The End of Men(20)
Another shot. I hit the floor. The shots keep coming. I look up. Is it the first shooter? No, there’s a second man shooting and shooting. Oh God, please stop.
I can hear screams from all over the airport. There’s not enough space, there’ll be a stampede. My colleague Andrew arrives and shoots the second shooter in the arm. I get ahold of myself, get off the floor and shoot the first shooter in the shoulder. At the same time, Andrew shoots him in the head. More armed men are arriving, guns up and loaded. No, this can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.
Andrew goes down. The second shooter is shooting at him. No, no, no. I shoot, aiming for his head, praying I get him before he turns on me. Please God, don’t turn around. Please let me survive this.
AMANDA
Glasgow, United Kingdom
Day 60
My boys are dying. I sit by their bedside, the two of them side by side in what used to be Will’s and my bed, watching them in disbelief. I should be amazed that they lasted this long. I’ve been exposed to the virus since November 1, the day I came home having treated Patient Zero, although I managed to keep away from them mostly, or so I thought. They’ve lasted eight weeks. They haven’t been to school or left the house, but I had to. We were running out of food so I had to leave. I was as careful as I could be, sterilizing cans in the garage before bringing them in the house, touching no one for days afterward, but the Plague spreads easily and fast. I don’t know exactly how it works, how long it survives on a surface. I can’t see it or smell it or taste it. It could be anywhere. It could have been me all along.
When Charlie first came down with a fever, he knew what was happening. He said to me, “Mum, I don’t understand, we haven’t gone anywhere,” and I didn’t know how to respond. I don’t know, my darling boys. I don’t know how this happened. I must have caught it when I went outside. I must be a host. I must have gotten too close to you. I’m so sorry.
Will is downstairs now, drinking tea. He cannot bear to be in this room and watch the consequences of what he thinks he has done. He’s convinced he’s responsible for the boys being sick even though I’ve told him, again and again, that we don’t know. We’ll never know. It might not have been him, but nothing I say makes a difference. He is overwhelmed by guilt. He’s not even the Catholic one of the two of us but then again, what do I have to feel guilty for? I did everything I could. Will went into the vipers’ nest of the hospital and who knows what he brought back?
No matter what I tell him, the times he left this house and went to the hospital he put our boys in danger. But it might also be me, and that uncertainty kills me a tiny bit more every day. I can see the beginnings of insanity from here. In the delirium of old age, I will forget lots of things, maybe my children’s names and Will’s face and that I used to be a doctor, but I won’t forget this. Was it me? Was it him? Who is to blame? You? Me? No one.
Charlie and Josh are dying in front of me and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. They look like twins. They practically are twins, only thirteen months apart. My lovely, clever, kind boys. They’re both now weaving in and out of consciousness. If I had morphine I would give it to them. It would speed things up but it would reduce the discomfort. They’re having occasional hallucinations from the fever, panting words about footballs and rabbits and the other nonsense the delirious come out with. I phoned my friend Ann and asked her, a few days ago when the symptoms began, what I could do treatment wise. “Oh, Amanda, I’m so—”
I cut her off.
“Ann, we can’t do this. I don’t need that. I just need to know what you did for Ian to make it easier.”
Ann is the finest palliative care doctor I know. She works in a hospice an hour away in Dumbarton. Her work is calm, contemplative and caring, everything mine is not. I’m used to high drama, urgency and the willingness to cause pain in the moment to prevent a problem down the road. I am not equipped for this. And yet, her advice was more for me than them. There is nothing for them; without morphine, it’s just cold washcloths to ease the fevers and spoonfuls of water to quench the raging thirst. Ann’s advice was for me to stay calm and in the present. She said being there for them is more important than anything. Don’t think about the future without them. Don’t reflect on what you could have done differently in the past. Treasure this time and be a soothing balm for their panicked, fractured minds riddled with pain.
I heard her and I listened but it is impossible for my mind to stay in this room. It’s too painful. I keep thinking back to their childhoods for some relief, taking myself back in a haze to the times when they were happy and safe and had so many more years ahead of them than behind them. Doubts creep in inevitably to ruin the daydream. Is there anything I would do differently? Should I have given up work? Was it worth it, all those hours away from them? I could have been with them every day, every night, I should have been. But how was I to know? I could never have known.
I want to go back and do it all over again. Seeing the lines on the pregnancy tests and screaming with joy. Feeling their kicks and movements as they stretched in my tummy at the beginning of the day. Waddling around Mothercare the first time, bewildered and panic-buying things that promised sleep. The second time, exhausted, carrying a toddler and panic-buying toys that promised peace. I want to go back and tell myself every day for all those years to enjoy every second. I thought it would be endless. I assumed the good fortune of seeing my children grow up.