Between Life and Death Read online

“What’s the rest then? What happened to the in-betweeners?” he coaxes.

  I eye him, but I see nothing except an overheated guy who’s genuinely interested. If it weren’t so hot, he’d probably be excited. And the story laid out on the papers is exciting, full of challenges, but also possibilities. Just the idea of being able to walk someplace without a weapon, to not have to step over a deader decayed into the ground yet still animate, to be able to wake up to an alarm clock, drink coffee and have a hot shower and think only of my day ahead, is a dream.

  And getting back Emily and any other new in-betweener is the ultimate dream to those of us left with our humanity intact. It would be like snatching victory from a gloating winner. And to be able to clear our own systems of nanites? Oh, yes, we all want that. Those things are all possible now.

  Maybe.

  “The first in-betweener they tested died within hours, but there was no return of any coherence or anything. You can read for yourself, but that one sounds like it was a mess, and had probably been an in-betweener for a long while. Basically, it went quiet after a while and then unconscious and then dead again.”

  “Emily won’t be like that, Veronica. I know that’s what you’re worried about. She’s in good shape. What about the other one?” he asks.

  “That one lasted for a few days according to the letter, but they couldn’t watch it the whole time, because Violet’s patrols aren’t all day, every day. They don’t know if it was coherent, but it did become verbal on the second day. It didn’t make sense but still, verbal is a big thing. But, in the end, it died as well. They tested tissue from both of the in-betweeners afterward and they were both clear of nanites except the new ones.”

  Matt nods while I speak, not the kind of nod that confers a yes or any particular agreement, but one that does convey that he understands the implications of what I’m saying. I’ve not seen any huge number of fresh in-betweeners like some of the others have, but I’ve only seen two that were verbal in the sense that they used words. Both of them I was close to though, so the chances are high that verbal in-betweeners are far more common than we might think. It’s just not likely they stay that way for long. We keep Emily fed and that’s why she’s stayed like she is.

  “So, where’s the other shoe? Or is that the other shoe? It works but it kills them? If that’s all it does, then I can do that much with a rifle. And I can do it quicker my way,” he says.

  “Ah, yes. Well, the problem is that they don’t have fresh test subjects. Without telling that crazy doctor, it’s not like they can go collect them. So, they want us to test it. Princeton knows I have test subjects. Or, rather, that I did.”

  “Well, then we’re good. You’ve got your freaks still in the cage—not Emily, of course—so we’ll start with them,” he says, as if the whole question is settled.

  “And if it cures them?” I ask.

  Matt winces, finally understanding what I’m saying. Our captive in-betweeners were all a part of a gang that took Gloria, did terrible things to her, even going so far as to cut out part of her tongue. We got her back, but what she went through to get back to us is a story I can never unhear. Her broken thumbs are back in their joints, but she’s still recovering and will likely always be recovering from what happened to her. And now, I may have the means to cure her attackers and make them human again. Alive and human.

  I wait for him to answer, but I already know what I’ll do if it works on them.

  He nods, as if he can hear my thoughts, or as if he’s come to a rather grim solution of his own. His mouth is drawn into a thin, hard line when he says, “Once you’re done with them, I’ll kill them. And that way, if it works, they’ll understand why they’re dying. For Gloria.”

  I return the nod, because that was my thought as well. I can only hope Gloria will be okay with this decision.

  Matt looks out the open back door as a hint of breeze curls into the shady spot where we sit. It’s weak, barely perceptible, but it feels glorious against my sweaty face. The way his nose lifts to show his neck tells me that he feels the same. Then his eyes pop open and he asks, “What about the people who left the package? Where are they?”

  I smooth the envelope at my side with my palm, sending luck their way in my thoughts. “It was another group escaping the hospital, heading toward the coast. The islands off the coast maybe. They came a long way out of their way to deliver it for us.”

  Matt makes a noise, part admiration and part amazement. “Wow. I’m not sure I would have done that.”

  I give him a half-hearted smack on the arm and say, “Yes, you would have. This is our hope for a future. It’s everyone’s hope. You would have done that and more.”

  Matt turns his face back to the open door, his eyes once again roaming the waist-high weeds for any hint of movement. After a moment, he says, “Yeah. I suppose anyone would. We need the world back.”

  Thirteen Weeks Ago - Thumbs Up

  Gloria moves the little plastic letters around on the floor in quick, agitated jerks. The braces on her hands keep her thumbs immobile, but her fingers are quick with the plastic letters scattered all around her. We’ve got buckets of these things, the kind that have magnets on the back. We never collected any huge number of them, only enough for the kids, but Matt and Gregory went on a run and gathered every one they could find just for Gloria after we got her back.

  Even with her quick motions, conversations are slow. Eventually, she gets her sentiments arranged across the concrete floor.

  Need thumbs.

  Can’t write.

  Take off braces now.

  She makes the swirl of a question mark at the end of her last line and then holds up her hands in case we don’t get it, or maybe it’s for emphasis. A garbled sound comes out of her that I don’t understand, but it sounds urgent and frustrated to me.

  Savannah bends and takes one of Gloria’s raised hands, gently holding it between both of hers. Something inside Savannah has changed since she’s been caring for Gloria. She’s grown patient and understanding, with a new gentleness in her. Maybe it’s a woman thing, some understanding between them that I don’t share because I wasn’t a grown up before the world was destroyed. As a thirteen year old, I’d only just gotten permission to wear lip gloss and never had a real kiss, so I definitely wasn’t in any way grown.

  But I’m seventeen now and I know full well what happened to Gloria and I sort of resent being excluded from this woman thing they have going. It’s petty and I hate that I feel that way, but there it is. If I don’t count Emily, then I’m the only female not included in their club.

  “Gloria, you dislocated both of your thumbs to get out of those handcuffs and only popped one of them back into joint. Yes, they’re both back where they should be, but if you want them to be strong when this is all over, then you’ll need to put up with the inconvenience for a while longer.”

  In response Gloria shakes her head, makes another garbled noise and then points with her eyes toward a pen on the floor next to a pad of paper. I think the word she’s trying to say is, “Write.”

  “I get it,” Savannah says in her most soothing tones. “I do. But try to reserve that for when the letters really won’t do it for you. You need to rest your hands.”

  Gloria rolls her eyes very expressively and says something that sounds like “gourd” but probably means bored. Dealing with Emily, I’ve become quite adept at deciphering garbled speech, but unlike Emily, I have little hope that Gloria’s is going to get better. She’s missing the end of her tongue and there’s a healed over cut on the remains that further hinders her speech, and even her eating and drinking to some extent.

  She has to be so careful doing things that just came naturally before or else she chokes. Apparently, those men had done this before, because Gloria wrote that they heated up a cut section of tin can in a fire and then held it against her tongue to stop the bleeding. She has little burn scars around her lips from their sadistic attentions.

  “More books?�
� Savannah asks.

  In response, Gloria pushes the pile of books beside her pallet over with a rough shove, then winces at the pressure on her braced thumb.

  “See? You’re not ready to start moving your hands freely. It’s only been a few weeks. Give it time. Your right hand will be better before your left, maybe another week, but you need to let it heal. You need to let all of you heal,” Savannah says.

  Gloria huffs and leans back on the pile of pillows, not satisfied, but seeming to give in. Her bruises have almost gone, a few yellow splotches all that remain on the visible parts of her body. Whatever happened to her down below the belt is much better too, because she can walk and take care of business without extra help. Savannah gave her a course of our carefully hoarded and far-out-of-date antibiotics just in case, but we have no way of knowing if she caught something from the raiders. We’re hopeful there’s nothing more going on.

  “Andazi,” Gloria says. At our confused expressions, she reaches for her letters and arranges a single word. Fantasy. Then she knocks at her books so we’ll know what she’s referring to.

  “Fantasy books? Like sword and sorcery type stuff?” I ask, glad to be of use for something finally.

  She nods, then smiles at me. She points at me and thumps her hand over her chest.

  “The kind I like?” I clarify, and she nods again with a bigger smile.

  “Sweet! A convert!” I exclaim.

  *****

  Gloria is asleep when I check on them just after night falls. Maribelle is tucked in at her side and Jon lies flopped out like a starfish on the pallet next to them. I have no clue what time it is, but it’s early summer so light lingers in the sky much longer in the evenings.

  We’ve fallen into the habits of the older versions of humans. Sleep wants to come after night falls, or if not sleep, then a sort of quiet lassitude. Without buildings filled with artificial light, foods kept artificially cold, or exciting television shows filled with motion and noise, there’s nothing to dampen those old impulses. In the winter, we have a tendency to tuck ourselves into our sleeping bags with as many blankets as we can tolerate and spend a quiet hour reading by lantern light, but in summer, it’s sleep that comes with night.

  I close the door quietly and tiptoe down the stairs from the platform, keeping to the edges of the metal treads and stepping carefully so that they don’t make too much noise. I don’t have watch tonight, and it’s too warm and musty to sleep inside the offices with their re-breathed air and body heat.

  This is the kind of night that would normally influence me to sleep on the roof, the light night breeze evaporating the sweat as I sleep. But for some reason, I feel like Emily needs me tonight. She’s been agitated all day, seeming dissatisfied with how poorly she can communicate the reasons for her anxiety.

  What I most fear is that she’s recognizing her condition and finding it intolerable. I’d like to think that I would find it so, but I have a feeling that getting used to being an in-betweener is probably easier than it looks. Most of the time, she seems to be completely unaware of her true status. But today has been different and I can’t stop thinking about the disappointed look on her face when I left after dinner.

  My little cage-side nest is just where I left it, and it’s the work of only a moment to unroll the pallet and prop up my flashlight so that the light spreads and reflects from the metal ceiling above. While I do this, Emily watches me carefully, her head jerking to follow the movements of her eyes like a dog or a small child might. She seems intensely interested in the preparation of my little bed and the placing of the accoutrements around it.

  It’s not much. I have my book, a fan made of stiff packing board with a handle made from a drawer rail, a bottle of water, and a few carrots for snacking. All of them get a comprehensive look-over by Emily, her hands flexing open and closed as if she’s the one moving the objects.

  I don’t say anything to her after an initial greeting. Not because I don’t want to talk to her, but because that’s the only way to figure out what’s actually on her mind. She’s easily distracted onto another topic, but that doesn’t change what’s going on inside her head. It only makes it hard for me to figure out what it is.

  After I settle myself down onto the pallet, drawing my feet in to sit cross-legged, I smile at her and merely wait for her to regain her calm. I wait for the clues that will come from her behavior.

  Charlie told me that I would have been a great veterinarian one day while we were at the cage. At first, I took offense to that because, well, Emily is not a dog. In truth, I think I was most offended because I can’t help but mentally compare the way she acts to the way a puppy might act. His words hit a little too close to home. He’d held up his hands as if to fend off daggers when I turned to glare at him and then he’d back-peddled like crazy.

  He clarified his words in a way that made me appreciate what he meant. He said I was good at reading intention from motion, the way a good vet can tell what’s wrong with a dog just by watching it, or maybe the way a child psychologist can find the demons inside a youngster by interacting at the child’s level.

  I’d made a joke that I had a real future in in-betweener psychology and the market would be huge someday. After all, there were bound to be major problems between couples when one of them constantly wants to devour the other.

  Laughter aside, I do appreciate what he meant. It’s true in a way. Watching Emily once she’s no longer distracted can tell me a lot about what’s going on with her.

  As I sit, she moves toward her pile of rumpled blankets. She doesn’t sleep that I know of, but some part of her seems to shut down. The only thing I can compare it to is marine mammals, or maybe birds. I remember something about them shutting down half of their brain at a time, allowing them to sleep but also allowing them to stay afloat, or perched on a branch, or something of that nature. That’s what I think she does.

  At her pile, she looks over her shoulder at me, giving me a long, appraising look, and then does the same at her messy blankets.

  Ah, I think. She’s beginning to understand her differences.

  I’d almost rather she didn’t, because it can’t bring her anything except sadness. At the same time, I can’t deny that it’s huge progress. The more she knows, the more likely she’ll be able to control herself. Isn’t that how humans have always been? Didn’t civilization allow us the chance to behave better? It did, even if we didn’t always take that opportunity.

  Emily drags her blankets over toward the clear area in front of me, almost at the limit of her chain’s reach. What she does next is almost a mechanical replication of what I did, though without consideration of the impact her actions create.

  She shakes the pile out twice, which only serves to drop one blanket out of her pile and un-bunch the other. Then she grabs the blanket with two hands and lays it out as she takes two steps backward, just as I had done. I’m so excited to see it that I almost shout and throw a fist pump into the air. To stop myself, I dig my fingers into my knees and try to keep a neutral expression on my face.

  Again, she looks over. I can tell she’s comparing my neat bed to her bunched up mess by her frown. It must satisfy her though, because she grabs up the big plastic serving spoon left over from dinner and sets it down next to her pallet.

  Will that satisfy her or does she have some notion of numbers? If she does, that would be huge. I almost hold my breath waiting for the next thing she might do. Sure enough, she looks around her area, searching for something and lets out a little sound when she sees her bathroom bucket. She doesn’t use it on her own, but she’ll copy me when I demonstrate on another bucket, something that sets Charlie to laughing or blushing every single time I do it.

  She drags that over as well, but there’s nothing else for her to grab and she seems satisfied with what she’s got. To my delight, she sits down in an almost perfect mirroring of my position. She’s even facing the right way, toward me. That may not sound like much, but that’s pretty advanced s
tuff, understanding relative positions like that.

  I finally know what’s been bothering her. She may not fully comprehend her situation, but she’s beginning to see the differences and something deep inside her doesn’t feel comfortable with it. I’m positive I’m right when I see her pluck at the smock she’s wearing while looking at my jeans.

  We had to put her in these hastily sewn sack dresses, if for no other reason than that we can’t get jeans on and off with her chains. The smocks are our riff on hospital gowns and can be taken on and off without loosening her chains. Clearly, she’s not in love with them.

  “Emily, everything is going to be okay,” I say in my most soothing voice. After any period of silence, a human voice can set her off into in-betweener behavior, so soothing is good.

  She starts at my voice, narrowing her eyes at me for a moment, but then that predatory gleam fades and she says, “Naht goot.”

  Not good.

  “That’s not true, Emily. You’re doing great,” I answer.

  She looks at me, examining me from head to toe, and then back down at her dirty legs sticking out from her dirty smock. “Bahd. Mehme dead. Keel Mehme.”

  Her words freeze my heart like a shot of pure liquid nitrogen into my veins. Bad. Emily dead. Kill Emily.

  She knows. She knows what she is and she knows what that means.

  “No, Emily. Emily is not dead. Emily is being cured,” I say with conviction. I hope it rubs off on her.

  Her face crumples in confusion. I’ve gone past her level of understanding, I guess.

  I scoot off my pallet and get closer to the cage. She can’t reach me from where she is. Her chains don’t even let her come near the edges of her enclosure, but still she mimics me and scoots forward as much as she can.

  “Emily, you are getting better. Try to remember. Remember how I went to the hospital? To see the doctor?”

  Her expression brightens at that and her hands bounce up from her legs. “Ozpidal!”

  “That’s right. The hospital story. Very good. Now remember how we went to get the cure for you? You have that. It’s working. You’re doing so well,” I say, leaving lots of space between each sentiment, letting each one sink in.