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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.”

Cappy lowered his gun and left the air open to speak. Sam did. When he was done, Cappy helped him dig. Emma’s eyes confirmed his story. Sam was off the hook. Some Edenites still whispered foul play, but there was nothing he could do about that. Nothing that he cared to do. He just wanted to dig. Digging. Digging. Digging. He buried Emma in plastic with her favorite flower—he’d stored them in dry ice for her birthday. Pink lilies. Dead but preserved. 

That was exactly a year ago.

“Last name?”

“Cooke.”

“And yours?”

“Murphy.”

“And them?”

“Same.”

“Reason for entry?”

“Your mother,” Murph snapped. “Move!”

Emma wasn’t the only suicide. A few days after blowing up the superstore, Kent and Ridges showed signs of the sickness. Obvious signs: cravings, mood swings, memory loss, and an inability to hold down food. Their speedy decline was studied until Kent blew his brains out, refusing to turn. Ridges went manic and managed to rip open both forearms with his teeth. Cappy was fine. Linda credited the mask. Cobb and Murphy were okay, too. Luck of the draw.

The young soldier signaled for another to move the truck. Then they drove into town. 

“Every goddamn time,” Murph complained. “Fucking skids.”

“Illusion of power,” Sam said. “Show of strength.”

“I got more power in my left nut,” Murph grumbled.

“Save it,” Sam said. “Long day.”

The fledgling government had set about restoring order. The results varied, but among the consequences were benign checkpoints like this one. A handful of brain-dead officers would stand guard with guns at movable barriers. They’d take your name, record your movements, and occasionally turn you away. That was it. Once you got to town, it was as lawless as the wild west. Resources were scarce, the BUG was spreading, and the wolves were vying for power.

Predictable. Sam thought.

“Listen up,” Murphy said, looking back. Sam kept his eyes on the road. “Masks on. Guns up. No hesitation. You see a threat, neutralize it. See a bug, back away. We’re looking for food, drinks, ammo, and batteries. Any questions, ask. Don’t be a cowboy. Clear?”

“Yeah,” Junior, Murphy’s son, said. 

“Lyla?” Sam added. “You got it?”

She nodded, inspecting her gun.

It was their first time out of Eden. Following a flurry of new arrivals and infection, Cappy lowered the maturity age. Fourteen. That’s when the kids were introduced to reality—if they were ready. Those who weren’t stayed in the fields and out of the way—planting, growing, and harvesting. Cappy’s orders. The old man was no fan of mixing the castes. Eden agreed.

“Two teams,” Murph continued. “Just like we practiced.”

“Stay in sight,” Sam said, looking at Lyla. “No wandering.”

“I know,” Lyla answered.

“Me too,” Junior added.

“Good,” Murph checked his weapon. “—or you’ll be back planting potatoes.”

Sam stepped on the gas as morning melted on the distant horizon. 

Sunlight meant safety. Mostly. They hadn’t quite figured out why.

***

Eden was reduced to scavenging. 

Mulling over dead remains.

Sam was allowed to mourn for a couple of weeks before Cappy and Murph shook him out of it. Their wives looked after Lyla while he sat in the dark with an endless drink and prayers for death. He didn’t feel like a father. Not anymore. Just a ghost. The living dead. A wandering soul at the end of its time. Lost. Lyla took care of him most nights. In return, he promised to live. 

He promised to try.

“Eighth street,” Murph said. “Block E.”

“Got it,” Sam said.

They turned onto the residential street, parked, masked, and got out of the car. Most homes were busted, boarded, or burned down, but war meant abandoned bounty. Drifters would take residence when they could and usually got sick. Soldiers were told to respect the properties, which meant they were ripe for the picking. There were good days and bad. There was luck and misfortune. Eden had enough stock to last a couple of months, but it was better to have it and not need it. Better to search than to stretch. Better to move than sit still. It was something to do.

“On me,” Sam said and approached the home. Boarded. Burned. Good sign.

They stood on either side of the main door with their weapons drawn. 

“Two teams,” Murph repeated. “Cookes. Murphys.”

“We’ll take upstairs,” Sam said. Murph nodded.

Sam kicked open the door. Then they entered. Guns drawn.

It was a familiar sight. Furniture stacked high in front of windows and doors. Random clutter scattered about the floors. Flooding. Rotting. Crippling infrastructure. A once good life turned nightmare. Unheard tragedies frozen in time. A desecrated tomb. Morgue and mausoleum.

“Check the kitchen,” Murph ordered his son. “Watch out for traps.”

“Let’s go,” Sam tapped Lyla and led her upstairs, aiming to kill. “Hello!” 

Nothing. Sam lifted his mask and sniffed the air. Rot. Flesh. Something burned. 

Three rooms. The doors were open. Covered bodies lying in bed. Two kids. Ice cold. Four adults. Four headshots. They’d been dead for a while. The rooms were well-rummaged. Nothing. No luck. Not the worst outcome.

“Dad,” Lyla called and waved. She pulled a string that hung from the ceiling. “Attic.”

“Good job,” Sam said. “Stop touching shit.” He ascended the ladder. “Stay here.”

A cocoonery. Saggy sacks of fleshy pods that clung to the walls. Unlike those from a year earlier, these meat-sacks were empty, drooping, and dry. Whatever crawled out had been long born and departed. They’d find sacks like these on most trips. While some took the easy way out, others embraced the change. They’d find homes like these, where some sick-fuck would tend to the maturing larvae. That meant there was food nearby. Sugar. Water. Carbohydrates.

Sam scanned the attic and checked the pods. Safe. “Lyla,” he called.

“Yeah.”

“Come on.” She’d never seen them in person. It was time. “It’s okay.”

“What is it?” The teen was intrigued. Sam slapped her rising hand. 

“Don’t touch,” Sam said. “This is what happens. This is where the bugs come from.”

After enough death, Cappy came to his senses and organized a research team. He didn’t oppose the Edenites ending their nightmare, but stressed the importance of knowledge. With some time and patience, he believed that his wife and her team could find a cure, deterrent, or understanding. They knew the bugs thrived at night. That was it until a few brave souls gave their lives for freedom. Living as captives. Dying as specimens. Remembered as monsters with mismatched memorials.

“These were people?” Lyla asked.

“Were,” Sam said. “Yes.”

“How?”

“People change. We won’t always like what they become.”

The volunteers offered new insight that illuminated some mysteries. Following infection and incubation, the sick would slowly transform. The initial symptoms were just prepping the body. Most didn’t survive that. Those who did morphed. They’d fall into a coma as their bones calcified, and their skin bloated into a pod that consumed them. The newly grown flesh would act as a womb while the exoskeleton hardened. They were killed upon emergence. Cappy’s orders. The wild ones wrought havoc at night, feasting on idiots, livestock, and vegetation.

Sam and Lyla searched the attic for obvious hiding spots, in the walls, beneath the floorboards, and hollow points in the ceiling. Their persistence was rewarded with a sack of flour, a few boxes of pasta, two bags of sugar, and a wholesale case of energy drinks—the overnighters would appreciate that. They secured the haul and returned downstairs.

“Murph!” Sam called. Then grabbed his walkie-talkie. “Location?”

“Basement,” Murph said. “It’s a goddamn nursery.”

“Same thing upstairs,” Sam answered. “Need help?”

“Nah. Lighting a match.”

Sam went to the kitchen stove and turned on the gas.

The Murphys got lucky, too. Murph and Junior popped outside, wielding two long crates of whiskies, vodkas, tequilas, and soda. Nurseries were often stocked with liquor, for both the sugar and numbing effect.  They’d report most of it back to Cappy, minus their discovery fee. The four unmasked and got back in the car as the detached home burned to the ground.

“Next.”

Three out of ten hits. Seven homes were a bust, but for the clothes.

Not bad, all things considered. No incidents.

Good day for the kids to learn. 

Lucky.

***

“How’d we do?” Cappy asked.

“Not bad,” Sam answered. “Some food. Some drinks.”

“Libations.” Murph handed Cappy a spirit. “A sweet haul.”

They got back to Eden around noon. Lyla and Junior returned to their stations for arms and self-defense training. After dropping them off, Sam and Murph headed to Cappy’s for a daily debriefing in his home office, mulling over futures and strategies while getting as drunk as their workloads allowed. Cappy was gaunt. A symbolic sacrifice said to stave off jealousy. That was his excuse. The truth was that running a quadrant was hard. Time was taking its toll.

“Ammunition?” Cappy asked.

“No such luck,” Sam answered.

“We need to go further out.” Murph crossed his arms. “We’ve stalled enough.”

“Can’t waste the gas,” Cappy sneered and poured three drinks. “Won’t risk it.”

“Then send someone else,” Murph argued.

“Don’t trust them,” Cappy pushed two glasses forward. “Salud.”

Sam and Murph each took a glass. They drank in unison until empty.

“How’d the kids do?”

“Fine,” Murph said and slammed his glass on the table. Cappy refilled it.

“Green,” Sam added. “They’ll get better.” Sam set his glass down. Refilled.

“Good,” Cappy said. “I like them together. Strong stock.”

“Dude.” Murph winced. “They’re kids.”

“Not forever,” Cappy snapped. “We need babies. Don’t be naive.”

“Cappy,” Sam added, also disgusted. “Stop.” 

“What? I didn’t say ‘make them fuck’!” Cappy waved the words away. “Fine. Sorry.”

“Thank you.”

The quadrants were at odds. Predictable. 

After six months, some Eden residents began experiencing shortages. It wasn’t too bad at first: toilet paper, medical supplies, a light bulb, maybe some batteries. With each passing week, those needs grew larger, and the needy grew greater in number. 

Quadrants began freely cross-pollinating to trade products and services. What started as gracious altruism became entitlement and demand. People started saying no. The worst of them stopped asking. Civility became force. Favors became debt. Kindness became confrontation. Human nature. However, trade wasn’t out of the question. Couldn’t be. Survival beats hate.

Cappy downed his drink and looked at Sam. “Hydropower?”

“Prime location is a half-mile East,” Sam said.

“Not our territory,” Cappy answered. “No go.”

The task of trade was now an operation drenched in tension, handled by trusted militants working from orders. Private trades were outlawed. People still found a way, particularly the women and teens. Cappy wouldn’t punish anyone who was caught but if you got screwed, that was on you. “Sorry you were raped. Sorry you were robbed. Life’s harder than your head,” he announced at a community meeting. “We ain’t spilling blood for stupid.” The black market thrived—alcohol, cigarettes, drugs, contraceptives, and sex—in exchange for necessities.

Human nature, Sam thought. “Then we share it. We don’t have the depth here.”

“Tell Carl to figure it out. Offer him some…uh—” A beat. “What’s his thing?”

“Cocaine and pussy,” Murph said. “I can find the first.”

“Do that,” Cappy ordered. “We’ll rent him a girl from Q-two. They need meds.”

“On it.” 

Cappy refilled his glass. “Good work today, boys.”

“No problem.”

“You got it.”

***

“He’s getting worse.”

“I know.”

Murph made no secret of his discontent with Cappy. What started as minor quibbles was brewing into something that Sam tried not to call mutiny. Was it envy? Arrogance? Sociopathy? A malicious mix of all three? Who knew? He pondered the potential conversation but thought better of having it. On a future dark day, Sam would have to decide. Cappy or Murph? Tough call. Predictable.

“Not a big deal,” Sam said. “Reality always wins.”

“But you’re right.” Murph lit a cigarette. “We should share the damn thing.”

Sam lit one of his own. “Politics.” Nicotine cleared his mind. “Let him play.”

“Play,” Murph mocked, smiled, and puffed. “That’s funny coming from you.”

“I’m still alive,” Sam said and walked to his car. “Life’s a big, bad joke.”

“That it is.” Murph tipped his hat. “See ya tomorrow.”

Sam nodded, tossed his cigarette, and got into the car. 

‘Bigger the steed, heavier the load.’ That was Cappy’s logic. Fair. As such, Sam’s day continued with an itinerary of structural issues to fix. Plugging leaks. Reinforcing foundations. Rewiring fire hazards. Shingling roofs. All done exclusively within the quadrant. He’d taken over as the head of infrastructure and oversaw a team that completed the jobs. It was his responsibility to check them all. Approve or reject. Order materials. Fixing mistakes. 

—tedious shit…

“All good.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“Sam, kid. Call me Sam.”

When he was done there, he’d check in with Carl about the hydroelectric turbine. Sam relayed Cappy’s message and subsequent offer, which sent the math professor into a tailspin, both frustrated and deeply excited. Carl and his wife hadn’t spoken in months. All rumors pointed to a divorce, whatever that meant, these days. The portly man resolved to fixate on work and having his fun when he could—‘cocaine and pussy’. After that, Sam could finally go home.

Lyla was waiting. Cooking dinner. Spaghetti. 

“Hey, Dad,” she said. “Hungry?”

“Starving.” It wasn’t quite Emma’s cooking, but close. “Smells good.”

“Stole some garlic,” Lyla smiled and stirred. “It’ll be better than last time.”

“Last time was good, too,” Sam said and kissed her forehead. 

“Ew, Dad,” Lyla complained. “You reek!” She smiled like Emma.

Sometimes it was hard to look. “I’ll shower,” Sam promised. “Little brat,” and smiled.

The spaghetti was good—better than last time, as advertised. Lyla was growing up before his eyes, and sometimes Sam considered life without her. What would he do once she was grown? Who would he be? Maybe nothing. Maybe then he could be with Emma. They ate dinner in the living room while watching a movie. Then Lyla played her game as Sam watched with a glass, pretending to understand it. He visited the grave once she went to bed. Armed.

One year went by fast. Too fast. 

It still felt like yesterday.

“She’s doing well,” Sam said to the dirt, bottle in hand, and then sat. “You’d be proud.” He poured some vodka on the ground—about the same amount as Emma would drink. “It’s hard. But I’m trying.” He imagined his wife’s sarcastic teasing and smiled through the tears. “We’re trying. Trying not to be a baby about it.” That broke him. “Baby.” He drank until it hurt. “We’ll make it.” Sam stretched and laid down flat, as if she were there. “She’ll make it. I promise.”

Sam drank until he couldn’t. 

Then he fell asleep beside Emma’s grave.

***

Sirens? Warning sirens. Moonlight.

The speaker blared: “CODE RED!”

Shrieks. Hellish cries of flying fury.

Something shook him. Hard. A slap. “Dad!”

A thud. Another. A third. Landing. Heavy. Coming.

“Wake up!” A scream. A gunshot. Blurry. Haze. “Dad!”

“Emma,” Sam rasped and slapped his face twice. “Lyla!”

Lyla was cornered. Three bugs. Wings flared. One down. 

It looked like twenty. She held up the shotgun. Struggling.

“Shoot!” Gunshot. Splatter. Shrieks. She screamed. He shot.

“Lyla!” Sam stumbled, gun flailing. Nausea. He shot again. Missed.

“Left!” Lyla cried, her back against the door. Fighting. Tears. “Ten feet!”

Sam adjusted his aim. Then shot. Splash. Shrieks. The bug leaped. A round flew. 

Death cry. “No!” Gunshot. Splatters. Shrieks. Thud. Collapsing. Heavy.

Sam kicked the corpse off Lyla and shot the mutant in the brain. “Got him.”

“Yeah.” Lyla whimpered. Shaken. Trembling. Angry. Relieved. “Got him.”

More shrieks. Wings. Echoes in the wind. Shadows. Death from above. 

“Let’s get inside.” Lyla steadied herself, stood up, and held him. Tight.

“Okay.” Sam stumbled ahead. The door opened. Then closed. Locked.

A dream, he thought. A nightmare. Lies…

—sleep.

***

Sam awoke on the cabin floor. 

Dazed. Confused. Dirty. Covered in bile. Smelling like rancid fish. 

“Lyla?” She was cuddled beside him. Cold. “No…” he whimpered. “Lyla!”

“What!” She startled awake. Rubbing her eyes. “Dad, why?” She whined. Alive!

“Scared me.” Sam held her. Tight. “Scared me to death.”

“You too.” Lyla hugged back. “But we made it.”

“I love you, brat.”

“I love you, too, smelly.”

Lyla looked up. “Are we going to town?”

Sam looked in her eyes. “If you’re up t—” No! “Your eyes.”

“What?” Lyla was scared. “Dad?”

Her pupils were stretching. Splitting. Specks of black peppered the hazel and green. 

Polycoria. Too soon. That didn’t make sense. Unless.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Lyla.” Sam was stern. “Be honest.”

“A scratch …” She showed him her hand. “—from when it fell.”

Barely a scrape. That was enough. Fuck. “Stay here,” Sam said. He tried to get up. Fell. Lyla helped him to his feet. “Thank you, sit. I’ll be right back.” Pins and needles. His legs betrayed him. Then his stomach. Vomit. “I’ll get it later. Sit!” There was research. Nothing conclusive. Antibiotics were useless. The rabies vaccine helped, temporarily. Slowed things down. The vaccine and globulin. She would be tired but stable. He had both in the basement. 

Luck of the draw.

Sam took two caffeine tablets, lit a cigarette, and dragged himself back upstairs. 

“Give me your arm.”

“Okay…Ow!” Lyla squealed. “That hurt.”

He wiped the injection site with an alcohol swab. “Hand.”

She gave him her hand. This time, she didn’t complain. Didn’t flinch.

The second injection went into the wound. Plunger pressed. Done. Swabbed.

“Go bandage that up. Shower. Holler if you need me.”

“O-Okay,” Lyla stammered. “Are you alright?”

“We’ll see.”

Linda’s medical team handled virology. Analysis. Theories. Dissections. Their primary goal was to identify the routes of transmission. Direct and indirect contact. The indirectly affected could hang on for a while, especially with intervention. Direct infection meant severe symptoms came sooner. Days. Not weeks. A crapshoot, intervention or not. But Lyla was young. Strong. A fighter. Like Emma. Maybe things would be different. 

Sam didn’t welcome the knocks at his door.

“Morning,” Murph said. Junior waved from the car. “Ready?”

“Just about,” Sam answered. “Lyla’s taking a shower.”

“You look like hell.”

“Long night.”

“Trouble?”

“Not really.”

“You sure?” Murph stepped aside. The bug’s body was stiff. He kicked it. “Sam?”

“Dead ain’t it?” Sam sneered. “Giving me shit for defending my home?”

“Not at all.” Murph relaxed. “Some weren’t so lucky.”

“Who?”

“So far, the Johnsons. Welles. Cap’s doing a sweep.”

“What does he need?” Sam asked.

“Medicine.” Murph presented a handwritten list. “Now.”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Ten,” Murph smiled. “We’ll be waiting outside.”

“Sounds good.” Sam shook his hand. “I’ll call someone to clean up the bugs.”

“Already did.”

“Thanks.”

***

Sam checked Lyla before they left. No change. Obvious. She was spry enough, but her eyes were a problem. He told her to put on the mask. It was hard to see much past its visor.

“Girl, what are you doing?” Murph asked. “Too soon for that.”

“Training,” Sam said. “She gets dizzy. Needs to get used to it.”

Murph pondered the thought. “Smart.” Then to his son. “Mask up.”

“What?” Junior protested. “Why?”

“You wobbled yesterday,” Murph said. “Put it on.”

“Dad!”

“—or you can take your ass back to the field.”

Junior grunted. Then masked.

Murph laughed. “Kids,” he joked and elbowed Sam’s side. “Am I right?”

Sam lit a smoke. “Too often.”

Murph was suspicious. Sam knew. The lieutenant would bide his time, gathering intel, watching them lie, and debating the leverage it gave him. Lyla was fine, a bit sleepy but herself. They got into town about an hour later, woke the kids up, and searched for a pharmacy. The list wasn’t exhaustive. It would be quick. Murph once knew the owners. They had a stash. 

He knew where it was. “Old man didn’t see me watching,” Murph said.

“Fear is blinding,” Sam answered. “Sometimes that works out.”

“For other people,” Murph scolded. “Prey don’t get a say.”

The place was called ‘Mom & Pops’, a pharmacy and convenience store. Before superstores trumped the market, townsfolk relied on the place. It survived until The Fall. Like everything else, it was abandoned. Loyal townies kept it protected from looters and fires. Now it just stood there. Intact. Assumed empty. The Murphys stayed in town before Eden was open.

“Two teams,” Murph said. The four stood on either side of the door. “Steers. Calves.”

“You sure they’re ready?” Sam interjected, hoping for doubt. “Only their second run.”

“I can count,” Murph said. “Fighters feed on the pressure.”

“The pressure?” Sam questioned. “I don’t think that’s—” Murph grabbed him.

Then whispered. “It’s a small place. We can see them from everywhere.” 

“Oh,” Sam feigned surprise. “The pressure. Got it. You two will be fine.”

Junior looked nervous. Lyla held her stomach. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” Murph asked and stepped forward.

Sam stepped in front of him. “Nerves. Long night for her, too.”

Lyla lifted her mask. Eyes closed. Vomit. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve. 

“Lyla,” Sam said, and knelt. She lowered her mask. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” she said, and gave two thumbs-up. Unconvincing. “Cramps.”

Junior and Murph watched, confused. Afraid. Wondering. Knowing.

“Let’s go,” Murph said. He shot the locks and kicked open the door. “Come on.”

The inside was oddly untouched. After a year in the mayhem and watching decay, Sam had forgotten the world as it was. Didn’t think of it. It was a nineteen-fifties, shotgun-style store, with a single aisle that led straight to the pharmacist. Two registers. Medicine behind them. Products on the sides, hanging from hooks and racks. That’s it. No gate. No alarms. Just a high pickup counter and shelves. Stocked. ‘Mom & Pop’ must’ve been optimistic.

“Y’all wait here,” Murph said. “Shop. We’ll be quick.”

The kids nodded. Sam followed.

Sam and Murph worked through the list—mostly painkillers, relievers, laxatives, and miscellaneous medications for various special conditions. Herpes. HIV. Cholesterol. Anticoagulants. Antiarrhythmics. Beta Blockers. ACE inhibitors. Prenatals. Viagra. Narcan and whatever else they could fit in their bags. Cappy insisted on hoarding meds and medical supplies—demand was high, and they could be traded for anything.

“Here,” Murph shook a bottle and tossed it to Sam. “Roxanol. Fast. Painless.”

“For what?”

“Don’t insult me.” Murph zipped his bag. “She’s sick.” Then he stood.

Sam approached him, playing dumb. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t take a genius,” he said, coldly. “Bugs. Hiding her eyes. Vomit. Bandaged hand.”

“You’re imagining things,” Sam said. “Are you sleeping alright?”

“Like a baby.” Murph moved in closer. Inches. Glaring. “Look at me, Sam.”

Sam glared back. “You’re being insane.”

“I’m helping a friend. Hope you’d do the same.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Sam said. “Neither are you.”

“Don’t get her minced.” Murph sighed. “Do it when she’s asleep.”

Silence. Sam thought of killing him there.

Murph whistled. Loud. “We’re done! Let’s go.” Then broke the stare.

Sam was quiet. The kids were joking. Murph kept his eyes on the road, periodically trying to spark conversation and acting like nothing was wrong. The checkpoint was close. If they got back to Eden and Murph got out of his sight, there was no telling what would come next. Would he snitch? Would he lie? Would he wait until morning to confirm the deed?

Then he said it. Clear as condolences. 

“I can do it,” Murph had leaned in and whispered. “—if you can’t.”

Sam hit him. 

Once and then twice in the jaw. 

“Seatbelt,” Sam instructed, grabbed the wheel, and steered the car off the road. They hit a tree. A redwood. Murph drove fast and never buckled, no matter the speed. His hunger for thrills became a stumble to death as he bounced into the windshield, and it shattered. His broken body fell into its seat. Sam pulled out his gun. Aimed it at Murph’s head. And pulled the trigger. 

Gone.

“Junior, listen,” Sam pleaded as Murphy’s son panicked and raised his rifle. “Don’t.”

“What did you do?” the boy screamed. “Dad!” Red. Raging. Murderous. 

Gunshot. 

Lyla’s handgun smoked as Junior’s head slid down the mid-row window. Bloody. Gone.

Lyla took off her mask. Crying. Trauma. Vomit. Screams. “Dad…”

Soldiers approached as the engine grew flames. Armed. Signals.

“Mask on,” Sam said. He put his on, too. “Don’t say a word.”

Lyla nodded, wiped tears from her face, and remasked. 

They got out of the car as it blazed. 

Then put their hands up and dropped their guns.

Eden was a half-hour away. The drive took longer in the rain.

Sam concocted a harrowing tale of violence, betrayal, and kidnapping—a good friend had lost his mind while searching for medicine. Sort of true. When Lyla fainted from fatigue, the soldiers offered the pair a ride to Eden. In return, Sam gifted them several medications that’d likely add to their fun. He walked home from the first checkpoint with his daughter’s limp body dangling from his arms. There were stares. There were questions. He ignored them. 

Sam tended to Lyla, sugar and sleep.

Then he sent a messenger to get Cappy.

***

“Talk to me, son,” Cappy said and loosened his mask. “I’m listening.”

Sam poured two drinks. Whiskey. The good stuff.

“Murph’s dead,” he said. “Junior, too.”

Cappy sighed and held his drink lip-high. “You?” 

“Yeah,” Sam said. Both men drank. “Me.”

Cappy slammed his glass on the table. “Damn it, Sam,” he growled. “Why?”

“Had to.” Sam placed his glass on the table. Then refilled both. “Murph threatened Lyla.”

Cappy lifted his mask and sipped. A grunt. “Why?” 

“Junior threatened me.” 

“Why, Sam?” Cappy roared. Candlelight flickered between them. “Say it!”

Sam threw up. “Because we’re sick.” He wiped his mouth clean and then drank. 

Cappy drank too. “You haven’t looked in the mirror. Have you?”

Sam refilled his glass, leaned back, and then drank. “How bad?”

“Just starting.” Cappy drank, too. “How do you wa—?”

“You’re not cutting her up!” Sam punched the table. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Of course not.” Cappy slid his gun onto the table. “That wasn’t my question.”

Sam eyed the gun, then the old man. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Mood swings.” Cappy refilled his glass. “What do you want to do?”

Cappy was forthright with his opinion that Sam and Lyla remain quarantined. There wasn’t much to fight and even less to debate—even his current presence was taking a risk. Neither were far enough along to spread the BUG, but people would talk. Doubt would fester. Cappy’s leadership would be questioned. Sam was surprised to have a say at all—a final gift and recompense for past offenses, he assumed. The men drank and refilled.

“Let me do it,” Sam said. “—after the change. It gives us some time to…”

“I understand.” Cappy sat back. “Can you track the changes?”

“Yes. I’ll leave the notes on this table.”

“Good.” Cappy exhaled. Then calm. “And after that?”

“I’ll kill myself,” Sam said. “Linda can have what’s left.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Cappy said.

Sam smirked. “Because it is.”

***

Sam awoke the next morning to aching wails that echoed from Lyla’s bedroom. She’d gotten up early and, in her usual zeal, sought to bring Sam breakfast in bed. Her vision blurred halfway through buttering toast and scrambling eggs. He discovered the mess after checking in to quell his daughter’s cries. Two rabies shots. A little morphine. A tall glass of sugar and water.

“Your eyes,” Lyla said, in a moment of closeness and clarity. “They’re—”

“I know.” Sam smiled and excused himself to finish breakfast where she’d left off.

Lyla couldn’t eat. So Sam didn’t. 

They tossed the food and started the day.

She seemed to skip the first phase of symptoms. Sam guessed that Lyla had arrived somewhere late in the second or early third. In addition to the polycoria, she was losing hair fast, had an erratic mood, and periodically forgot what she’d been doing and saying. She tried cooking breakfast on more than one occasion, within the same hour. He didn’t mention it once.

She’d cry again when she remembered. 

He’d comfort her like the first time.

Before the day’s end, Cappy had assigned four men to guard the cabin—a security measure spurred by the fast-spreading news of their illness and containment. There were protests. There was unrest. There were questions about the Murphys. Sam encouraged Lyla to ignore it while they enjoyed the time they’d had left, a break before the long goodbye. Preparations would take time. Lyla was happy to help.

“Try not to stress it.”

“I won’t.”

Stress would only make things worse.

Their first order of business was to block the windows to keep the sunlight from blinding them. They covered the openings with spare blankets, towels, carpeting, and whatever else did the trick. They replaced the lights with an array of dim candles that Emma had packed for their smell. The new conditions did wonders for their sight but little for much else.

They traded the remainder of their food for sugar, water, and a few bottles of his favorite vodka—Cappy’s treat. They made ice-pops and sweet tea for dinner and watched television while Sam sipped away. Routine meant comfort, despite the armed threat around them. There was nothing good about captivity, but they were safe. Alive. Unbutchered. Sam called it a win.

“Can I try some?” Lyla looked up from the floor, rubbing her eyes. “Please?”

“You’re too young.”

“Dad…” she complained, almost like normal. “Come on.”

The ‘no’ felt silly. “Alright. Little brat,” he joked. “Get a glass.”

“Yes,” Lyla celebrated as she skipped to the kitchen. “Ice?”

“Yes, ma’am. The sweet ones.”

“Got it.” She wept in the kitchen before returning with red eyes, a smile, and holding a glass. “What should we toast to?” She bounced as he filled her cup. Excited. Scared. Lying. 

“It’s your first,” Sam said. “Whatever you want.”

Lyla considered the moment. She held up her glass. “To Mom.”

Sam’s glass met hers in the air. “To Emma.”

Clink.

She hated the taste and spat it out.

They hadn’t laughed that hard in a while.

***

She woke up screaming. Fevered. Boiled. 

Covered in mucus and blood. Peeling.

“Get it off!”

“Stop scratching!”

Vision. Hair. Teeth. Nails. Going. 

Gone.

***

“How’d you meet Mom?” Lyla asked, suddenly awake. “Dad?”

Sam wiped his mouth and rubbed his eyes. “Long story.”

“Try.”

“Okay.”

A few hits of morphine put her to sleep. After that, Sam dried what he could and bandaged the wounds. When he ran out of gauze and paper towels, he cut long strips of cloth from clean bedsheets and doused them in vodka. It was effective. Lyla playfully noted that she looked like a mummy. Sam forced a smile—don’t stress, he thought. Stress makes it worse.

“Coffee shop,” Sam continued. “She got tea. I made a joke.”

“Boo,” Lyla dragged. Tired. Raspy. “Lame.”

“So? You’re here because of lame.”

Her head went limp. “Gross.”

“Then I guess you’re gross.”

“I am.”

After patching the wounds, the next move was to cool her down. Lyla had slept throughout most of the day and ran a fever that could’ve cooked her to death. Sam broke the fever with cold water and dry ice packs. They kept her stable but confined to the bathtub. He made camp beside the toilet. Convenient. Sam was waiting with sugar when she finally awoke from her slumber. The headaches were fierce, but he managed. Caffeine tablets kept him alert.

Lyla was asleep again.

Sam took his notes and fell asleep too.

He finished the story when they both woke up.

***

“Lyla?” She wasn’t in the tub. Sam’s gut filled with fear. “Lyla!” He stumbled to his feet. Fell. Then stumbled again. He leaned on the toilet, then the sink, then the bathroom door. “Lyla!” 

He couldn’t see—like grease was smeared on his lenses. Sam drank the rest of his soupy sugar and prayed that it worked this time. His vision returned with a crystal clarity that spooked him—or would’ve. “Lyla!” He lit candles as he traipsed through the home and arrived in the living room. God, he thought, and approached. The cocoon was moist. Dripping.

Hanging firmly on the far wall. 

Hairy. Bulbous. Fleshy. Breathing.

—sleeping.

***

Sam spent the next four days getting drunk and observing the pod.

On the fourth day, he lost his vision. He left the notepad on the table, as promised.

He returned to the living room, laid on the couch, and drank the last of his favorite liquor.

He prayed for death when the final drop kissed his tongue.

Then he peeled off his fingernails and picked at his flesh.

***

Night.

Burning. Smoke. Fire.

Dry wood turning to ash.

Screaming outside. Loud. Angry.

“We do not tolerate this disease!” someone screamed. “Your words!”

“They’re still human!” Cappy said. “This is murder! This is wrong!”

Jeers. Rabble. Shouting. “No!” the stranger continued. “This is!”

Gunshot. Sam reached for his weapon, an automatic, fully loaded.

“For all that is good and God’s, we purify this unclean den of Satan.”

Sam looked at the pod. It was quivering. Moving. He rolled off the couch and crawled to the front door. Gun aimed. Blurred vision. Hoping the voice was close. It was. He positioned himself as flames grew and smoke choked the home. Patient. Waiting. Ready to see the light.

The shouting and jeers became chants.

“Burn! Burn! Burn!” The voices incanted. “Clean! Clean! Clean!”

The zealot continued. “We shall carry God’s flame far and wide!”

“Burn! Burn! Burn!”

“Until all of Eden is purified!”

“Clean! Clean! Clean!”

“Until Satan himself is ash!”

“Burn! Burn! Burn!”

The crowd would retaliate fast. Seconds. He’d cluster his shots at the largest mass and then aim for the preacher—the voice boomed from the steps, just outside of the door. He was close. Close enough, he thought. Sam looked back at Lyla and watched her pod wriggle. 

Too hot. Too bright. Too soon.

“I love you,” he whispered and waited, thinking of Emma. “I love you.”

“These demons are not of Earth! Not of God!”

“Burn! Burn! Burn!”

“Not of Truth! Not of Man!”

“Sin! Sin! Sin!”

Sirens. Loud and rapturous wails of warning whistling in the wind. Shrieks. Screams.

“Door open,” Sam rasped. The front door slid open. Fire blew through the crevice.

“Wha—?” The preacher was shocked. Then he was shot. “Lord! Hel—” Gone.

His gunfire continued, raining and rattling through bodies and wood and then corpses.

Shrieks. Screams. They sounded the same. Humans and monsters alike. Dying by fire.

Something hit him. Then another. Another. Another. Again. Sam coughed up blood, spat out teeth, and then crawled through the smoke and kept shooting. Bodies were piled. Others had scattered. The still living were lunch for the bugs. Death from above. Angry and shrieking. Sam dragged himself out of the smoke and into the dirt. Shooting. Shooting. Shooting until he was empty. “Go to hell!” Screaming. Shrieking. Something shattered behind him. The skylight.

Lyla! Angrily shrieking. Alive! 

Fluttering on a midnight breeze.

A hypnotic mutation that blossomed in moonlight.

A swarming specter seeking shelter and sustenance. Free!

Sam crawled to Emma’s grave, tattered and stepped on…

—and fell asleep.

End

---

If you enjoyed this story, please like, share, and leave a review!

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Photo Courtesy of Suzy Hazelwood