried that thug who'd broken into his apartment and infected him with Zolos. This time, however, he was determined to dig a much deeper hole with neat, clean sides. Something that would look nice for the funeral and comfort the parents about their son's final resting place.

  That was easier said than done, not least because the nearby apple tree had a few roots he had to dig around. He worked for hours, sweating buckets in the humid air, as a crowd of mourners gathered an overly cautious distance away, a few occasionally approaching slightly closer to pay their respects to Mack, where Nick had taken him off the sled and tried to arrange him respectfully on the lawn.

  It was hard not to feel self-conscious under so many eyes, especially since he hadn't really properly groomed himself for a while now. Some tasks were a lot more of a hassle without power, and with so many more pressing worries things like shaving, trimming his hair, or any bathing more thorough than a quick wipe-down with a wet cloth and soap had taken a backseat.

  At least he could content himself that even the people who were looking at him weren't really looking at him, they were looking at the grave he was digging for their l
oved one. He was just the guy with the shovel.

  Although from the peeks he snuck at the crowd, mostly curious about the residents of Stanberry who might be his new neighbors if they ended up staying, he noticed that not all the well-wishers looked completely, ah, well-wishy.

  There was a group of six men, closer to the front of the property, who were visibly armed and obviously together on their own. And while most were trying to act properly sympathetic to the other mourners filling the yard, it was impossible not to notice the stink eye they gave Nick every time they looked his way.

  One medium-height guy at the front of that group was even glaring in disgust at the Gersons, at least when none of the nine surviving members of the family were looking his way.

  Nick could only assume they hadn't approved of Mack going out scavenging, and especially not him bringing Zolos back with him. Which meant they likely didn't approve of Nick as an obvious carrier; he just hoped they wouldn't cause trouble for the Norsons over it.

  Although now that he was looking for it, he noticed that old Scowly over there was throwing similarly disgusted looks at Bruce and Winn, who were standing close by the Gersons offering their sympathy and support.

  Scrud.

  Mr. Gerson finally came over to talk to Nick. “Sorry to make you dig all on your own,” he said in a tone of commiseration, tossing a full water bottle into the grave. “It's a big job, I know.”

  “It'd be an easier one of I was in better shape and had more practice with a shovel,” he replied with a rueful smile, gratefully straightening from the work to mop at his streaming forehead with a sodden sleeve. Then he grabbed the water bottle and began chugging it eagerly.

  “Honestly, you're doing great,” the older man said, struggling to smile back wanly with features still pinched in deep grief. “If you don't mind, we're going to begin the service while you finish up. People are starting to get antsy about lingering this close to Zolos for so long.”

  “Of course,” Nick said, setting aside the empty water bottle and reaching for his shovel again. “Don't worry, I'll be done soon.”

  “Thanks again.” Mr. Gerson made his way back to his family and friends, and over the scraping sounds of the shovel Nick heard him begin a solemn, heartfelt service.

  He tried to work a bit more quietly after that, although there was only so much he could do there.

  In spite of his best efforts, he still wasn't done by the time the funeral was over. The gathered friends and family offered their final condolences and began drifting away, heading back to the safety of their homes, until finally only the Gersons, the Norsons, and a handful of others remained.

  Including, Nick couldn't help but notice, the six armed men near the front fence. Something about their posture and the dark glances they kept shooting his way made a sneaking suspicion rise in him, and he felt a slow anger churning in his gut as he continued to dig.

  Were those SOBs here to kick him and his children out of town, but they were sitting around waiting for him to finish burying their friend first? What kind of inconsiderate, cowardly . . .

  He took a breath and forced himself to calm down before he did something stupid. Even if these men had come to send him packing, getting mad about it wasn't going to help the situation. Better if he kept his cool and spoke to them rationally, tried to get them to see reason. Or at least played on their sympathies with his two young children, and reminded them that he'd already helped out by caring for Mack, even if the poor man hadn't pulled through.

  Still, there was no time like the present to address a problem. Nick carefully planted the shovel in the pile of dirt, then made his way a cautious distance towards the loitering group. He stopped over twenty feet away, but even so he noticed a few of them shying back nervously.

  “I'm sorry for your loss,” he called solemnly. “I didn't get to know Mack for long, but from what I saw he was a good man.”

  The group shifted uncomfortably. Or at least, all of them but one. “If he was so great, he wouldn't have been out looting and come back to threaten his family and the rest of the town with Zolos,” Scowly called back.

  A taller man at the first one's side, dressed more formally and with a bearing to match, cursed quietly to himself and shot a half apologetic, half annoyed glance towards the Gersons to see if any of them had heard that; it seemed impossible they hadn't, and he shook his head irritably. “Come on, Darrel,” he reproached. “Our friends just suffered a tragedy.”

  Darrel, huh? Looked like this was the guy Gen had mentioned a few days ago; he certainly seemed like a jerk.

  As evidenced by the man's harsh reply. “A tragedy we could end up suffering right along with them, thanks to Mack's carelessness.” He pointed an accusing finger at Nick. “Along with this guy. He's why we're here, isn't he? Him and the Norsons.” He turned his glare on Bruce and Winn as he continued. “Funny that they'd say all that stuff about not taking any chances, then invite three carriers to live in their backyard. Seems a bit hypocritical.”

  Bruce stepped forward, expression darkening. “We're outside the border you patrol, and they're friends of Gen and my grandson. He's got two young children . . . I won't apologize for helping them.”

  Nick appreciated the man's support, but he wasn't going to hide behind the Norsons if these guys meant to cause trouble. “You say you're here for me,” he called as amiably as he could. “This Stanberry's welcome party?”

  “Quite the contrary, I'm afraid,” the more formal taller man said, at least having the grace to sound apologetic. “We're here to ask you to leave.”

  “After I finish burying Mack Gerson?” Nick demanded sarcastically, then silently cursed himself; he'd catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. Besides, the Gersons deserved better than to be dragged into this while grieving their son.

  But the formal man simply nodded. “If you would, we'd appreciate it.” By his tone and expression he either didn't understand sarcasm, or thought everyone around him was too stupid to use it so he erred on the side of literality.

  “Well of course I will, it's the least I can do after what the Norsons and the Gersons and the rest of Stanberry have done for me and my eight-year-old son and bedridden five-year-old daughter,” Nick said in a conciliatory tone. “But I'm hoping I can convince you not to run us out of town. Sure, me and my daughter have been exposed to Zolos, but that doesn't have to be a problem. It could even be a benefit.”

  “How is you bringing a deadly virus to our town possibly a benefit?” a man at the back of the group demanded.

  That was, unfortunately, a good question. Nick wracked his brain to think of an answer. “Because I'm immune!” he said, thinking fast. “I don't have to be afraid of getting sick anymore, so I can do things you can't.”

  The group didn't seem to be buying it, but on the other hand nobody was shouting for a rail to run him out of town, or more likely using their guns to make sure he left from a distance. That was a start, so he continued hastily. “I was able to care for Mack when he came down with it, and I could care for others who need help.”

  “The idea is to avoid anyone needing care in the first place,” Darrel said, voice heavy with sarcasm.

  “Well that's just one way I can help. For instance, supplies in Stanberry aren't going to last forever, if they're not already running out. I could go out and find more, head to federal relief stockpiles as a representative of the town and convince them to give us what we need. I've heard that there's plenty of surplus, since . . .” he trailed off, trying to think of a delicate way to say it, but there was none, “since so many people have died. We're not suffering a shortage, so there's resources out there that can help this town.”

  The formal man who seemed to be the leader looked more dubious than thoughtful. “Why would we want a Zolos carrier infecting any food we got?”

  “In a few weeks I'll be safe,” Nick said. “At least as safe as anyone can be. But I could wear a hazmat suit, carefully decontaminate myself, and decontaminate any s
upplies I bring back. You could even wear hazmat suits and do it on your end as well, just to be completely safe.”

  A few of the men were rubbing their chins thoughtfully. “You know, the same holds true for contaminated supplies, Hank,” Darrel suggested in a musing tone. “If we give them a few weeks, maybe sterilize their exteriors to be safe, then we'd be able to use them.”

  “That's “Mayor Darby” when we're on official business,” the formal man, apparently Stanberry's Mayor, said sharply. Darrel just stared back at him until he sighed in defeat. “Okay, so contaminated supplies might eventually be usable. What're you thinking here, Darrel?”

  The surly man shrugged. “I'm thinking that it might not be the worst thing having someone immune to Zolos helping us out. In fact, it could be a blessing in disguise. He could go to places hit by the virus, grab stuff other people won't touch, and come deposit it here in storage until it's safe for us to use.”

  The Mayor rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That's not the worst idea, actually. All those potentially infected refugees we keep turning away, the ones who've started an impromptu quarantine camp right outside of town, need to be fed. We can support them for now, but that's going to change awfully quick. Especially since more keep coming.”

  “Exactly, Mayor Darby!” Darrel said, enthusiastically slapping the taller man's back. “Having someone who can go out and make sure we have the resources we need will not only help us, but those poor souls we have to keep turning away. It might mean life or death before long.”

  Nick wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. “Scavenging? No need for that when there's federal relief stockpiles, with workers of their own out scavenging to redistribute to towns just like this one.”

  Darby seemed to be getting into the spirit of his buddy's suggestion. “The nearest stockpile's a ways away, and anyway the relief workers there might not be so keen to “redistribute” their supplies,” he argued. “And even if they are, they might only do it on their terms. I'd rather not be bound by some draconian relief policies just to get what we need, when there's closer and more certain ways of getting supplies.”