No, that was the real problem with pain, and the real source of Lucy’s confusion and anger that afternoon—that there was no one to blame for it. All she could do was stand and watch helplessly, swaying slightly with the rocking of the boat, the rhythm of which matched Rachel’s wheezing, and also lent Lucy a faint, uncertain sort of comfort.
Rachel closed her eyes and enjoyed the cold cloth on her forehead as much as she could. Her head still pounded and it felt as if acidic muck was sloshing around in her stomach, even though she hadn’t eaten in days, and hadn’t held down much of the water Will kept patiently forcing on her. He’d opened the portholes and kept the door open, except at night, but the smell of vomit and sweat had soured in the cramped space.
She rocked her head from side to side and tried to count days. If she was right, there’d be the fun of her period to deal with soon, on top of everything else. Making Will clean up her upchuck was at the limit of what Rachel thought she could stand; changing bloody sheets and dragging her to the tiny head to shower her off—that really sounded like the worst it could get. But she couldn’t move her arms or legs without the muscles and joints screaming, so she didn’t have any plans at the moment on how to avoid that indignity. She’d laugh at the ridiculous unfairness of it all, but the others would think she was going nuts, and it’d probably hurt like hell too.
Rachel rolled her head to the left and opened her eyes to look at Will. God, he was still so gorgeous—tall, big mane of blonde hair, muscled, always tanned, and with those intense but gentle blue eyes of his. She, on the other hand, must look worse than Lucy, covered as she was with all the stink and slime that was supposed to be inside her small, weak body, not oozing out everywhere all the time. Yup, being halfway to dead probably looked and felt worse than the full version. That thought really almost made her laugh out loud, but she just sighed.
Rachel looked past Will, over at Lucy. It was one of the unexpected, charming, and slightly unnerving things Rachel had discovered in their life together, that Truman always helped Lucy dress so nicely, while Rachel and Will had little concern for what they wore. They’d gone ashore a couple times as they drifted downriver, and the dead couple had seemed gladder than their living companions at the prospect of finding new clothes.
At first, it was mostly Truman’s idea to prettify his partner, but Lucy had come around quickly and then seemed to enjoy it as much as he. They were always so cute and bashful about it, dressing her at night, since they didn’t sleep. Rachel had seen how they both fumbled with things—Truman worse than Lucy, but neither with the dexterity you’d think it would take to button and unbutton clothes—so they probably needed a lot of time to accomplish it. Every few days, Rachel would see Lucy in the morning with a new dress on, and a new kerchief covering the left side of her face and head.
They were so carefully shy in their dressing and redressing that Rachel didn’t know what the wound under the scarf looked like. Like someone had taken a bite out of the woman’s cheek? Or tore at her with their nails? Or with a weapon? Was her eye completely gone? Or was she burned? Well, it hardly mattered. It was just something you couldn’t help being curious about, even though it’s embarrassing to wonder about such things.
The rest of Lucy’s body was in pretty good shape, from what Rachel could see. She must’ve died young, with a strong, toned body, a little on the wispy side, not much in her chest or hips. And Lucy’s one good eye always overwhelmed Rachel with its beauty—such clarity, so dark blue even now, though always cold. Men must’ve loved gazing into a pair of them when she was alive. Guys liked that—the Ice Princess kind of look, bitchy and demanding, distant and unattainable. You could sure tell Truman was smitten; he stood behind her now, looking from Rachel to his beloved. Rachel smiled thinly at them, though it ached to make the effort. It was weird as hell, watching two dead people in love, but it made about as much sense as anything else in this messed-up world, and it was a good deal more peaceful and lovely than a lot of stuff Rachel had seen. So let them make death a little nicer for one another: Rachel always thought it was sweet, even if she’d shake her head at them afterward.
She turned back toward Will and took a second to refocus on him.
“How you doin’?” he asked.
“About the same.” She licked her lips. It didn’t help much, as her tongue and lips were both covered with the same gummy, sticky crap. “I kind of feel like talking. Maybe just a little.”
“Sure.” He paused, then seemed to realize what she was implying. “Oh.” Will turned toward the two in the doorway. “Um, thanks for the water, guys. You’ve been a big help. I think Rach and I will sit here for a while. Um, you know—by ourselves.”
Rachel looked for Lucy’s reaction. There was only a brief pause. Not exactly awkward, but perceptible. Then the dead woman gave a slight nod, and she and Truman turned and shuffled off, climbing up the stairs on to the deck. There wasn’t much point denying that Lucy still frightened Rachel. Truman didn’t, not at all. He’d come up behind her and she’d never think of flinching or pulling away. Lucy, on the other hand—well, Rachel always knew where all the nearest weapons were when she was around. Weak as she was, the 20-gauge on the wall above the bed was out of the question, but Rachel was pretty sure she could get to the little Kel Tec .380 under her pillow.
She had stopped trying to push down such thoughts: they were just unavoidable when you saw that one beautiful eye; there was still some spark of anger and hate in it, something hurt and broken that waited and longed to lash out. Lucy probably couldn’t help it. Most of humanity was out there in a worse frenzy than she was, clawing at anything they could get a hold of. She at least was working really hard to keep it in check, so even if Rachel didn’t suppress or ignore her own instincts, she tried to admire the dead woman’s resolve and courage. And she tried really hard not to let the other woman notice how careful she was, for Lucy was as observant as she was beautiful.
Will scooted the stool the rest of the way into the space next to Rachel, and pulled the hatch closed. He patted Rachel’s hand. “What is it, Rach?” he asked.
She looked at him, then up at the ceiling. “Will, I don’t think it’s gonna happen. I mean, I don’t feel worse. But we have to discuss it. You know—what happens if I don’t make it.”
She couldn’t bear to look at him, but she could feel him shift and tighten his grip on her hand. “You’ll get better. The fever will break. You’ll be fine.”
Rachel sighed. The effort of trying to talk and reason was making the room spin, just a bit—first a little clockwise, then back. That really wasn’t helping with the nausea. She just needed to say what had to be said and get it over with. “I might be. I didn’t say I was giving up, but I want you to know what to do, okay?”
His grip on her hand slackened. “Okay.” Even if Lucy had been hanging right outside the door she wouldn’t have been able to hear him.
“I don’t know if I—want to be like them.”
They paused. “You want to just—be gone? Completely?” Will pulled his hand off hers, and she finally looked at him. He’d turned slightly. He was wiping his face with the back of his hand, though he was trying to hide it. Guys always did that. “What? Bang, and throw you over the side?”
It took all her strength and felt like her back was breaking as Rachel twisted to the side and put her hand on his shoulder. “Will, stop. Just discuss it. Please.” She couldn’t hold that posture for more than a second and she slumped back onto the bed.
He turned back, chastened and hurt, with red eyes looking down. “All right. I’ll do what you want. You know that. I love you.”
This time her smile came naturally and without pain. “I love you too. It’s just—it was different with them. We found them like they are. And they’re beautiful, both of them. Hell, Truman’s been dead for probably twelve years, and he’s so smart. He just wants to sit and read his books and write stuff. Who knows what he’ll come up with? And Lucy—well, she’s a little scary, but she plays her violin so beautifully, and she makes him happy.” She paused till she’d caught his gaze. “Will, I think that’s it: they have each other. If I die, I’ll be dead. Even if you kept me around like them, you’d still be alone. You said yourself, when we kept dead people around back in our city—we were treating them like dolls or statues or something, not like real people. I think I’ll still be me when I—well, if I die and come back. But we won’t be able to still be together. So please, when it happens—if it happens, let me go.”
Will didn’t try to hide wiping his hand across his face this time. “I could—you know, die too.”
“No!” her voice was as strong as she could make it. She raised herself up again and lowered her eyebrows, though all of that put her in agony, especially her head. “No one’s going to talk about killing themselves. You stop that. I won’t forgive you or talk to you if you say anything like that again.”
“Well, I can’t just shoot you. What’re you thinking of? How could I do that? How could you ask me to do that?”
Rachel’s face softened as she let herself back down, keeping her eyes on his. “I know. And I can’t think of killing myself before it happens. It’s funny, I don’t know if I’m just too scared, too much of a coward, and I’d keep hoping that I might get better, or if there’s something left of all those years in church and CCD. God—they told us not to commit suicide or get an abortion so often I thought that was all the Bible was about.” She couldn’t hold back a laugh this time, and it dissolved into a coughing fit, only stopping after Will gave her a sip of water.
They paused as Rachel caught her breath and stared at the ceiling again.
“So what do you want me to do?” Will asked finally.
She turned toward him again. “I’m not sure. I guess all you can do is let me go, let me wander off. If I don’t even remember who you are, then you’re not losing anything. And if I do—well, I’ll think of you and I’ll miss you, but it’ll be better and safer for both of us if I’m not around.” She extended her hand and he took it. “Is that okay? Can we agree to do that?”
He nodded. “I guess. I’ll miss you. I’ll worry about you.”
Again the smile didn’t hurt Rachel for some reason. “I know. It’s just the best we can do, I think.”
“Okay.”
Rachel closed her eyes again. “I’m gonna rest now. Maybe I’ll feel better when I wake up.”
Will’s lips pressing against her forehead was Rachel’s last conscious impression, before she slipped into a feverish sleep. All that talk had drained her strength. Some of what they’d discussed even worked its way into her dreams, where she found herself an eight-year-old again, sitting in church beside her father. Funny, how it was almost always him in her dreams and not her mother. Funny, too, how she was always about eight or nine, like it was shortly before he died in real life, and that always made the dream so enjoyable, because she knew what was to come and how she’d miss him.
In this dream now it was Easter, for the altar was surrounded by lilies, and she was wearing a white dress with green trim. It was one of those dreams where every sense is heightened, and she could feel the stiffness and newness of the fabric. She rubbed her palms on her thighs, relishing the cool softness of the cotton tights. She looked down at her white shoes—shiny, with brass buckles—then up at the stained glass windows of blue and red. She couldn’t make out all the words the priest was saying, but he was making some joke about the “onions and garlic.” He repeated that phrase a couple times, and she looked over at her father, who was chuckling as he looked forward, not noticing her.
The next thing she realized in the dream, she was outside the church, though she didn’t remember getting up and walking there. Everyone else was still inside, singing, but she was out on the lawn. The grass was wet, and there were puddles on the sidewalk nearby. Sitting next to one of the puddles was a large frog. Rachel had never really been a tomboy, but she also never minded bugs and other things people found gross, so she walked right over to the creature, which hopped away. She pursued it, laughing, and noticed that each time it landed, it got bigger. After several hops, it was about the size of a cat. At that point it didn’t hop anymore, but let Rachel approach. She was leaning very close to it, just staring into its large, shiny, bulbous eye, when she woke up, panting.
Rachel shook her head and looked over at Will. He’d fallen asleep, crammed up against the bulkhead, and Rachel was seized with a fear she’d had a couple times in the last few days, of what would happen if she died while he was asleep. Her fear had previously been just a vague anxiety, but now it shot all the way up to a gut-knotting terror when she considered that it might already have happened. How would she know? She didn’t feel normal, after all, her body a wreck of pains and imbalances, her mind full of weird thoughts, memories, and feelings. When she put her hand out to touch him, was there still love in her longing, or had it turned into something more primal, savage, and evil?
Rachel pulled back her hand as she realized how hard her heart was pounding, and how fast and shallow she was breathing. She closed her eyes. “Thank you, God,” she said in a whisper.
Truman did not like the idea of piloting the ship. He loved helping Will with it, but for him and Lucy to try it on their own? That didn’t sound good. Too much responsibility. And danger.
Before this day, all the wrecked ships he’d seen on the riverbanks hadn’t frightened him. They were from long ago, barely recognizable as boats anymore, overgrown with kudzu, homes for birds and other animals. Truman would look at them and never think of the people who had died in them, and would even take hope from how thoroughly the living world had reclaimed the broken hulks. Not anymore.