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“Hannah! Over here!” she called out louder than I would have liked. Sometimes the girl was a complete idiot. She was not only getting my attention, but she could be drawing attention from every damn shadow lurking in the distance.
Lettie pulled free a shredded strip of rope off a rail as I swam closer to the pier that appeared as if it were drowning in the filthy water. The pier had long since been thrashed by The Itch. Apart from small juts of broken wood, almost nothing remained of the harbor. Lettie braided one end of the rope, like a wreath, and tossed it to me as I approached.
“Don’t let go,” she called out.
I yanked the rope and reeled myself in hand-over-hand in water that had more of a consistency of oil and sludge than what was once a raging river. I grew weak by the effort required being nothing more than a symmetrical waif with matted blonde hair. I hadn’t had a morsel of food in days, and not much more in weeks. My clothes sagged off of my waist, and my pelvic bones stuck out of my skin. I couldn’t imagine how the fabric would stay on me when I was soaking wet on land. When I climbed the pier and stepped onto shore, neither Lettie nor I wasted time on reassuring welcomes.
“The Church isn’t across the river,” I informed, relaxing my grime-streaked arms. “Not that I had much hope it would be. It’s just as dead over there as it is on this side of the river.”
“Well it was worth a try,” Lettie said with a shrug of her rail-thin shoulders. “Then it must be on this side somewhere. My guess is deep within the city hidden somewhere.” She glanced toward the skyline of crumbling structures and jagged metal. “It’s good that it’s narrowed down for us.”
“Maybe for you.” I glared. “You didn’t have to swim across the contaminated sludge to find out.”
“I can’t swim, Hannah. You know this.”
I rolled my eyes as I knelt down in the sand to catch what little strength I could. “Likely story.”
Lettie kneeled down across from me, folding her arms as she watched me squeeze the filthy water from my bag. As soon as I unzipped it, the rotting smell of black mold jolted Lettie into a deep hacking cough.
“Shit,” I whispered, wiping my clumped hair from my eyes. I had been a post-grad historian pre-The Itch, and I knew my once favorite book bag was now ruined. I remained silent for a long time, oddly mourning my bag. Suddenly, I ceased when I saw Lettie scratching her calf. Backing away fast, I pulled out an aerosol can and a Zippo lighter.
She stared at me, stunned. My thumb twitched over the spark wheel.
“I’ll do it. I mean it, Lettie.” It wouldn’t be the first person I had killed, and most certainly wouldn’t be the last. The world was ruthless. Kill or be killed—even if it was your friend.
Lettie gawked at me, startled. “It’s just an itch.” Her eyes grew wider. “A real one! It’s not what you think. I’m not infected!”
I didn’t believe a word. Trust equaled death, and I wasn’t about to die before I found The Church. “Show me.”
After a moment’s pause, Lettie threw up her hands. I studied her cautiously as the woman dug out her penknife and made a small incision in her arm. Drops of red dribbled down to her wrist—not a single sign of foam.
“There. Satisfied? See any foam in my blood?”
Without making any sound at all, I stood to my feet. I helped Lettie up, hoping the simple action would act as enough of an apology.
“I might have overreacted, but I had to be sure you weren’t infected. How am I supposed to know what happened when I was across the river? One of the scratchers could have gotten to you.”
Lettie silently swiped her filthy hair away from her eyes and pocketed her penknife.
“Come on, we need to find someplace to hide before nightfall,” I said as I glanced back at the blood once more, double-checking.
I knew exactly what I was looking for. The symptoms. It was the middle of 2018 when it happened. As William told it, before he fell ill, July 27th, 2018 was just an ordinary day. A handful of people had come down with something in a part of Phoenix, Arizona, which then doubled the next week and quadrupled the week after. Whatever the illness was, it spread.
By the end of six months, a record number of cases—people showing up with the symptoms—surpassed any calculated estimates by the CDC. It had never become real for me until it hit William, my fiancé. We both lived in Monterey, California. I lay in bed one evening with a glass of wine set beside me on the bedside table. William awoke in the middle of the night complaining of an achy body followed by itching.
