Stress on surviving women is to be avoided at all costs. They know this now, the news reports on TV reiterate that fact daily. It’s said that all women are infected by whatever this unknown agent is and that severe emotional distress can cause a quick and fatal turn.
So, the policeman and troops below don’t drag out women. If they find one, as they did in that house, the uniforms leave the house immediately. A suited man with a friendly face then exits one of the vehicles in the street and carries a binder and clipboard into the house. Miranda has heard of this too, but she sees it for herself that day from the frosted attic window.
Later, the man exits without the binder, but carrying his clipboard. While Miranda hasn’t seen one herself, she’s heard that the binder gives all the information the authorities have on the cause of The Dying, the locations of all the safe harbors the government has created for survivors, and a full explanation of the research for which they need volunteers.
It’s all very civilized, but then again, this is London. The roaming gangs are still there, but they are quickly becoming a rarity. Miranda wonders if it’s the same in the United States. Somehow, she doubts it.
Later that day, when the parade of vehicles has left the area entirely, Tom returns to the house. Miranda has been in the attic for so long that her joints ache from the cold and her fingers are clumsy on the rail of the tiny stairway behind the closet. He helps her, taking her weight and murmuring encouragement when each step is conquered.
She can’t even hold the cup of warm cocoa he presses into her hands. The cold has sunk that deeply into her. Tom wraps his hands around hers, letting her absorb the warmth of the cup, raising it for her to take careful sips. He even chafes the feeling back into her feet, something that Miranda would be embarrassed about at any other time, but can’t bring herself to feel now.
When the cold turns into shivers, then into tingles as blood flows and warms her body, then finally, into simple exhaustion, Tom softly says, “We can’t stay here.”
A tear drops onto Miranda’s cold-reddened cheeks, but she nods. She knows this too.
The silence grows for a few minutes, broken only by the sounds of men on the street. Now that the troops are gone, they’re more comfortable leaving their homes. They have things to do. Stores are open only during government approved hours and the new ration tickets have expiration dates, so they have to take advantage of the time allotted. Miranda sees Tom glance at the clock too.
“Do you need to go?” she asks, knowing he does. They’ve got flour and staples from the cafe, but things like milk and eggs must be gotten. Vegetables too, though those are in very short supply now. Half the world’s workforce is gone. Everything is in short supply.
Pursing his lips, Tom admits that he needs to use the ration tickets. He stands to go, but then sits again, indecision etched into his expression.
“What is it, Tom?”
He gazes at her, obviously trying to predict her reaction, then plunges in. “I have an idea. There’s a house. It belongs to me.”
When he pauses, waiting for some encouragement or objection, Miranda smiles and says, “Tell me about the house.”
*****
It’s a wreck more than a house, but it’s perfect all the same. It’s very large, built for an era now long past, and situated on spreading, park-like grounds. It’s not isolated enough to be what it once was, but too isolated to be suitable for the modern age. Miranda smiles when she sees it.
“Oh! No one would look here, would they?”
Tom seems relieved at her reaction, letting out a pent-up breath and pulling up to the closed gate. Before exiting the car to open it, he shifts in his seat so he can peer into the back.
Miranda has been hidden in the well of the back seat, boxes obscuring any view of her along with the blanket placed under the boxes to protect the seat. Now, her head pokes up from under the blanket, her view of the house limited to what she can see between the two front seats.
It was an uncomfortable drive, but safe. She remained undetected. That’s all that matters.
“It’s not very nice anymore, but it is livable. I suppose that’s what counts,” he says, trying to be upbeat.
“And it’s not as if we don’t have time to make it more comfortable,” she adds. She’s already feeling the stress melt away, the fear of being seen fading a little. Perhaps it’s the open space around her, the lack of windows belonging to neighbors she doesn’t know.
He smiles. “That’s true enough. Shall I?”
His hand moves to the door handle, a large ring of keys jingling as he picks them up from the console. Her smile widening, she nods. “Yes.”
The driveway is long, unevenly graveled, and somewhat overgrown near the gate. A circular turnaround at the front of the house is all Miranda can see for parking, but the faint remnants of a grassy drive lead around the side of the house. Clearly, that’s not been used in decades.
“Won’t people see the car?” she asks as he pulls out boxes to free her from the well. There’s no one around, but he’s still being careful. The back door of the car is facing the door of the house, so that she can hurry inside once she exits.
He places the last box on the ground carefully, then hurries to the front door with the huge ring of keys, talking over his shoulder as he does. “Yes, but that’s fine. This is my house and I’ve spent my fair share of time here. I’ve had work done too, when things go wrong inside. It’s a long slog to get this place updated. No
