The End of Men(34)

I run up the steps of the plane and the flight attendant suddenly looms in front of me at the door to the plane. He looks exhausted, his face pinched and drawn.

“I’m Mrs. Tai,” I say, motioning for him to move so I can get on the plane.

He narrows his eyes and gives me a look that makes me want to throw up.

“I’ve flown with Mrs. Tai many times before,” he says, eyes cold with suspicion. He’s breathing rapidly, his face aflame with hostility. I can see him thinking, do I let her on the plane? How much does this matter to me? My breath catches in my throat, panic rising through me so strongly it’s as though a hand is gripping my neck. The seconds stretch out. Please let me survive this. Please take mercy on me. Please let me on the plane.





DESPAIR





CATHERINE


Devon, United Kingdom

Day 69

This is a golden day, even though, if I think about it too hard, this is one of the worst days of my life. We play in the garden, me watching Theodore running around gaily as I sip tea made with long-lasting milk. I tell him stories about bears and witches and dragons because we don’t have any books here, and I allow myself to cuddle him occasionally. We are safe maybe, surely, please, in this house untouched by the Plague.

The loss of Anthony becomes harder, not easier, now that we are in this place of safety. My mind assumes he must be away for a business trip and he’ll walk in any moment. But he doesn’t and he never will. Maybe it would be more bearable if I had seen him grow sick and die. Instead it feels as though we said good-bye, and he walked up the stairs and he must, surely, be alive and well somewhere in the world. My brain can’t compute that the end has happened. I try not to cry in front of Theodore and then I realize I’m trying so hard to keep it together because I don’t want my son’s last days—if these are his last days—to include the sight of his mother crying. I miss Anthony so much and no one else understands. After so many years, the loss of my parents winds me, again and again. Having accepted their deaths, now it feels like the cruelest injustice that the world is leaving me so unbelievably alone. Phoebe messaged me the other day asking how we are. She said that they think her husband is immune. He works as an accountant and has probably been exposed to it countless times because most of his office has died of it, but he hasn’t gotten ill. I nearly smashed my phone against the window. She has two parents, a husband and two daughters. She has an abundance so vast I want to scream, “Why not me?” I didn’t reply. I have a precious son whom I’m clinging to like Circe on her island, praying I can stay here unseen from the eyes of death. And I’m all on my own in this fight. No mother to come and help. No father to reassure. Anthony was my family and now he’s gone and so I try to eke out all the pleasure I can from the beautiful boy we made.

I want to settle into a rhythm, a new normal. Today we woke up at six and Theodore napped in the afternoon as the cat purred contentedly on the sofa next to me. Then a calm bath time and bed with games and stories and as many cuddles as possible. Every moment that goes by without a fever or a cough or unusual lethargy gives me the luxury of thinking we might be safe. This place feels like a historical artifact, untouched by death and fear.

A few hours after putting Theodore to bed, I’m in the hazy midpoint between sleep and wakefulness when I hear the unmistakable sound of broken glass. My heart stops and my body fills with the cold dread of fear that comes when you are alone and there is no one to help. Someone is here. I creep down the stairs and hear the scrabbling of a human. There is heavy breathing. He is alone, only one pair of feet. It’s definitely a man. The step creaks.

“Who the fuck’s there?”

I scream in fright. His voice, rough and intimidating, is bellowing at me from the kitchen where one lightbulb is on. The house is shrouded in half light. My brain thinks of Theodore, upstairs, cocooned in this bubble away from disease. Another sheet of fear lays itself over my thoughts of a violent robbery. This stranger probably carries the virus. He dares to bring the Plague to my house.

“This isn’t your house,” I yell back with all the effort I can muster.

“I don’t fucking care. Get out.”

I can see him now, looming in the kitchen doorway. My brain is expecting him to charge toward me, pummel me or rape me or kill me. He’s a strange, angry man who has broken into a house and is loudly asserting himself despite being so obviously in the wrong. Why is he staying so far away? And then, the thought appears perfectly formed in the front of my brain. Of course. He’s scared of me. He came here to escape. A remote, rural, uninhabited cottage; the perfect sanctuary. He thought he could wait it out here. He had the same plan as me. The only difference is that this safety is mine. I have a right to be here.

I will win this. He thinks I have the virus. As far as he’s aware, I could kill him just by moving toward him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say loudly, my voice clear as a bell as I step down the remaining stairs. “I came here with my son. I’m a host and my son is infected, he’s just upstairs. I came here to die with him.” The lie slips out of my mouth, smooth and certain.

I step toward the man.

“Don’t take another fucking step!” He’s shuffling backward. He looks like a cow being led to slaughter with bulging eyes and a mouth dry and twisting with terror.