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Butterflies

by Antwan Crump

Part One: A Change is Gonna Come

They came fluttering on an evening breeze.

Hypnotic mutations that blossomed at night.

Swarming specters seeking shelter and sustenance.

Most thought the butterflies were harmless. Pretty little things with neon wings that shone in the dark. Bioluminescence. The first night was a spectacle of lime green lights that implied a higher power. They were a gift from God. A new hope. New life. New light. Then people got sick. Radiation exposure. It was a very hard way to die. The bugs were soon eradicated. Too late. 

“Last name?”

“Cooke.”

“Lot?”

“Seventeen.”

“Pull up to the next checkpoint.”

Mainstream media coined it “the BUG.” Blood Ulcerative Granulosis. The incubation period ranged from three days to two weeks, depending on age, health, and comorbidities. There was no way to test for it. Most were misdiagnosed. They died slow.

“You okay?”

“Tired.”

The first stage of symptoms was easy enough to hide behind the cloak of common illness. Coughing. Nausea. Vomit. Diarrhea. Those could mean anything. Human condition. Early symptoms of the BUG were hard to diagnose, but there were always signs. Some were more obvious than others.

“I need sugar,” Emma continued.

“Glove compartment,” Sam answered.

The second stage was harder to lie about. Harder to hide. Headaches. Fever. Weakness. Fatigue. Lack of appetite. An insatiable craving for sweets. Mood swings. Memory loss. They were all worse if you ignored the cravings. Hard to hide but not impossible. They just had to stay quiet. Meek. Malleable. Capture meant quarantine. Quarantine meant death and dissection. The rumors were haunting—butchering bodies in search of a cure. Not all were corpses.

“I’m fine,” Emma said. “Keeping my energy up.”

“I know.” Sam kept his eyes on the road. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

The final stage was obvious. The sick experienced hair, nail, and tooth loss, blisters, spreading erythema, severe dehydration, and an inability to eat. They’d gag on plain water, any liquid at all, and required medical intervention. Without it, they’d fall into a coma—a deep and disturbing sleep with a barely-there heart rate. People died at this stage. The point of no return. They had the needed supplies in the cabin. All covered by the housing cost.

“I’m hungry,” Lyla said from the backseat. “Are we there yet?”

“Almost,” Sam answered. “Two more checkpoints.”

“Here.” Emma reached into her purse and passed back some cookies. “You okay?”

“Scared.” Lyla took the snack and tore it open. “I wish Grandma were here.”

“Me too,” Emma said. “We tried.”

“I know.”

The Cooke family fled just as lockdowns and looting began. COVID-28 had caught them with their pants down. They were ready for measles, both times. They’d planned this escape long before the BUG. It was a guarded community, far off the grid. There were no commercials. No advertisements. Not even a public discussion. You either knew about it or you didn’t. You could afford it or not. Safety was a benefit of luck and privilege. Vacancies filled up fast.

“Windows down,” the armed men mouthed, then one gestured. “Now!”

Sam lowered the windows. “Good evening.”

“Same to you,” the smaller man said. The big one peeked into the car. “Lot?”

“Seventeen,” Sam said. “Reservation for three.”

“La-di-da!” the stranger mocked. “Mister money bags.”

“Not really.”

“Symptoms? Fever? Chills? Anything like that?”

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong with her?” The brawny man looked at Emma. 

Emma leered into his soul. Exhausted. Drained. Lying. “I’m pregnant.”

“That’s a problem.”

“Not a problem right now,” Sam said. “Things happen.”

“Fair,” the man answered. “I need your temps. We’ll skip the missus.”

“Thank you.”

“Family is everything,” the small soldier said. Then “Clear! Next!”

They’d get their keys and photo IDs at the final checkpoint. After that, they’d be let onto the grounds. Tree-hung signs mapped the way. There was a mobile application to assist the process, but phone signals were unreliable. Sam assumed the worst. The worst meant hunkering down. Basic. Brutal. Bare and blunt. A temporary subsistence.

“Head straight until you reach the water. Then make a right.”

“Got it,” Sam said.

The soldier saluted. “Welcome to Eden.”

***

It was beautiful despite the situation.

A great vacation if the world were sound.

Eden was located in the California woodlands, about a four-hour drive from home. Panic traffic tripled the travel time—the lost, sick, and dying, stumbling through countless cold choices. Cacophonous convoys in a cyclical quandary. Aimless. As a result, there were bodies everywhere, both piled and scattered like litter and leaves. Diseased and abandoned or deceased from unnatural causes. Gunshots became ambiance. No different than the woods, clouds, wind, honks, tire skids, and crashes. Expected. Sam thought. Predictable.

“Not bad,” he said. “We’ve got food, running water, lights, and a view.”

“I hate it,” Emma said.

“Me too,” Lyla added.

“So much for being positive.” Sam closed the fridge. “Guess I’ll sulk, too.”

The cost of living was their life savings and a labor commitment. Fair price. The wooden cabin was modestly fashioned, like a starter home, and designed for simplicity. There was a small dining room attached to a kitchen with a new stove and refrigerator. The living room had one big pull-out couch and a sofa chair on either side. Beside them was a thirty-two-inch television that ran on satellite. It sat beneath three full bookshelves filled with various guides and survival tips.

There was a small bedroom, Lyla’s, and a bathroom with a full bath and shower down the hall. Upstairs was a mezzanine that would function as a master bedroom. The skylight above it looked off into the day’s grey mourning. There was inventory in the basement, stacked on twenty metal standing shelves that lined the walls. Sam would go through them later. The manifest was fine for now, plenty if accurate. He looked it over and thought about who hadn’t been so lucky.

“Now what?” Lyla asked. “There’s no Wi-Fi.”

“I’ve got books in the car,” Sam said.

Lyla rolled her eyes. “Mom?”

“I packed your game.” Emma smiled. “Help me find it.”

New arrivals were assigned an escort—a point person to show them around, teach them the ropes, and outline expectations. There were neighbors in every direction. He’d meet them later. Too soon. Sam welcomed the fervent knocks at his door. Heavy-handed. Mean. Uneven.

“Samuel Cooke?” The grizzled man said. “Emma? Lyla?”

“That’s us.” Sam invited him in. “Drink…mister?”

“Cappy, short for Capone.” He tipped his hat. “Follow me.”

Sam looked at his family. A nod. Two nods back.

“See you soon.”

The door slid closed and locked behind him.

***

“So,” Cappy started. “Sam Cooke. Like the singer?”

“Named after him, actually,” Sam answered. “Probably conceived to him, too.”

“Born by the river.” Cappy smiled. “Thank God my name ain’t ‘Al’.”

“The jokes age like milk.”

“They do,” Cappy was suddenly serious. “Especially the good ones.”

Redwoods. Tall and daunting roots that kissed the sky. The freshwater river behind them spanned the forest. It’d be used for power, travel, and food if their stay were extended. Each cabin had a custom-ordered inventory. Sam planned and paid for a year. That could last two years if they stretched supplies and got lucky. The wind was wet. Damp leaves sank beneath their feet. The mud was sticky. The air was tart with soaked timber, moist soil, and eroding sediment.

“Any news from the ground?” Cappy continued.

“Not really,” Sam said. “Nothing new.”

“No cure talk?”

“Haven’t heard.”

“Hmm.” Cappy hocked a loogie. “It’s bullshit, anyway.”

“Yep.” Sam grinned. “That’s why we’re here.”

“Good on ya.”

Cappy was in his sixties. He wore the decades like centuries. His inflated cheeks were marred by sunburn and corroded by gallons of whiskey. The smell was prominent. His hangover gut was solid, as if in wait for starvation and manual labor. Tucked beneath his bulbous gut was a revolver in a homemade holster. Not a threat. A warning. Cappy was in charge—a brash man of religion, tradition, and order.

“I run a tight ship, Sam,” Cappy said. “Everyone works. Everyone’s equal.”

“Except you, right?” Sam answered.

“Especially me,” Cappy stopped and stared. “Bigger the steed, heavier the load.”

“Sounds fair to me.”

“Because it is.”

They’d been walking and talking for about twenty minutes, meandering through the muck. Beyond the neighbor’s cabin, a quarter-mile North, was a barn that towered over the trees. Beside the barn was a small shed, surrounded by at least a dozen other men. Half of them focused. Half of them confused. Sam sorted himself into the latter group as Cappy waddled ahead, giving greetings and accepting graces. Something wailed from inside of the shed. 

Not human.

“Gentlemen,” Cappy announced and brushed strands of damp grey from his eyes. “Welcome to Eden. Welcome home.” He aimed a finger at the barn. “That right there is the town square—the center of our little community. There are three more just like it in the other quadrants. You can travel freely.” He lowered his arm and leaned on the shed.

“And this…” Cappy continued. He looked over the group and the structure. “—is a shed.” He laughed. Nervous men copied. Louder shrieks. Clearer. “We don’t have many rules beyond the obvious: no robbing, raping, killing, or destruction of property. Do your work, live peacefully, and you’re fine. A non-obvious rule…” Cappy unlatched the strap on his holster. “—pertains to the BUG.” He brandished the revolver, steely and brimming.

Then continued. “We do not tolerate this damn disease,” Cappy barked. “We don’t know how it spreads. There is no cure. But we do know that we’ve been lied to—told that death was the worst of it. The suffering and then the death. False.” Cappy removed his hat and held it over his heart. “That’s a feeling we all know. We share an unfortunate understanding. It binds us.”

The shrieks grew louder, pained and grating.

“Honey! Please!” a man screamed from inside of the shed. “Stop!”

“The pain of revelation liberates us from confusion. It clarifies reality.” Cappy opened the door. The crowd of men gasped and moved back. “This is reality.” Cappy looked over the men. “It’s okay. She’s bound. Take a look. It’s time we got on the same page.”

Sam stepped forward first, leaned in, and squinted.

One foot away, in the darkness of the shed, were two brutally bound figures. The first, a screaming man with blood dripping from his boil-covered flesh. He was sick. Crying. Begging. The second shadow wasn’t human. It was a deformed monstrosity with manifold pupils that triggered Sam’s trypophobia. The humanoid insect screamed as loose chunks of its flesh flapped free and fell to the ground. Beneath the skin was a hard shell of overgrown bone and hard clots of matter. It wailed an ear-bleeding cry that froze the men where they stood.

“Honey, stop!” the bound man said. Then he looked at Cappy. “I’m sorry.”

The mutant roared and writhed beneath its taut constraints. 

“Me too, son,” Cappy said, aimed his revolver, and pulled the trigger.

The shrieking stopped. The bug was splattered and dripped from the walls like tree sap.

“Sarah—!” Her husband cried, then whimpered. “…my love.” He shrank. Broken.

Cappy chambered a round. “Do not be fooled,” he said. “That woman was sick. Gone. So is this man. This is what we’re facing. This is the end. Adjust accordingly, gentlemen.”

“Please,” the sick man said. “Kill me.”

“You’re still human, son,” Cappy lamented. “God won’t like that.”

“Fuck God.” Black bile dripped from his mouth, stringy and glistening. “Do it!”

“A final note,” Cappy was calm. Stoic. “We aren’t monsters. I run a law-abiding, rule-respecting, gentile community that shares in responsibility and works toward mutual goals. Survival. Humanity.” Cappy aimed his gun at the man. “Humanity means…” He pulled back the hammer. “—we look after each other.” A beat. “We’re family now.”

“Sarah!” The bound man screamed. Then he was gone. 

Blown to new smithereens.

***

Cappy walked Sam to his cabin porch and stretched his back at the end of the stoop. Sam ascended the four steps, replaying it all in his mind. Wondering. Planning.

“Damn shame,” Cappy said, almost too casually. “I liked them. Good people. Christians.”

“Were they hiding it?” Sam asked.

“Not in the slightest,” Cappy said. “They asked me for help, so I helped them.”

Sam’s stomach churned. “So that’s what the BUG does?”

“If it doesn’t kill you,” Cappy said. “I’ll call the authorities for clean-up and recovery. Won’t do much good, but we gotta respect the dying regime.” A snort. “While it’s here.”

“For now,” Sam said.

“That’s right,” Cappy smiled. “So… I hear Emma’s pregnant. That’s wonderful news. Babies bond communities.” Sam said nothing. Cappy continued. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to check in on her every once in a while. My wife’s got some experience. I do, too, if you count chicks and calves.” Cappy chuckled. “Like I said, we look after our own.”

“Sounds good,” Sam said. “Speaking of which—”

“Of course,” Cappy raised his hands, then tipped his hat. “I’ll come get y’all in the morning for roll call. After that, we’ll discuss the education situation. We ain’t raising fools.”

“Sounds good,” Sam repeated and turned toward the door. “Thank you.”

“No problem, Sam.” Cappy waddled away, whistling Dixie in the rain.

“Door open,” Sam said. The door slid left, then closed behind him. “Fuck.”

The world was falling apart. That meant everything would change. Rules would evolve to facilitate survival—he expected that. What he didn’t expect was a new and permanent normal. Despite his preparations, the goal was to return home, some semblance of home, to some scattered remains of society. A return to something he recognized. Not this.

Eden wasn’t an escape. It was a replacement. Opportunistic. Passive anarchy. Fuck.

“How’d it go?” Emma asked and sat up on the couch. “Scale of one to…?”

“—did you finish unpacking?” Sam interrupted.

“Just about.”

“Where’s the vodka?” Sam grabbed the manifest off the dining room table. “I need it.”

“It’s in the bag by the fridge,” Emma said, now worried. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Sam said. “Gotta check the inventory. Cappy’s orders.”

“O-Okay,” Emma laid back down. “Let me know when you’re off your period.”

“I will.” Sam grabbed the duffel bag and made way for the basement.

Lyla was busy playing her game. Detached. Distracted.

Good.

***

It wouldn’t last long. 

Rebel colonies never did.

Even if the BUG lasted for a generation, the government would eventually come knocking. The paperwork was there. The powers that be knew their numbers. In the worst-case scenario, any new regime would absorb Eden or destroy it, exterminating all who’d stood in opposition and perceived vicinity. There would be bloodshed. War. Death. That was assuming death didn’t come from within. It would try. Cappy and others like him playing savior and prophet. Human nature, Sam thought. But that wasn’t the immediate issue. 

That was Emma.

“Food rations,” Sam opened the duffel bag, retrieved his vodka, and sipped.

The show at the shed wasn’t a point but a perilous promise. A pragmatic preview of what would come. Once the settlers had settled, and the points were made, a militia would hunt the sick. They’d make a show of the deaths. Grand gestures. They’d punish their protectors. Another show. Then the dissenters. Curtains.

The reign of terror would convert the weak and curb the moderates. Psychopaths would cry wolf on the strong. It’d all be done in the name of God, good, and graciousness, then deemed a brutal necessity. The zealots and wolves would eat each other in a bout for wrong power that’d end in blood. Fear would do the rest.  Fire and brimstone came later. Repeat. 

Human nature.

If Emma were sick and then caught, they’d be dead long before the war.

“Weapons,” Sam took a sip, put down the bottle, and searched the shelves.

Among his ordered inventory were packaged food rations that’d be good for at least a decade, gallons of water in super-sealed containers that could take a hard beating and then some, medical supplies for most emergencies, gas masks, portable generators, lighters, matches, blankets, and an array of assorted weaponry—everything from camping knives and hunting blades to handguns, rifles, and ammunition. Sam drank from the bottle and considered scenarios. 

Probabilities. What could he fit in the bug-out bag?

“Bug out,” he mumbled and sipped. “Appropriate.”

“What’s appropriate?” Emma asked. 

“Huh,” Sam jerked from his thoughts. He didn’t hear her come downstairs. “Nothing.”

Emma approached him and stared. “Are we leaving?” 

Sam looked away. “No,” he said. “Just-just—”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I know.”

The truth was harsh, but Emma deserved to hear it. She sat beside Sam while he recalled the day’s events from the lip of a bottle. Emma took a swig too. She used to tease him about his persistent paranoia. Those remarks were long antiquated. Emma now viewed Sam’s spiraling psychosis as warnings to be well-heeded. She agreed that they had to leave. Soon.

The hard part was getting out. Then it would be where to go.

“Seattle’s not far,” Sam said. “There’s spare gas in here somewhere.”

“My mother’s?” They’d tried to bring her along. Request denied.

“Yep,” Sam answered. “We can fortify the home. Fight.”

“How’s that better?” Emma held his hands. “We’re just moving the problem.”

“There may not be one,” Sam said. “Hope ain’t dead yet.”

“Sam…”

“WE. DON’T. KNOW.” He took a swig. Then calmed. “We’re not sure.”

“…okay.” Emma relented. “I trust you.”

The sick died on their own.

Emma needed care. Not a bullet.

She helped him pack the bug-out bag. 

Then he helped her make dinner. Spaghetti.

Emma didn’t eat much. Too worried. Too tired.

Too sick.

***

They attended roll-call the next morning.

Cappy brought them breakfast and coffee. Then to the town square.

The inside looked like a school auditorium: shiny linoleum floors, rows of folding chairs, snack tables, and swinging lights overhead. The scene reminded him of Lyla’s school bake sales and frequent fundraisers for profit. The smell of body odor, nicotine, caffeine, and liquor wafted in withering waves. There were about fifty people. Another hundred had yet to arrive. Cappy took note of the missing figures and pressed on, cool as a breeze.

“Good morning, all,” Cappy said. “Glad you could make it.”

The old man went on for a spell about lines and the importance of family. When he was done with his spiel of rules and etiquette, he cleared the stage for his next in command—a strange and stringy military bureaucrat, somewhere in his forties, who’d outlined the community goals. His name was Lieutenant Nathan Murphy. He invited the crowd to call him ‘Murph’. “Mister Murphy, if you’re under twenty-five,” he’d said.

Murph’s primary objective was to build infrastructure that would utilize the river. Then he stressed the need for security and instructed the gun-trained to meet him later. Those without weapons training would undergo a rigorous program, led by him and those with kindred experience. “It’s safe to be dangerous,” he lectured. “…peace means preparing for war.”

When Murph was done, Cappy returned with a clipboard full of labor assignments. The refugees in folding chairs seemed to span the spectrum of builds, skills, and occupations. Some knew math. Some knew medicine. Most possessed now useless knowledge. Privileged but powerless. Fortunate liabilities. That was intolerable. Weak.

Before ‘The Fall’, as they called it, Sam worked full-time as a construction field manager. He could plan, build, wire, and install just about anything with competence. He was assigned to assist with structural issues and miscellaneous faults in the quadrant. That included setting up the hydropower with his team and a formative captain. Emma was a nurse and tasked to join the quadrant’s patchwork medical staff. Lyla and every other minor would work the fields after school—planting, maintaining, and harvesting crops as needed for the quadrant.

“Everyone works,” Cappy said. “Everyone’s equal.”

He skipped most of the BUG talk. 

Precaution was “a personal choice.”

***

After roll-call, the new Edenites dispersed to their determined stations. The meet-and-greets went fairly fast. Most of the captains were caught off guard. They were relieved after introductions and bee-lined for the car. The SUV was stuck in the mud for a minute or two before the wheels finally spun free—a worrying omen that Sam pushed to the back of his mind.

There were eyes on them as they drove through the sector, doing no more than ten per hour. Rushing would’ve raised red flags. Better to pretend that nothing was wrong. Just an afternoon drive. “Wave and smile.” Sam prayed as they stared at electric fences. Murph approached, hand on his holster. Four men trailed behind him. Armed.

“Dad?” Lyla whimpered, scared. “What’s—?”

“Be quiet,” Sam said. “Stay calm.”

Emma wiped sweat from her face as she swallowed the rising vomit. “I’m good.”

Sam rolled down the window. “How’s it going, Murph?”

“Fine…uh—?”

“Sam.”

“Right.” Murph looked around and then back. “Mister Cooke. Any relation?”

“Maybe,” Sam said. “Who knows? Mom was a hoe.”

“Hmm.” Murph inspected the car and then Emma. Too long. “Cap said you could shoot.” He spotted the bag and spare gas. “You should be out here with us.” He eyed Emma again and then Sam. Cold. Leering. Emma leered back. Hate.

“I’m not on your level,” Sam said with a smile. “I’m all thumbs and no aim.”

“Better than nothing,” Murph said, looking back, then forward. “Where ya heading?”

The lie came fast. “Nearest town. Wife’s pregnant. Need supplies.”

“You check with Linda?”

“Linda?”

“Cap’s wife. She handles that sort of thing.”

“Not your burden,” Sam said. “I take care of my own.”

“Ain’t you heard?” Murph leaned on the car. “We’re each other’s own now.”

“Need something?”

“As a matter of fact,” Murph whistled. The men gathered behind him. “—we do. Ammo. Shoes. Condoms. Things like that. There’s a superstore a few miles out. Mind if we tag along?” They surrounded the car. “We’re better company than we look.”

“I’m not leaving my family.”

“Our family,” Murph corrected. “Besides, your wife looks sick.”

“I’m fi—” Emma threw up in her purse. “…fine.”

“Come on,” Murph said. “Don’t be heroes. Let Linda have a look. I’ve got two kids around your daughter’s age, a boy and a girl. They can hang out until we get back.” Murph reached for his waistband. Sam grabbed the gun he’d stashed by his seat. “Easy killer,” Murph continued, and presented a walkie-talkie. “You’ll be a click away.”

Sam looked at Emma. She nodded.

“Lyla,” he called. “Feel like making friends?”

“Sounds fun.” Lyla swallowed her nerves. A smile. “Sure.”

“Perfect!” Murph got into the car. “We’ll drop off the girls. Then pick up Cappy.” The stringy man settled in with a grin. “It’s cozy in here.”

“Sports edition,” Sam said, and reversed the car. “Speed and mileage.”

“Nice. I’ve got a Range.” Murph pointed. “First left. Third right.”

“Got it.” Sam eyed him in the rearview mirror. “Seatbelt?”

“Not a fan,” Murph sneered. “They limit mobility.”

“Fair enough.” 

Fuck.

***

They didn’t kill until the change. 

Cappy didn’t trust the government.

The worst that Sam could imagine was an arguable diagnosis that’d make staying or leaving hell. But they wouldn’t kill her—Sam assured himself as the crew pulled into town. They won’t. They won’t. They won’t. He considered crashing the car—killing them all on the spot.

“You alright, son?” Cappy inquired. “You’re pale.”

“First time I’ve heard that,” Sam said. “Worried.”

“Emma will be fine,” Murph encouraged. “You have my word.”

“We’re a family, Sam,” Cappy said. “Get used to it.”

“I hate my family,” Sam mocked. “That’s why we moved West.”

The car was quiet. Then erupted in laughter. “Who the fuck loves’em?” Murph joked.

“Left my brother in Camden,” another man said. “Let’em rot. That evil fucker.”

The SUV was packed with six men—Sam, Cappy, Murph, and three soldiers he recognized from the checkpoints. Sam told them the supplies were a careful precaution, presuming that things could go wrong. “The unexpected usually happens,” he’d said, unsure if they bought the excuse, but Cappy was happy with just moving on. “I’d do the same,” Cappy exalted and let the lie die with the word.

Even Murph had warmed up. “So, what triggered your escape, Sam?”

“The swarms,” Sam answered and stopped at a light. “Didn’t trust them.”

“Smart,” Murph said. “I left while the marks were still tongue kissing the bugs.”

Cappy interjected. “If you boys think the bugs are your biggest problem, you ain’t been paying attention.” He unbuttoned his collar and watched chaos blur by his window. Burning homes. Scattered corpses. Splashes and puddles of blood and marrow. Crashed cars. Faint screams. Sick drifters with death in their eyes. “Panic. Fear. Rage. That’s what you need to be worried about. Humanity under duress is the devil.”

“Now hold on, Cap,” Murph said. “Rage can be good.”

“Sometimes,” Cappy answered. “Rage is a strong weapon but a weak tool.”

“Can’t build shit with it,” Sam said. “Only destroy.”

“That’s right.”

The superstore was about a mile out, a little longer due to the roads. Murph swore that it’d have everything they’d need, including a pharmacy with plenty of drugs. Sam wasn’t sure what to expect—chaos, closure, or cashiers and checkouts. He was prepared in any event, armed, and decided to kill if he had to. Murph and his men seemed eager for blood, almost as if it were promised. Cappy was stoic, quietly remorseful, but also resolved and balanced.

“What do you think they are?” the young soldier asked, recalling the shed. “Aliens?”

“Maybe,” Cappy said. “Split pupils. Exoskeletons. Whatever it is, ain’t human.”

“Polycoria,” Sam muttered.

“What?” Murph was intrigued.

“Multiple pupils in the iris. You can have it at birth or get it from a disease.” The car was quiet. Silence hung. Sam continued. “Emma’s a nurse. She’s seen it a few times. Both ways.”

“And the shell?” Cappy leaned forward. “The hell is that?”

“Not sure,” Sam said. “Could be hypercalcification. Pemphigus would explain the blisters and sores, but there’s no way to know without testing. It’s rare. Unheard of. That woman should’ve been dead. Her husband, too.”

“Fucking butterflies,” Cappy mumbled. “Goddamn devil.”

“Ain’t no devil, Cap,” Murph lowered his window to let in the breeze. “No God, neither.”

They got to the superstore a few minutes after the conversation. Sam donned a gas mask and offered the others to whoever wanted them. Murph declined. So did his men. Cappy was happy to hold one but too proud to wear it without an obvious cause. 

After checking in with Lyla, who’d been with the Murphys, Sam was ready to roll. The men readied their weapons, scanned the scarce parking lot, and then broke their way inside. There were no alarms. No crowds. No hordes of beings. Only shambles, darkness, rambunctious rodents, and the rancid scent of fish. Cappy put on the mask. 

The other men cursed and winced.

***

“Alright,” Murph said. “Two teams of three.” He’d written down the needed supplies on a napkin as they rode into town. He ripped the list down the middle and handed half to Cappy. “Ridges and Kent are with you. Cobb and Cooke are with me.”

“That’s a plan,” Cappy said. “Keep your ear on the horn.”

“You too,” Murph answered, and the two teams parted ways.

Cobb was around twenty, had a decent build, and was all-American to his core. He’d mentioned in the car that he was a star quarterback and still had dreams of more. The kid brought it up whenever he could—then Murph and his men would rebuke him, “…well ya ain’t shit now.” Now Cobb was no one, wielding a faint light as they searched for the pharmacy.

Murph nudged Sam’s arm. “There’s a mom-and-pop nearby if the place is looted.”

Sam played along. “We’ll manage. I was just hoping to make things easy.”

“Thinking of names yet?”

“Too soon.”

“Ah, true,” Murph drawled. “Joy and I are trying.”

“Is two not enough?”

“Not if Cappy’s right.”

“What do you think?”

“I think…” Another drawl. “We take things as they come.”

“Over here,” Cobb said, flickering his flashlight and pushing ahead. “The gate’s down.”

“Luck.” Murph smiled. “Guns up, fellas.”

Murph shot the latch on the pull-down gate. Sam helped him lift and hold it up. Cobb crawled through and held from the other side. Then Sam. Then Murph. The metal cage dropped back to the floor and boomed like charging thunder.

“You alright?” Cappy’s voice blared through static. “Over.”

“All good,” Murph answered. “You?”

“Just about done,” Cappy said. “Gonna check the back.”

“Copy.”

To their surprise, the pharmacy was untouched. The computers were fine, the register was unbroken, and the shelves were organized for operation. It was shocking. That was until Cobb called them behind the counter. Two pharmacists. Two cashiers. All dead from gunshot wounds. 

“Self-inflicted,” Murph noted as he surveyed the boil-scarred corpse that’d blocked the back door. “Quarantined. Looks like they were given an option. Took the easy way out.”

“—or protecting the place,” Cobb said. 

“Shut up,” Murph mocked. “Sick. Trapped. Punched their tickets. Simple.”

“Does it matter?” Sam asked and scanned the shelves. Lie or not, this was convenient.

“Suppose not,” Murph grumbled. “You can shut up, too,” he joked.

The three men spent about ten minutes packing drugs into various bags. Though their list was satisfied, they’d all agreed that it was better to have it and not need it. If things got worse, which they certainly would, hauls like these would be less lucky. More violent and unpredictable. Just then, they were the fortunate firsts who fucked over future travelers.

“I’m full,” Sam said.

“Me too,” Cobb added.

Murph zipped his bag and popped a painkiller into his mouth. “Good.” They hopped back over the counter and exited as they came, one by one, while a pair held the gate. It was seamless—like they’d been a team all along. Sam dropped the cage as Murph slid through last, stood up, and gripped his walkie-talkie. “We’re all set, Cap. You? Over.” No answer. “Cap!”

The silence was eerie. 

Cappy’s voice cracked through the static. “Loading dock. Bring propane.”

“For what?”

“Just bring it, damn it!”

The propane was in aisle nineteen, in the grilling section, beneath shelves of disarray. Cobb heaved a long cylinder onto his back and recalled an old football drill. “…coach said—”

“Shut up,” Murph ordered. They traversed the store until arriving at two swinging doors. The sign above read: RECEIVING. “Cap?” Murph called on the walkie-talkie. “I think we’re here.” Cappy burst through the doors and gestured for the men to follow.

“Shut the fuck up!” Kent screamed.

“Please!” the stranger cried. “Help me!”

“What the fuck?” Murph muttered. “Cap?”

“We’re torching it.”

The loading docks were a cement room with rolling aluminum doors for delivery intake. The superstore received its products here, and it’d be locked at all other times. It was cold and dark, lit only by the limited gaze of their flashlights. Fleshy masses of hair and skin spanned the walls like parsed intestines. Meat-sacks. Wet. Leaking. Alive.

Ridges was busy dousing the odd pods in high-proof liquor. Kent held one of the pods at gunpoint. A man’s head stuck out of the top. Cut free. As if trapped in an iron lung made of muscle and mucus. “Please.” The sick man had several pupils, missing teeth, and peeling skin. “Help.” By the sound of his voice, he’d been screaming for a while.

“I said shut up!” Kent ordered again.

“Jesus Christ.” Cappy charged the sick man, aimed his gun, and pulled the trigger. “No hesitation, kid,” he said. “That one’s gone.” Cappy went to Murph. “We’ve gotta blow it. All of it.” He was serious. Murph nodded, took the tank from Cobb, and set it beside the human cocoons. He turned the dial to start a slow release of the noxious gas and covered his mouth. 

Sam inspected the fleshy sacks. There was the smell. Rotting fish. “They’re moving.”

“Sleeping,” Cappy said. “I’m none too keen on waking them up.”

Sam stepped back. “What now?”

Murph lit a match and pressed it to an ethanol-soaked sack. A blue flame grew. “Run.”

Hellish shrieks followed the growing fire as the group barreled through the broken doors, crunching glass beneath their feet as the symphony of destruction boomed, clapped, and blew through the roof. The new fire spread quickly to aisle nineteen and began to fuel itself. 

The men watched in awe and horror. Cappy placed the Stetson over his heart.

Murph grabbed the old man’s bag and spoke softly. “Let’s go.”

It was a quiet drive back to Eden.

The car reeked of rotting fish.

***

Emma was waiting on Cappy’s porch with Lyla. He was relieved.

“You must be Sam,” Linda said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“You too,” Sam answered. “I’ve heard great things.”

“Not too great, I hope,” Linda joked. “Expectation breeds entitlement.” She was like a female Cappy, a bit pudgy, with light orange hair that was once blood red. “I’ve got good news and bad news. How do you take it?”

“Good, then bad, preferably.”

“Alright,” Linda grabbed her hips. “Good news: the baby’s fine. Clean sonogram.”

“What?” Sam looked at Emma and recognized the shock. “That’s wonderful.” 

“Uh-huh,” Linda was confused, then proud again. “Bad news: Emma’s a fighter.”

“Already knew that.” Sam smiled. “That’s why I married her.”

“Well, Romeo, I’m gonna need you to pull double-duty while she comes to term.”

“Not a problem. What’s wrong?”

“High blood pressure. Low heart rate. Let’s call it stress,” Linda said. 

“We might have something for that,” Cappy dropped his bag beside Linda. “Hi, honey.”

“Hey, sugar bear.” Linda and Cappy kissed, then he stood beside her. “She’s got plenty.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“Nothing she won’t tell you.” Linda winked. “We’ll revisit in a day or two.”

Lyla helped Emma to her feet. They floated into his arms. “Thank you.”

“No problem, sugar,” Linda said. “We’re a family now. Getting bigger!”

The group exchanged goodbyes and parted ways.

Emma was quiet. 

Too quiet.

***

Pregnancy wasn’t the oddest thing. 

Sam and Emma still enjoyed each other. He poked through his mind at the number of times they’d had a quickie or long night of passion, courtesy of blue pills or ovulation. That was the thing. She’d had her period. “Maybe it wasn’t,” Emma said. “Could be tears in the uterine lining. I wasn’t paying attention. There was so much going on.”

“It’s not a problem,” Sam said. “It’s good news. You’re not sick.”

“But what if I am? What does that mean for the baby?”

“What?”

“What could be growing inside of me, Sam?” Emma cried. “What if—?”

They’d been at it for hours. On and off. Quiet and loud. Happy and sad. Emma was suffering from fainting spells, along with periodic vomiting. She couldn’t eat. All that she could manage was sugar water, so thick she ate it like soup. Sam didn’t care. 

“Don’t think like that,” he said. “You’ll stress yourself out.”

“She’s going to keep checking!” Emma roared. “It’s a matter of time.”

“You’re not sick!”

“Look at my eyes!”

“They’re fine!”

“They’re not!”

Sam hated medical terms. ‘Pemphigus’ was fun to say. He remembered ‘polycoria’ due to Emma’s insistence that her vision was fading. Upon investigation, she noticed a little black spot in the iris of her right eye. Then another. And another. Then a black speck in the left. She blamed melanocytes, a usually harmless overproduction of melanin. A biological quirk. That’s what she told him. What does she really believe?

“Tell me what to do,” Sam said. “Tell me and it’s done.”

“I want you and Lyla to live,” Emma cried. Broken. Shaking. “I want you to live.”

“I’m alive.” Sam held her. She bawled into his chest. “I’m right here. We’re fine.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

They held each other all night.

He fell asleep when she stopped crying.

***

“Emma!” Sam screamed. Nothing. Cold. “Emma! Wake up!”

Painkillers. Emma swallowed dozens of them. Crushed. 

She mixed them in the bowl with her sugar and water. 

They were missing from the basement inventory. 

Snatched while Sam packed the bug-out bag.

He was too drunk to notice. Too distracted.

Now he was too late to save her.

“Emma!”

Part Two: Wonderful World

He buried her in the rain.

Lyla watched from a window.

Sam was still putting shovel to soil when Cappy and his men arrived. He didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. Not even when the old man pulled his gun and jumped to the worst conclusions. “What did you do?” Cappy accused. Sam kept digging. “Sam!” the old man roared. Drenched. Angry. Ready to shoot. Aiming to kill.

“She was sick.” Sam wept. Still digging. “Afraid of you. We both were.”

“Son?”

“Just kill me,” Sam said. Digging. Digging. “I don’t care.”

---

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If you enjoyed this snippet, you can purchase “Butterflies” in its entirety on:

Amazon – B&N – KOBO – Google Play Books

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Photo Courtesy of Suzy Hazelwood