As he relays what he sees, the men start pouring out of the door. One of them has the girl in a tight grip, his arms around her chest and her arms trapped under his. She’s kicking to beat the band and screaming for her father.
Miranda curses the British laws regarding guns with some truly bad language, wishing she had just one gun to take care of this. She would do it without hesitation.
The girl’s father lurches out of the door after her. The streetlights tint the scene in unnatural tones, but even across the street Miranda can see the dark sheet of blood on his face. An equally dark and uneven patch courses down his pale pajama top.
The man with the cricket bat takes a few, almost skipping steps, and swings the bat at the man’s head. Miranda can’t help the soft shout that comes out of her. Tom, one hand still on the phone and talking fast, reaches out with his free hand and claps it over her mouth. His expression is fearful and she knows what he means. She has to be quiet, or the next house they’ll come to will be this one.
The man crumples into a boneless heap and disappears from Miranda’s view. A few seconds later, the girl’s scream abruptly cuts off. Tom stops talking to the police and both of them look. The man holding her has got her to the middle of the street. They are bathed in the light of the streetlamps, the shadows of their bodies stark on the pavement.
The girl’s head is thrown back, her face to the sky. Two men close to her drop their weapons and shout things that Miranda can’t understand. One reaches over and forces the girl’s head down, gripping her head in two hands as if he can stop what’s coming. He’s trying to make it so she can’t look up into the sky.
It doesn’t stop what happens. The man holding her loosens his hold and she slides to the ground, already dead.
The man with the cricket bat shouts obscenities and Miranda manages to catch only one phrase of it, “Another fucking dead one!”
Another one? How many have they done this too? And why are they still doing it if they keep dying? What’s wrong with them?
Miranda turns away from the window as the argument outside turns into a brawl, the weapons they had used on that man now being brought to bear on each other. Police sirens split the air and Miranda has the inane thought: When there’s not a second to spare, the police are only minutes away.
Sliding down the wall, Miranda sits in stunned silence as Tom finishes talking to emergency services. Later, much later, she hides in the bathroom while he speaks with police. A few of the men are apprehended, but not all of them. They melted away as the police advertised their proximity with siren wails.
When all is quiet again and dawn drawing close, Tom sits with her, pushing a hot cup of herbal tea her way.
“How did they know?” Miranda asks. “I mean, how did they know to go there?”
Tom looks grim when he answers. “Boarded up windows. Why board up a window if there’s no one inside who needs protecting from the sun?”
Miranda blanches. They’d only managed to board up her bedroom window, which looks out over the back of the house. They’d been discussing how to get more boards for the other windows. Her life might have been saved by a lack of lumber.
*****
Tom saves her. Miranda knows this deep in her bones. Not just from the sickness, but from the sickness that is now affecting the world. That sickness erases reason and logic, unleashing the worst parts of mankind on the world.
And Miranda doesn’t want to see it.
Over the next weeks, she withdraws. She knows she’s doing it, but can’t seem to stop herself. At first it makes her feel weak, but really, what’s weakness when strength will bring her an utterly pointless death.
Food becomes their first problem after the main issue of keeping her hidden. Tom does that for them, at first shopping, then standing in long lines for ration boxes. From the hospital he brings supplies. From a neighbor’s house where there is no longer anyone home, he brings scavenged goods.
Her nocturnal existence becomes habit, then entirely natural to her. Her skin pales and she begins to blink in discomfort at bright lights. Tom lets her sleep during the day, napping himself so he can keep her company for at least part of the night. He carefully watches the world for danger, then gently leads her out onto the rear balcony at night for fresh air. He cooks because the windows in the kitchen start to frighten her.
One evening, she wakes to find him sitting at the kitchen table, carefully measuring flour into plastic bins. There are huge sacks all over the floor, and clear, zipper bags filled with dried foods and grains stacked on the table.
“What’s this?” she asks, smiling. She’s at the kitchen door but hasn’t entered. Glancing up at the window, she eases backward a little.
He sees the direction of her gaze, brushes the flour off his hands, then stands to fit the piece of cardboard they use to block the window. They’ve painted one side to look like curtains, hoping that will disguise its nature from the outside. The sun hasn’t quite set yet, and she can’t bear that light touching her.
Once the cardboard is in place, she steps into the kitchen on bare feet, taking dainty steps on her toes around the bags. She’s not sure when she started doing that, but she’s found it makes her feel better to walk without making noise.
Tom smiles, then pats the chair next to him. “Sit down and I’ll tell you a good one.”
“Oh,” she says, raising her brows. “A true good one or a
