Wait.
Zelda! I said.
I’m here. Her love suffused my body.
How bad are you hurt? Can you walk? Where are you?
I’m close, and I’m fine. I was healed by Craig. I’m pretty sure he has a thing for me.
I let out a celebratory “Ha” out loud. Then, back in my mind, I have the totem. I’m on my way to Em now.
You have to wait. Blanche is more present on the bridge. I can smell her. She’s performing her one-woman show there right now, and also watching from the audience. You’ll never make it through, but there’s another way. Do you see the last house before the bridge?
Just past the scrum of photographers, to my right, was a one-story white house with north- and south-facing gables and a porch packed with infected, all looking in the same direction. I followed their eyes to a small stage standing where the bridge met Main Street. On the stage I saw a dresser, a bed, and Blanche, wearing a young woman’s body and a retro prom dress with billowing shoulders drooping from the rain. Dozens of people were crammed around the stage watching her. Blanche was moving her mouth, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying over the birds and the heels knocking on the catwalk and the soliloquies behind me.
I see the house, I said. And the one-woman show.
Good, Zelda said. On the other side of the house is a trail leading below the bridge. From there, you can crawl along the steel girders running underneath until you get to Em. She’s at the center of the bridge.
Fear surged through me at the thought of clinging to the underside of a bridge in a rainstorm.
Don’t worry, Zelda said. I’ll be with you. You can do it. Go now, while we still have time.
The wall of photographers extended up a side street, blocking the front and side of the house. But behind them, I could see, through a more diffuse group of infected grafters, a backyard fence and gate.
Afraid of the metaphor wearing off at the worst possible time and having to fight Blanche/Warren while clinging to the underside of the bridge, I ordered her to stay put.
Then I strode around the photographers and stepped gingerly between another group of infected who were employing some kind of culinary grafting method—standing around, holding plates of food and glasses of wine, eyes closed, lips pursed, chewing, sipping, and making rapturous mmm noises. A skinned and roasted goat, head and hooves still attached, ribs splayed and picked clean, lay on a table against the fence.
I pulled a string on the gate and entered the backyard, where there was another group of grafters. They stood facing the same direction, holding oversized colorful drinks with umbrellas in them. There were tiki torches planted into the lawn and a tiki bar next to the house. Through crackling speakers, someone was croaking out an awful rendition of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Who’ll Stop the Rain. Between nodding heads, I caught a glimpse of Lonnie in the corner of the yard, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, singing into a mic while reading from a karaoke prompter.
I ducked my head and worked my way across the yard. There was no gate on the riverside of the fence. I would have to climb over it. But then Lonnie would see me. Maybe if I waited for the chorus, or waited—
No, Zelda said. We don’t have time.
A few fence boards shuddered, and I looked down to see the little fox wriggling through a small hole by my feet, her fur caked in mud. I smiled, despite the circumstances, and reached down to pet her, then stopped myself when she said, I’m not a dog, Charlie . . . . You can hug me though. I kneeled, put my arms around her, and squeezed.
When I pulled back, she looked up at me with half-closed eyes. Be ready to run. She darted from my arms into the audience, disappearing into a forest of legs. A moment later, a piercing yowl crackled through the speakers, followed by cries for help.
As the audience leaned and pushed forward, distracted, I leapt onto the fence and looked out above their heads. Lonnie was on his back, flailing his limbs like an overturned beetle, while Zelda bounced around him snapping her jaws.
Go! she said.
I flipped my body over the top of the fence and dropped. When I landed on the other side, my legs buckled, and I slid downward, over rocks and through brush. I swung my arms about wildly, grasping at branches, at dirt. I spun onto my belly and spread out my arms and legs to slow down. My foot caught in something hard, swinging my body sideways. My ankle cracked. Pain wailed through me like a siren, like sound on fire. Voices, voices, voices. Then Zelda. Then calm. Be calm. You’ll be okay. My ribs slammed into a small tree, and I was still.
Get up, Zelda said. No time for pain.
I think my ankle’s broken.
Keep moving. No time.
I held my breath and growled as I sat up, grabbed my ankle, and twisted it free. My toes pointed inward ninety degrees. Bone protruded beneath stretched skin. My stomach flipped at the sight.
Get up!
Grimacing, I swiveled on my butt, planted my good foot downhill, shifted my weight to the other knee, rose, and hobbled toward the bridge, dragging my useless foot behind me, grabbing onto branches, rocks, roots, chunks of sod to keep myself from sliding further down into the muddy, churning river below. The roar of the rushing water drowned out my moans and
