In keeping with his theme of life first, Lou decided thatthey would have to make their way into the tunnels again. Blake couldn't climb.Katie's hand was all messed up too. All they really had were working feet, andthat meant crawling through the tunnels some more. He didn't like the idea ofrunning through the darkness again, but it was only a short distance until thetracks surfaced again in the city of Beaverton. At least there, they could seeand escape anything that came their way.
He never even considered the highway. He had overheardhorror stories at the Memorial Coliseum of people who had escaped the highways.They were gridlocked death traps, swarming with the dead. Lou had seen it allbefore while running. He had seen waves of the dead tumble off the sides offreeway overpasses, dropping to the ground only to get up, twisted and broken,and chase Lou and the others.
He doubted the highways in Beaverton would be muchdifferent. According to Joan, who knew the West Side best, they probably stillhad five or six miles to go before the traffic would have eased up... and thenit would be there before them... the open road, a way to freedom. That's all hewanted. He wanted to sit down at the shore, miles of visibility all around him,and just start a fire in the sand, like he'd seen people do on commercials andTV shows.
For all of the time he had been alive, he had never oncemade it down to the shore. If the zoo had been Mars, then the beach was likePluto, so far away and so alien that it was ridiculous to even think about it.His dad certainly wasn't going to take the time out of his busy drug-dealingschedule to take him to the beach. He had asked him about the ocean one timewhen he was young. His father had just laughed and said, "They don't wantno black folk at the beach."
Lou shook his head. That was all over. Soon, he would besitting on the beach, eating stuff out of cans, and inhaling the cleansingsmell of wood smoke while planning what to do next. They would all be there,every single one of them. Lou scooted backwards and then stood up. He was readyto tell the others his plan. He knew it would take some explaining, but theywould have to go along with it. He could smell the wood smoke already.
As he turned around. He saw Joan standing at the hole inthe roof, a grim look on her face. He said nothing. Nothing had to be said. Badnews was the order of the day... and there was always room for seconds.
****
"I don't believe it!" Mort yelled. Lou couldhear the hurt in his voice. "It ain't happening! He just needs somerest."
Clara went to put a reassuring hand on his arm, but Mortjust slapped it away. His face was one of rage and anger. Joan had broken thenews to him as gently as possible, but Mort wasn't having any of it.
"Why are you lying?" he yelled, his eyes watering."Why would you say that?"
"I'm not making it up, Mort. He's burning up. He'sinfected."
"You can't possibly know that. Did you run a test?How do we know it's not just the flu?" Mort reasoned.
Joan sighed. "Even if I could run a test I don'tknow what to look for, but just look at him."
Mort turned to look at Blake. He sat on the floor againstthe side of the stairs. Dark circles ringed his closed eyes, and his chest roseand fell, hitching with each breath. Sweat poured from his body, and he lookedoff, like milk that had been left out to long.
The tears finally fell from Mort's eyes. "This can'tbe happening," he said as he squatted down. He reached over Blake's bodyand gently unfolded the bloody towel around his hand. "Fuck," was allhe said.
"It doesn't appear to be any sort of infection thatI know," Joan said. "I think he's going to turn."
At that moment, Blake roused, blinking his eyes andlooking around the room. Everyone was there, looking back at him. "What'sgoing on? Why is everybody looking at me?"
There was an awkward pause, and then Joan, who had beendelivering bad news for years decided that it was up to her to tell him. Hefocused on her lips as she spoke. "You're infected. That bite from thatpolar bear, there must have been some sort of infection in the bear's mouth,and now you have it."
"Is that why I feel like shit?" Blake joked. Noone else laughed except for him, a weak strangled thing that contained no realhumor. He swallowed, his Adam's apple jumping in his throat. He spoke with theair of a junkie away on a trip, "Can we still cut it off?"
Joan squatted down next to him and pointed at the redlines snaking up his arm. She spoke so that he could read her lips, saying,"The time to do that is past. See those lines?"
"Yeah?" he said.
"That's the infection. We'd have to cut off yourwhole arm, and you've already lost plenty of blood. I'm sorry. Whatever it ishas moves faster than anything I've ever seen."
"Well... shit," he said. Blake looked aroundthe room, his head wobbling as if it weren't quite attached enough. "I'msorry you guys. I really am."
"You don't got to be sorry, man," Mort said."You don't got to be sorry."
"I wanted to see that beach, too." Blake leanedhis head back
