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“It’s true: it is nighttime,” Toto said.
“Well, if we’re all up, we might as well push on. Sooner the better,” Sam said with a sigh. “Let’s go find this lake.”
Sanjit was slight in build. But he was strong. So when Lana collapsed he was able to catch her and hold her.
Dahra saw it happen. “She needs sleep,” she said to Sanjit. “Get her out of here.”
“What about you?” Sanjit asked.
“I’ve gotten really good at grabbing power naps,” Dahra said. “Besides, Virtue is almost as much use around here as you are.”
“Almost?” Virtue grumbled.
He had come to the so-called hospital with word that Bowie was doing much better. He had tucked the rest of his brothers and sisters into bed with too little water and too little food. And now he was helping Dahra.
Dahra put a hand on his shoulder and said, “You’re a life-saver, Virtue. My little African brother, here.”
That brought one of Virtue’s rare smiles. Dahra’s folks came from Ghana and Virtue’s from Congo, so they weren’t exactly from the same neighborhood, but it gave them something in common, Sanjit realized. That, plus the fact that they were both incredibly decent people.
“I can’t carry Lana to Clifftop,” Sanjit said. “But I can get her a place to lie down.”
Lana woke up long enough to say, “Urrhh. Wha?” And then her eyes rolled back in her head and Sanjit lifted her in his arms. Virtue brought him a couple of blankets and draped them over his shoulders.
He carried her up out of the basement, up through the hallway crowded with hacking, miserable kids, and out to the plaza.
Five unburied bodies lay there side by side. Mismatched blankets covered each one, corners tucked underneath, faces covered by chenille or satin or tartan wool.
They’d given the plague a name, a callous nickname. The SDC they called it: Supernatural Death Cough.
But at some point during the day they’d begun to notice that some kids were getting better, too. The flu was awful. But it wasn’t a death sentence to everyone who caught it.
They’d been unable to keep complete records, but according to Dahra’s hasty notes and frazzled memory about one in ten progressed to full-blown SDC.
Sanjit was struggling a bit to carry Lana, but he was unwilling to lay her down near the dead or within sound of the hacking coughs.
She wasn’t just going without sleep. She was going without love and hope. She was living with guilt for having failed to be Superwoman, having failed to kill the evil in the mine shaft, having failed to see what was happening to Mary.
He took her to the beach and laid her down on one of the blankets, which he spread on the soft, dry sand. She was lying on top of the gun in her belt, so he slid it out and lay it on her stomach. Then he covered her with the other blanket.
Her faithful dog had followed them the whole way and now Patrick snuggled beside her. He looked up at Sanjit, questioning.
She would almost certainly be safe here alone. No one wanted to hurt the Healer. And Patrick would bark if anyone came close.
But Sanjit couldn’t just leave her here all alone. So he settled into a sort of yoga sitting posture, sighed, and decided to await sunrise.
• • •
Albert did not resist. Maybe, he thought, a braver kid would have. But he wasn’t that kid. When Turk demanded to know where Albert’s secret stash was, Albert told him.
Simple as that.
Albert had wet himself. He had cried. Still was crying.
He was going to die. He knew that. They would figure out pretty soon that there was no safe way to release Albert.
They would know that. He knew it, so how could they not know it?
But he could negotiate, maybe. Maybe now that they had all his stuff, his stash of canned food and bottled water.
