The Last Town on Earth (26 page)

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he next day thirty-two sick men were absent from the mill, the lumber camps, and the river crews. Many of those men had wives and children who were also ill, Doc Banes had told Charles and Philip that morning as he’d stuffed the newest list of addresses into his pocket and headed out the door. The numbers were growing at an astounding rate—Banes figured the sick could number more than a hundred within two days.

Depending on when Leonard had first become sick, this was only the fourth or the fifth day that people in Commonwealth had been infected. Leonard already had three companions in death, including his friends Otto and Ray, who had both joined him the previous evening. The speed with which they had succumbed—the ravishing violence of this flu—shocked Dr. Banes.

Right before leaving, Banes had said to Charles, almost offhand, that Flora Metzger was among the sick and that the general store was closed.

Philip froze. Then he interrupted the doctor and asked how Elsie and Alfred were doing.

“They seemed healthy when I saw them last night.”

Philip faced his desk, too overcome to let Charles or the doctor see his reaction. He stared at the pages and charts before him, unable to think of anything except the fact that Elsie was now confined to a sick house, that she had to watch her mother suffer, had to fear that the same fate awaited her as well.

Philip was useless that day, unable to concentrate. He wanted to go straight to Elsie’s door but knew he could not. There was nothing he could do, and Charles needed help in the office. Besides, Charles was friends with Mr. Metzger and with several of the sick workers; surely he was as worried as Philip was about Elsie. Philip thought about Graham, how he always seemed able to contain his emotions and focus on the task at hand, and tried to imitate that strength.

During the day, Philip collected reports from the foremen: twelve more men had reported sudden illness and left for home, bringing the total absentee number to forty-four. Each hour the ranks of the sick grew. Yet there was no companionship in it, as they were all isolated in their semi-delirious states, alone with their fevers and chills and strange waking dreams that seemed to talk to them like voices from beyond the pale.

That afternoon Banes visited the office again for a brief status report, and Philip asked if there was any more news on the Metzgers. Banes shook his head, saying only “Mrs. Metzger is much worse.”

“Maybe I should go by and see if they need any help or—”

“Don’t do that,” Banes said, stopping even as he was nearly out the door. It was as though Philip had proposed burning down the mill. “Don’t visit anyone who’s sick. Don’t try to help—all you’ll do is get sick yourself.”

Banes turned and left before Philip could say anything more.

Philip stayed at the office past the point where there was anything to do. He was afraid of bumping into millworkers on the way home, afraid of their suspicious eyes and stares of blame, so he waited until quitting time had long passed and he figured the streets would be deserted.

“Go on ahead,” Charles had said, “I’ll be home shortly.”

Philip’s stomach had been bothering him all that day—he’d been too nervous to eat since hearing about Mrs. Metzger, and as he walked out of the mill and down the long street leading to town, he felt a bit unsteady on his feet. With his hands stuffed into his pants pockets as protection from the surprisingly cold air, he kept his eyes on his boots as he made his way toward home.

He looked up when he heard voices. Five men stood on a street corner, their heads and shoulders illuminated by the streetlamp hanging overhead. He recognized them as millworkers but didn’t know their names—none were foremen, none had ever been introduced to him. Most of them seemed somewhat older, ten years or more beyond Graham’s age, and each possessed a slight variation of the weather-worn, beaten-down look endemic to men of their station. Four sets of eyes were aimed his way, but one man stared at the ground, seemingly held captive by a vacant despair.

“’S him,” one man said. Philip had intended to nod a polite hello, but he could tell from their tone that they weren’t interested in pleasantries.

“He’s the one brought the flu here,” another said, and Philip sensed movement toward him.

One of the men was striding into his path, followed by two of his compatriots.

“You’re Philip Worthy, right?” the man in front asked. His thick beard was dark, though the hair atop his head was dusted with gray, and his ears were oddly prominent. “I’d recognize that limp anywhere.”

Philip felt his cheeks redden, and a sick feeling surged through his stomach.

The man stepped right up to him, closer than was friendly. “You’re the one got Michael’s boy sick.”

Two men stood beside the bearded one. Behind them the other two remained, one of them still looking down at the ground with glassy eyes as he leaned against the streetlight and the other standing to that man’s side as if protecting him.

“Who’s Michael’s boy?” Philip asked weakly, trying to sound interested and harmless.

“Leave it alone, Isaac,” said the man staring at the ground. He had short brown hair, and on his chin was a sprinkle of light stubble. His voice was quiet and resigned.

Philip heard other voices coming from behind—more men emerging from the mill. He had thought everyone had left already, but apparently he was wrong.

“That’s Michael,” said Isaac, pointing back to the quiet one. “His son’s so sick the doctor says he ain’t gonna make it.”

Someone mumbled into Isaac’s ear, and he nodded. His eyes were filled with a barely contained rage, and Philip was afraid that if he looked away from them, the man would bare his teeth and let loose a piercing howl while lunging for Philip’s throat. All Philip could do was keep looking at those eyes, as if he could pin the man in place with his gaze.

Isaac was a very large man.

“We should take him into the woods,” said the third man, who had a long, thin face. The other men leaving the mill were approaching.

“What I want to know from you,” Isaac said, still staring hard at his prey, “is what in the hell you think you were doing letting that man into our town.”

“Leave it alone, Isaac,” Michael repeated. He still had not moved from the streetlight, his head hanging so forlorn it looked almost like he had been tied to the pole and left there to die.

“I want to hear him answer for himself.”

Philip hoped that Charles was part of the group of approaching men, but he could tell from the voices that he was not.

Isaac was waiting. His breaths were even but loud, as if he expected Philip to try running away and was ready to give chase.

Men like this were the people Philip had been protecting when he stood guard. But they had been different before. The fear of the flu had changed everyone. It had cut off everyone’s breath, forcing their hearts to work twice as hard just to keep beating.

Philip was still afraid to look away from Isaac, but he shifted his eyes to the face of Michael and said, “I’m sorry about your son, mister.”

“Don’t even talk to him!” Isaac bellowed and stepped forward, forcing Philip to back up a step.

“What’s going on, fellas?” one of the men from the approaching group asked.

Michael and his companion remained silent, and Isaac appeared too enraged to reply. “It’s Philip Worthy,” the thin man said.

“He’s the bastard let the flu in,” the fifth man said in a faint Eastern European accent. “We’re trying to decide what to do wid ’im.”

“Leave it alone,” Michael said again, and again he was ignored.

“I ain’t getting that close to him,” one of the men from the new group announced, “and I say you’re crazy to do otherwise.”

Isaac backed off a step upon hearing this. These men blamed Philip and feared him all at once.

“I’m just trying to get home,” Philip said.

“I’d let him go,” another of the new men said. “It’s not too wise to breathe the air around him.”

“Get out of here,” Isaac barked at Philip. Philip obeyed, one foot almost tripping over the other, an awkward stutter step that surely betrayed his fear. “Walk away and keep walking—walk straight out of town, you hear?”

Philip walked as fast as he could without running, passing the houses with the shades drawn, behind which families hid for silent suppers. As he put more distance between himself and the confrontation, his gait slowed. The charged shivers of fear were fading, giving way to a sickening anger—he was angry at himself for being scared, angry for looking weak and being outnumbered. Angry for not being as tall or as broad as Isaac, for not knowing how to answer the man’s question in a way that would have satisfied any of them, or even himself.

The silence of the town was barely broken by his footsteps. The air smelled sweet, the fir trees seemingly more aromatic this time of year, the dirt and the earth releasing whatever spirit they had left before winter’s grip suffocated them over the next few months.

It was so quiet he could hear footsteps approaching from several blocks away, before he could even see the figure in the distance. It took him longer than it should have to recognize her, since she was walking with her head down, and when she did look up, a gauze mask covered half her face.

It was Elsie, Philip realized. They made eye contact, but she looked back down as if hoping he hadn’t noticed her, as if they weren’t seemingly the only two people left in the entire town.

He froze and said her name, and she stopped, too, ten feet away. She was off to his left, as if she’d hoped to pass him without stopping. Philip had seen the doctor wearing such a mask, but it swallowed Elsie’s smaller face, her eyes barely appearing over the top. Her hair was pulled back, though a few curls had escaped. They dangled in the faint wind.

“Hi,” she said quietly, her voice muffled. “I’m just running by the store to get something. Doc Banes told us not to run errands, so I was hoping I wouldn’t bump into anyone.”

It hurt him to see her cowering that way, stigmatized by her family’s new status. He stepped toward her, but she backed away.

“Doc Banes says I’m not supposed to get close to anyone,” she said, looking down.

“Are you sick?”

She shook her head, and something inside him unclenched. “But my mother’s not well.”

“I’m so sorry. I just heard today. I wanted to come by and check on you, but Doc Banes told me not to.”

She nodded, and for a few seconds they stood in silence. He thought of how he’d felt when Graham had backed away from him outside the storage building. How could he possibly keep away from her? How could he of all people justify treating her that way?

Finally, he took a step toward her, then another. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” She watched him approach, this time not backing away. “You shouldn’t get too close.”

“Most people think I’m the one who let the flu in,” he said. “Best I can figure, if I haven’t gotten it yet, I’m not going to.”

“I don’t want to be responsible,” she said, but her voice broke off, cracked. He thought he saw her eyes water.

“I don’t want to be responsible, either.” He stopped a few feet in front of her, as close as two friends would normally stand. He could see the outline of her lips through the mask, see the gauze gently lean in when she inhaled.

“I’m just gonna run to the store,” she said.

“You mind some company?”

He couldn’t see her smile, but he could hear it in her voice. “I’d love some.”

They walked together, Philip retracing the steps he’d taken from the mill.

“I haven’t left the house since yesterday morning, when Doc Banes made me fetch my father from the store,” Elsie said, looking around suspiciously, as if not quite sure whether she was glad to be in the outside world. “It’s so peaceful out here.”

“Everybody’s hiding. You’re not the only one who’s been shut in.”

“She keeps coughing and coughing.” Elsie shook her head. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”

“How are her spirits?”

“It’s like it’s not even her. She can barely talk—can you imagine my mother quiet? A couple times when my dad said something real obvious, she’d give me this look like she wanted to tease him for it, but she couldn’t.” Her voice grew quiet again as she walked up to the general store and unlocked the front door. “She couldn’t even
talk.
”

Inside, she lit a small lamp as Philip closed the door behind them. She asked him to lock it.

“I don’t want to light up the place,” she told him. “People might think we’re open and try to come in.”

“You need a hand with anything?”

She said she’d be fine and disappeared into one of the aisles, carrying the lamp with her. Philip sat on a bench by the door and watched the light following her and turning a corner, leaving him in the dark. There wasn’t much food left on the shelves, he noticed.

The light grew stronger again and there she was, a small satchel slung over her shoulder and the lamp in her right hand. She placed it on her mother’s desk and sat beside him.

“Mind if we just sit her for a little while?” she asked. “I’m not in any rush to get back there.”

“Sure.”

He felt curiously excited to be alone with her again, behind locked doors. Mixed with this was his concern for her mother and for her own peace of mind, and his fear that he was to blame for what was happening. She didn’t seem to be holding it against him, though.

“Is your dad okay?”

“Me and him both. It’s only my mother so far.”

“She’s been sick two days?”

“Just about.” They sat side by side, each facing forward. He stole occasional glances at her from the corner of his eye. Her face was still, her eyes motionless above the mask.

“She’s getting through, then,” Philip said. “First couple of days of the flu are usually the worst. I’m sure she’ll be up and chattering away in a couple more days.”

She turned to face him. “Has anyone else died?”

The fact that he couldn’t see the rest of her face made her eyes look even more vulnerable.

“What have you heard?” Philip asked.