He pauses, glances at Charlotte, but continues.
“Anyway, they thought that some people simply escaped the disease, or whatever this is, or maybe some were immune. And that might be true, because they can’t find anything causing a disease, so who can know? No pathogen to explain it has been found. But, what they think now is that all females have it. They think that something happens during stress to cause it to manifest.”
“Stress?” Tabitha asks, obviously dubious. “Who hasn’t been stressed by this? Seriously?”
“Severe stress, sudden emotion, panic maybe. The new directive is very explicit and exact. No one is to approach or in any way hinder any female they see. They should avoid contact that isn’t expressly invited. They sent…” he pauses again, his expression pained.
“Sent what?” Charlotte asks.
“Medication,” he answers, almost spitting the word. “The report says they’ve had success by tranquilizing females. The report says that every survivor should be encouraged to take them. We’re supposed to require doctors to formulate proper dosages.”
Her mom looks horrified, leaning away from the table as if to distance herself from the sheriff. “They want to drug us into not feeling anything?”
With a little shrug, the sheriff says, “They say it’s to keep panic at bay and that it might save lives, but the doc in town says the titration guidelines will turn anyone who hasn’t built up a tolerance into a walking zombie.” When Charlotte looks alarmed at the word zombie, he clarifies. “Not actual zombies, only that they’ll be too drugged to think much or take care of themselves.”
“Well, I think you know my answer to that,” Tabitha says, very firmly.
“Of course, I do. I’m not going to let my daughter take that stuff either. If the goal is to make women not care about what happens to them, then that means they expect bad things to happen. I’m not on board with that.”
“That does bring up the question though. How do we stop bad things from coming? I’ve heard what’s happening in the cities. Gangs of men believing the only way to ensure they have a woman is to hunt them. They have to know it kills them by now, but I haven’t heard of it stopping.”
“My deputies have been talking a lot, haven’t they?”
Tabitha only shrugs. Charlotte does too.
“Well, not all of them die. That’s the thing. A few don’t, so for them, even if ninety-seven die, they’ll still get three alive.”
This devastates Charlotte, who has lived a rather idyllic life. Knowing such things are going on is hard to accept, especially when life has always been so peaceful. She has to wonder, though, would it be the same way here if so many women hadn’t survived?
“There’s one more thing,” the sheriff says.
“What?” asks Tabitha, her hand covering her daughter’s.
“They’re asking for volunteers. Survivors. It’s entirely voluntary, but they’ve got a place where they guarantee safety. Anything you do there is voluntary, and you can leave at any time. They need living women so they can figure this out.”
Charlotte looks at her mother, wondering what she’s thinking. Her own thoughts are muddled. In some ways, she wants to go. She wants to help. Even more, she fears what would happen to her if any man grabs her. Would she die? Would she lift her face to the sky and breathe her last?
And she feels something here too. Even in the middle of nowhere, there’s tension. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Taylorville is a tiny town and it’s where they go for groceries or to see movies when the world is normal. It’s where the school is that Charlotte used to attend. If it’s happening there, what will she do? Hide forever?
Perhaps her mother has the same thoughts, because she squeezes Charlotte’s hand, and says, “It’s something to keep in mind. We’re fine for now. Let’s hope we stay that way.”
Willa
Willa discreetly watches Beau as he struggles with the cool morning air. It’s her turn to bring the fire back to life, so she keeps her hands busy and watches through the newly rising smoke. Beau’s breath steams out in wisps. His short, punctuated breaths telegraph his effort. She can see the pain each successively colder night brings when he wakes. She has to do something. And soon.
Winter is coming quickly to the mountains. The summer was less scorching up here, true, but the winter will be spectacularly awful. There’s a reason so few people chose to live in these mountains when this area was first visited by people. Even fewer chose to live here in winter.
Bee settles next to her, dropping a load of wood from the lean-to they built to keep it dry during the rains. They built it at the beginning of their stay, so it’s a poorly constructed thing. They’re already talking about building a better one. They could do that now.
They can do that because of Beau. They owe him much. The least they can do is let him go.
Smiling her thanks for the wood, Willa says, “Not long until the fire is ready. Then coffee.”
Bee hums a little moan of longing. Coffee has almost become a ritual. So precious is it that they became divided on how to make it last. They voted about it. The choice was a full cup of weak coffee, or very small cups of stronger stuff. The same amount of grounds, but a different experience. Eventually, they agreed to disagree and split into two groups for the coffee.
Willa and Bee have chosen to be in the strong coffee group. It’s no bigger than a shot of espresso, except not nearly as strong. Even so, it tastes divine. It’s worth it to them. The weak coffee group may get a full cup, but it’s the pale brown of watered-down tea instead of real coffee.
As Bee moves away to retrieve their allotment of grounds for the day, Willa keeps watching Beau and enjoys the forest. The spongy earth is less spongy in this
