“It’s me, Ma. Jubal.”
Silence.
“Ma?”
His mother began snoring again. Jubal decided to leave her there. She looked comfortable enough, if a little more thin and pale…
Gray?
It was dif?cult to see in the dim light leaking through the curtains from the porch lamp outside. And so he couldn’t be absolutely certain of his mother’s complexion.
He had wanted to check on his mother, then go back to Fiona’s. But seeing her like this, he just couldn’t leave her alone. What if she called out in the night and he wasn’t there to answer?
Jubal went to the kitchen and microwaved some chicken soup for himself.
It took him no time at all to slurp the hot soup and noodles from the mug; he was starving.
When he had?nished, he set the mug and spoon in the sink, grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge and walked to his bedroom.
He turned on the light, sat down at the small desk near his bed and punched up his computer’s TV link, but all he got was a blue screen. He messed with it some more, but he wasn’t the world’s top computer genius, and no matter what he tried, he could not get a picture.
“Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.”
He covered his face with his hands, resting his elbows on the desk. The day’s events began to run across the screen of his mind’s eye. But it was too much; he just couldn’t take anymore right now. He closed out his computer, stretched and yawned.
“Maybe things will be better tomorrow.”
Fat chance, bud. And you’re talking to yourself again.
His comfortable form-?t bed beckoned with soft pillows.
Taking a pull from the beer bottle, Jubal rose from the desk and went to his bed. He set the beer on his nightstand, pulled off his boots and sank back against the pillows.
He had intended to turn on his bedside sat-radio and listen to some news or music because he felt too upset to sleep. But as it turned out, he wasn’t. The stress of the day had been too much for him. He managed to clap his lights out before falling into a heavy slumber.
Jubal Slate fell asleep atop his bedcovers, fully clothed.
2
September 2, 2048
They weren’t human. Some of the silhouettes were too tall and oddly shaped, and by the way they stumbled forward, he knew they were dead. Dead and hungry…
The chirp of the cell phone woke him from the dream. At?rst, he couldn’t?nd it. When he?nally realized it was still in his pocket, the call had ended. He checked the display and saw Fiona’s number. Fully awake now thanks to a nice dose of adrenaline, he hit the redial button.
“Jubal?” She didn’t sound sleepy and he suspected she’d been up with the woman. He glanced at the clock.
2:30 a.m.
“What’s wrong?”
“How fast can you get over here?”
He rubbed his eyes with his free hand. He could use another few hours of sleep.
“Do I have time for a shower?”
“No.”
He sighed. “On my way.”
He used the bathroom and washed his face. Next, he checked on his mother. He wasn’t surprised to?nd her still sleeping. As much as he wanted to wake her up, turn on the lights, maybe?x her some toast and turn on another Gunsmoke episode, he didn’t disturb her. He tried to tell himself that it was simply because she needed her rest. But he knew that wasn’t true.
He was afraid he would see blisters on her face, and he didn’t think he could handle that right now. He closed his eyes. He had never been particularly religious, but now he said a silent prayer, asking for his life to return to its boring normalcy.
Jubal slipped out of the house as quietly as possible.
The stench of the sick woman still lingered in the cruiser, so he had to drive with the windows down again, but it was a typical cool desert night; the breeze felt good after the scorching hot day.
When he pulled into Fiona’s driveway, he saw lights on throughout the house. It would soon be his house, as well. He had already moved some of his clothes and personal belongings in, and Fiona had allowed him to set up a woodworking space in the garage. She had asked him if he needed space for any hobbies. He hated to admit he didn’t have a hobby, so he decided he was a woodworker. The birdhouse he started back in February still sat on the bench, covered with dust. Fiona never mentioned his lack of progress and he knew she never would. It was just another reason he loved her.
Since she was expecting him, Jubal didn’t knock.
He smelled the sick woman before he crossed the threshold.
He had carried her to the couch in the front room. Fiona had suggested the bed in the guest room, but Jubal didn’t think he could carry the woman that far and still hold his breath. And if he didn’t hold his breath, he thought he would have thrown up.
Kind of like right now.
Fiona met him in the foyer and hugged him tightly. The stench of the sick woman was in her hair and on her clothes. She was still wearing the clothes she had on yesterday, as he was his.
“Jesus,” he said. “How can you stand it?”
She sighed against his chest. “You get used to it, I guess.” She sounded very tired.
“Is she dead?” Jubal was already running through the options in his head. If she had died, Jubal had decided he was going to wrap her in blankets, put her in his trunk, take her to the edge of town and burn her. Fiona wouldn’t like it, but he would insist.
“Not yet. But it won’t be much longer.”
Jubal nodded and tried to breathe through his mouth. “You wanted me to be here when she passed?”
“No. I wanted you to hear her story so you wouldn’t think I was crazy.”
She led him into the front room and he saw how quickly the woman had deteriorated. Her swollen face was gray, bloated and wet from the?uid that had leaked from the boils and blisters. Her lips were as cracked as if she had wandered for days in the desert.
Maybe she had, if his suspicions about where she had come from were right.
Her chest rose and fell only two or three times in a minute. When her eyes?uttered open, he could see that the whites were now yellow shot through with streaks of red.
“Renee,” Fiona said, “are you still with me?”
The woman moaned.
“Renee?” Jubal said.
“She told me her name is Renee Spencer. She worked for the government. In Nevada.”
Jubal felt the room spin. Everything he feared was coming to pass.
“It wasn’t a weapons program,” Fiona continued. She was speaking to Jubal but she was watching Renee Spencer. “It was something called-”
“Magellan.” The voice was ragged and full of phlegm and sounded as if it came from a thousand feet below the earth. Her tongue was as cracked and cratered as the surface of the moon. As she spoke, a tiny stream of blood ran down from each corner of her mouth. “Project Magellan.”
“What was it?” Jubal said.
