The Pandemic Sequence (Book 3): The Tilian Cure

• Title Page
  
• Prologue
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty-One
  
• Chapter Twenty-Two
  
• Chapter Twenty-Three
  
• Epilogue
  

Saturdays required an early start for Tumelo Sardina. Most merchants set out for the marketplaces far later than him, but he knew a good deal of sales were secured before the official start of the business day. Hours before sunrise, he left his bed and shambled through the small home, organizing for the long day ahead. After a quick shower and latherless shave, Tumi—as he was known by most—set about gathering the various foods he and his wife had spent most of the preceding days preparing. Large pots of frijoles negroes, the seasoned black beans that were a staple of a Cuban diet, were the first to be loaded into the trailer hitched to his car. Several containers of prepared fish, everything from tuna, swordfish, and tilapia, were slid out of the refrigerator that dominated the small kitchen.

Carrying the trays outside, Tumi felt his age as he struggled with the weight. Sighing with relief, he slid the trays onto the trailer, and placed his hand on the small of his back. As he arched, he could hear the familiar cracking from his spine, a sound that came more frequently now, with or without exertion. A fleeting thought passed as he wondered how many more years, or months, he could manage strenuous activity unaided.

None of the three children he and his wife Maritza had birthed and raised still lived. Their last surviving son had sickened and been lost to the Tilian Virus over seven years earlier. He could still see the pain of that loss daily in his wife’s haunted eyes. The death of Rodolfo had sent her into a deep depression, and Tumi had feared he might lose her as well. As chaos had swept across the island, with monstruos infectados at every turn, Maritza had withdrawn inside herself. Rarely leaving her bed, he had been forced to become her nurse, bathing and dressing her, feeding her as he would a child. Their little home had become a fortress, windows and doors barred against the horror outside. The only time he left her side was to search for food beyond the safety of those four walls.

In time, after the American ships had arrived and a semblance of order had been restored to the island, Maritza slowly began to stir from her catatonia. They had never discussed the long months she had spent hidden within her mind, nor did Tumelo care to rehash that painful time. His heart’s love had returned to him and he dared not risk a relapse.

Shaking off the reminiscence of years past, he returned to the kitchen to collect the remainder of the goods to be sold. Even before he reached the room, he could smell the strong, Cuban coffee his wife had begun to brew. Fully dressed and sorting the boxes of knitted items to bring to market, Maritza Sardina smiled softly at her husband, that same smile that had captured his heart when they first met in their youth.

“Buenos dias, mi querida, my darling,” he said to her as he brushed her cheek with a kiss.

She greeted him with a warmth that few would believe she possessed. But he had known his wife a long time—from a carefree young girl to a stern yet tender mother, and then a resilient force that survived through revolution and pandemic. Tumi gratefully accepted the mug of dark coffee, the bitter taste—those foreign to the island found it too strong—was a welcome boost to the energy he needed for a day spent hawking his wares.

After a quick yet hearty breakfast of eggs and toasted bread, the Sardinas locked up their home and settled into the old car. With a weary groan, the engine responded to Tumi’s turning of the key. It rumbled with hesitation at first, but soon settled with an almost prescient reluctance. Like its owners, the automobile had seen many decades pass, yet still persevered.

A few people were already on the streets. Several young children, for whom sleep seemed a wasteful time especially when there was playing to be done, kicked a soccer ball in the street. A mother called from a window, pointing to Tumelo’s approaching car. The children stilled the ball’s movement and stepped back to allow the car to pass. He waved to them as he drove by and they responded with smiles of pure innocence. Even Itza, who tended towards the stoic, allowed a grin to cross her face. What heart could not open to the sight of such youth?

There had been a time early in the virus’ ravaging where Tumelo had thought there would be no more days when children could take to the streets with their imaginations turning. Even after the sad, infected souls had been swept from the island, there had been anxiety over newborns and their potential succumbing to any remnants of the disease in the air. But soon babies did come, each one welcomed by relieved parents to a changed world, the first questions not about gender, but rather the angle of necks.

The faces of children always brought Tumelo’s memories back to a time when his own still lived. They had been a lively brood, the Sardina children, with a clever knack for staining freshly cleaned clothes and finding lost animals in need of tending. Nightly meals around the kitchen table had often been raucous as each child competed for attention and told of his or her day of adventures. As they grew, so too did Tumelo’s love for them, even though they already held his heart more than he thought possible.

When Miguel and Dominga, the two eldest, died together in a horrific car accident, Tumi felt an emptiness carved into his very soul. He had always heard how achingly painful it was for a parent to outlive children and he had believed it, but he had not been prepared for the actual devastating misery. Many long nights he held his sobbing wife, his own tears mixing with those which flowed from her. Somewhere in their grief, an unbending steel had been discovered. There was another child—a living child—who needed his parents more than they needed their grief.

Time moved on, as it always does, despite the protests of men. Rodolfo moved with it, and the youngest Sardina grew into manhood. Though the vacancy in his heart was ever present, Tumelo felt fatherly pride whenever thoughts turned to his son. Eventually an engagement was announced, and he and his wife spoke excitedly of future grandchildren.

Then the virus came. And again his heart would know pain.

It had been a phone call from a panicked wife, that alerted him to his son’s hospitalization. For two long days and nights, the parents stood beside the sterile, unfamiliar bed and watched as their son fought an unwinnable fight. Perhaps God had seen their pain and had given them a small gift. When Rodolfo had “changed” his parents had already been ushered out of the hospital by men in hazmat suits of blinding yellow brightness.

Pulling alongside to his usual place, Tumelo shifted the car to park and detached the cart from its hitch. Maritza removed their two folding chairs from the rear seat and began to set up as her husband moved the car, free of its burden, to a side street. As the clocked ticked and the sun rose higher, other cars soon arrived and deposited carts. Few of the other sellers offered food. Those that did had long ago given up their locations and moved to other markets. Tumelo and Maritza’s dishes had developed renown with which competitors could not contend.