The Oasis of Filth (3 page)

5

The Garden of Eden. Paradise. Utopia. Shangri-La. Ours was called “The Oasis.”

Somewhere out beyond the city walls, The Oasis was a place where people were said to live freely, without fear of government, infection, dirt, attack. A community from the time before, where none of today’s worries penetrated inside. Heaven.

In other words, a fantasy.

There were plenty of rumors about The Oasis, but of course, not one of the people talking about it had been outside the walls in 10 years. In office break rooms or playing chess in the park, they would say with utter certainty, “It’s in Mexico.” “No, Brazil.” “No, it’s in Kansas.” I ignored the nonsense.

Rosalinda — who I had come to call just “Rosa” — and I spent a lot of time together, at least after work. There were too many doctors in DC for me to have continued my practice, according to the government hack that decided such things, so I was shifted to a large government pharmacy, filling prescriptions. It kept me alive, so I guess I didn’t mind too much.

But Rosa was kind of important. She worked as a microbiologist with the National Institutes of Health, in a small lab they’d set up in Southeast. She was working with the government to find a cure. Once the initial wave of paranoia swept past, she made a few friends in the neighborhood. People constantly asked her what she knew — were we close? Any luck today? But in reality, she was told very little about the big picture, and just tasked to focus on the bacteria
Mycobacterium leprae
and
Mycobacterium lepromatosis
, which cause leprosy. She would tell me of minor triumphs, sometimes major failures, and the doldrums of working day after day on something that seemed to have little purpose or goal, and no discernable outcome.

We had dinner together often, and you might think that a romance was blooming. Maybe it was, but I was twice her age and never truly pushed it. We would talk for hours, and then I would head back to my apartment. With her mom’s health in rapid decline, I was also useful to have around, simply to help out with day-to-day chores.

We just liked to talk. Our backgrounds in science and medicine gave us a similar mindset that made conversations feel comfortable. When we weren’t discussing The Oasis, we’d wonder about the world outside the walls, or remember the time before the outbreak, or just chat about the latest news. Anything to keep our minds occupied. And sometimes it seemed like we’d keep a conversation going just to spend time together.

We did calculations on the disease outside the cities. Three hundred million left outside, 10 years ago. The disease seemed to be 100-percent infectious if a person was bitten or wounded by a zombie, resulting in a 100-percent mortality rate, eventually, from what we knew. But if you could avoid the zombies, maybe keep your own little space clear of the filth that stirred up the disease in the first place, you’d have a chance, or at least we thought so. Nonetheless, before the outbreak, around 3 million people per year died in the United States. Imaging a landscape without medical treatment, without any guaranteed food, we guessed that number might be much, much higher, maybe 25 million a year. Sure, there were likely births to offset some of that, but even putting the attrition rate at 20 million a year, the U.S. had lost 200 million people. That was our guess. More than half the country, gone. But that still left 100 million potential zombies to carry on the infection. And that wasn’t counting the possibility that animals could carry it as well. Looking at the trajectory, we could see the outbreak couldn’t last forever. The problem was, neither could the human race.

When the discussion would get overly serious and scary, we’d change the subject to something lighter. Dealing with an ill family member is a grueling affair, so there was comfort in just falling into a chair and talking about
anything else
with someone who understood the value of distraction. I asked about her bracelet. She laughed.

“Yep, I made it. I was just so
bored
of everything looking the same. When something wears out — a shirt, bed sheet, whatever — I like to take a little sliver of it before it goes to the recycling center. I keep it small, so it doesn’t attract too much attention. And I make little things, bracelets.”

“You have more than one?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

She didn’t reply. Instead, she stood up and walked to a small table, opening a drawer in the front. Inside, I saw dozens of little bracelets, in an array of colors.

* * *

Her mom died of natural causes a little more than five weeks later. There was a small, unassuming ceremony monitored by two bored-looking government agents who failed miserably in their attempt to blend in. This was common practice at funerals in the city — to ensure that the death wasn’t related to the outbreak.

Rosa was devastated. Even in our world of hardship and fear, the loss of a parent was the permanent shutting of a door. At the same time, it opened another door to the realization that, after all, we were mortal; we all died.

Everyone says they know this, but losing a parent makes it hit like a hammer blow.

I kept going to Rosa’s mother’s apartment for dinners and other visits, and in short order just thought of it as Rosa’s apartment. Sometimes Rosa would come to my place, since there was no one left at hers who needed attention, but we rarely tempted fate by having her walk home alone at night. Sometimes our conversations would turn to The Oasis.

One night at Rosa’s apartment, after a light dinner, as she and I finished meticulously cleaning, drying and storing the dishes, she turned to me. “Wouldn’t it be amazing? Just to stop all this. To go back to something normal?” I stopped, lowering the plate I’d been about to place back on its shelf. There was a twinkle in her brown eyes as she looked away, past me. I could see the dream meant something to her. It gave her hope. There was no way I was going to laugh and take that away from her.

After that, the topic came up more frequently. It seemed Rosa was organizing — in her head — a sort of compendium of thoughts about The Oasis. The most important detail she worked to figure out was simple: Where was it? Just answering that one question would be life-altering. For that alone would mean
it really existed
. The details of how people lived there, how many were there, all that would be far less important. Just
where was it
?

When people would say Kansas or Brazil or Mexico, it was clear they were generalizing. Brazil is a rather large place, and it was unlikely that the haven of all humanity set up shop in the deepest rainforest. Without any government backing, it seemed more likely that natural diseases like malaria would have a devastating effect there. That was one aspect of our situation that always amused me; in the midst of the most horrific outbreak in human history, we were still on the hook for such everyday maladies as the common cold, even athlete’s foot or gingivitis. But these things were rare in the pristine society of the city — and if you did have anything unusual, you kept it quiet, for fear of disease rumors. Besides, you had to think fate was a twisted, cruel mess if you died from a zombie bite because you couldn’t run away fast enough due to the discomfort of athlete’s foot.

Because she worked as a government researcher, Rosa would sometimes get “Official Government Communications” — I’ve added the capitalization because somehow that’s how she pronounced it every time. In her research, she had access to several computers, linked together with her colleagues and connected to some sort of repository of data — things the government had collected, other research that was useful as reference. She had extremely controlled access to email. She was allowed to send and receive messages from her colleagues related to work and office interests, but anything social or personal was forbidden. Breaking this rule could result in suspension or even termination. And you didn’t want to be unemployed in the current world setting. The Internet seemed long dead, and even if it were still around, random browsing would have been forbidden as well. I imagine Rosa was tempted to search for The Oasis in her data systems, although I’m sure she could guess the outcome would be quite dangerous. In any event, Rosa did get messages from the government, usually in the form of email, but sometimes it required a real human being to deliver it to the lab where she worked. Because she was based on the Hill and not at NIH proper, the messengers often stayed for a while, whether to rest or just simply avoid their superiors for a while. On these occasions, when she could either hear something in their conversation or even ask a direct question without seeming like she was collecting information, Rosa would learn what she could about The Oasis. Actual news that wasn’t from the know-nothing people in the neighborhood.

From these infrequent visits, a seed was planted. Rosa began to firmly believe that The Oasis, in some fashion, was real and existed in the western part of South Carolina, along the border with Georgia. Multiple hints and rumors talked about a vast emptiness outside the eastern walls of Atlanta, and a similar emptiness west of Columbia, South Carolina. In that sprawling expanse where someone should have been straggling, surviving, scraping by, the government wasn’t seeing anyone. The occasional zombie, yes, but never any
people
. If our estimates were anywhere near correct — and I’m sure the government had much better numbers — there were still those 100 million people who should be around. But no one was ever sighted in that region. The area Rosa focused on had big lakes, some parkland, and plentiful forests. And it was just north of Augusta, a city that had been walled for about three-and-a-half years before falling apart. The government would admit to nothing, but the prevailing rumor was that Augusta fell because of some internal rebellion.

In Rosa’s mind, the countryside was perfect, the rebellion in Augusta spoke of a starting point and possible resources for a new community, and the empty swathes told her something was different there. In only a few weeks, she became sure that The Oasis was real, and sat about 500 miles south of us down Interstate 95. Her growing certainty had two simultaneous effects on me: It was intoxicating, making me want to believe, and it terrified me. Had this person I’d come to care about so much lost touch with reality and pinned her hopes on a phantom?

As a man of science, I tried to offer alternate, more rational theories. It was possible that some other disease could have ravaged the area. Or there was radiation or some other contaminant that made it unfit for human habitation. Or maybe the reports were just wrong. Rosa would listen to my counterpoints, but she was headstrong. She’d parry every argument. Why wouldn’t any of those other reasons bubble up from her information channels, she wondered, especially with a government that wanted to be in total control and typically left nothing to mystery? Shouldn’t she have heard
something
?

There was more to be concerned about. Neighbors and coworkers slowly began to realize that she was plying them for any information. She would laugh it off and say she was just talking nonsense to pass the time, but when it happened repeatedly it was harder not to notice. At least one of the government messengers paused, gave her a long look, and then left her building without saying anything. Was her obsession putting her — perhaps even both of us — in jeopardy? It made me hesitate.

As I said, we spent
most
nights together, but not all. So it was not that unusual if I declined her invitation. I found myself turning her down sometimes for no good reason, although now I’m ashamed to admit that. I think her fascination with a fantasy made my older bones and older mind tired sometimes. And that’s why on May 23rd, a date I’ll always remember, I wasn’t there when they took her.

6

You know how you could tell the government cars on the street from anyone else? Because only the government had cars anymore.

It was a picturesque spring evening, the weather cool but not cold, the bright sun beginning to set, making for long shadows and brilliantly illuminated west-facing walls. I was walking home, and a sense of guilt forced me to pass Rosa’s street and pause to look in the direction of her apartment. I spotted a black vehicle just as its doors closed and engine revved, and watched it race northward. Immediately I knew what had happened. I ran to her apartment building as fast as I could and scaled the stairs more quickly than a person my age should. My heart, already pounding, stuttered when I found her front door open, no one inside. I ran to the window and craned my head to see where the car was going. But I knew. Everyone knew where they took you. Just as everyone knew you never came back.

Bolling Air Force Base, on the banks of the Potomac River. It was in Southeast, just over the bridge. They’d go north, turn east on Pennsylvania Avenue, cross the river, and then go south. I didn’t hesitate.

Tucked behind her building, Rosa had a bike; it was an old, black, metal contraption.
Since no one had cars, bikes with baskets were the preferred alternative when getting supplies. She liked to ride hers to work most days. With no sense in my head, I grabbed it, jumped on, and headed after them. Neighbors ran into the street to gape at me, the lunatic. I’m certain they believed they were seeing me for the last time. Rosa, too. So be it, I thought.

I could never catch up to the car, but knowing they were heading to Bolling was all that mattered. I kept going. I turned east onto Pennsylvania, pedaled as fast as my old ass could. The car was barely visible ahead.

Minutes later the black government sedan swerved left, then right. It went off the road just before the bridge and slammed into an abandoned fast-food joint. I wasn’t close enough to see much detail. There were people spilling out. One ran for the river. My God, was that her?

It was. Rosa ran toward the river as shots were fired. One clipped a tree near her head, and my heart leapt into my throat. I stopped the bike. One of the men from the car ran after her, while another spoke into a handheld radio, probably calling for a slew of backup that would soon clog every road and pathway in the area.

But no one knew I was doing anything wrong. Sure, the local civilians gathering around the accident looked at me in that awful way reserved for strangers, but I could just ride home and be done. Go back to my life.

The hell with that. At that point, at that age, Rosa was my life. I would go with her or die trying. I turned the bike down a side street and raced for the river. In two blocks, I spied the government agent who was chasing her. I took the risk and biked up to him.

“You looking for a dark-haired woman?” I panted. “I think I saw her running up 11th.”

He looked at me with a sneer of disgust and suspicion. “Why are you helping me?” he asked.

“Hey, I scratch your back, maybe you’ll scratch mine,” I said.

“You people, always the same,” he said. He considered it for a second, then asked, “Where on 11th?” I mentioned a spot a block north. Enough to get him out of the way. The sun dropped behind the horizon as he thought about it.

“You realize what happens to you if you’re lying to me.” It wasn’t a question. I nodded. He pulled out a device and pointed it at me, presumably taking my photograph. Then he walked off toward 11th Street.

I waited for him to get out of view, then jumped back on the bike. I figured I could outrun Rosa if she was just following the river south. I was right. I had to jockey the highway, but I caught up to her on Water Street, just off Maine. She was walking as nonchalantly as she could manage, only occasionally looking over her shoulder. I stopped the bike and she saw me.

“Go home.
Please
,” she said, walking even faster.

“You know I’m not going to do that,” I said.

“Don’t waste the rest of your life on me!”

“The way I see it, you were pretty much the only enjoyable thing in my life this past year, so if you don’t mind, I’m just going to stick with you. Where are we going?”

She stopped and looked at me. A combination of incredulousness, relief, love, fear. “I have no idea,” she said.

“Okay, then I do. Come on.”