White Horse

Slightly south of nowhere it’s raining cats. They fall from the trees like ripe apples. While people put recreation on hold, the forests filled with all the felines who heard the call of the wild and answered.

It’s a couple who’ve “gone bush” in Australia that solve the mystery of the missing cats. They tell it to a reporter over fish and chips and Carlton Draught.

“We got tired of the government telling us to stay home. Home’s where everyone’s dying. So we packed up all our gear and went into the rain forest. Nobody’s sick out there, aye? Anyway, we get to the middle of the fuckin’ bush and what do we see?”

There’s a pause while the reporter coughs.

“Go on, guess. Bet you can’t. It’s all those cats. Thousands of the buggers. Must have been imitating koalas, aye?”

“Were they all dead?”

“Yep. The lot of ’em.”

“Why’d you come back?”

“We figured if the disease went that far, we’d rather die holding a cold beer.”

Reports of the same soon trickle in from the Americas and Europe: dead cats perched in trees until storms shake them from the branches, until gravity pulls them back to the earth. They’ve died from starvation—waiting and watching for reasons unknown.

I think they were hiding from us.

I’m on the train again when Jesse marches up to me, a marionette man in a puffy coat.

“I’m not going to ask if I can sit down because we already know each other and if we were friends you’d ask first. Friends ask friends to sit down. That’s good manners.”

“Have a seat.”

He sits. Same as before. Hands splayed on his thighs, eyes ahead.

“I know you can’t talk to me. My mother explained that to me when I called her. She said you could get into very big trouble and maybe lose your job. ‘Don’t mess with someone’s livelihood’ is what she said, ‘because maybe that woman’s got mouths to feed.’ So I want to give you my business card. Would that be okay?”

“Sure.”

He exhales sharply like he was worried about my answer.

“Okay. I’m going to have to write it out because I haven’t got any printed yet.” His coat whispers and squeaks as he shoves a hand into his pocket and pulls out a sparkly purple pen and note card cut into four equal pieces. On the top piece he writes his name, address, phone number, and e-mail address. “That’s just in case the Internet starts working again. ‘Be hopeful,’ my mom says.” He gives me the card, stashes the rest back in his pocket.

He waits until I’ve slipped the makeshift business card into my purse.

“Do you like cooking?”

“Sure.”

“I like to cook. Last night I made mini pizzas on muffins. I hardly burned them at all.” For the rest of the ride he talks food. I listen and make all the right noises. Because I know what he doesn’t: I’m going to tell him everything. But not here. And when the train ride ends, I tell him so.

THIRTEEN

DATE: NOW

I have to stay awake. I can’t rest. Not if it means closing my eyes. We’re in a department store. Lisa’s lying on a dais that once held dummies dressed in next season’s fashions. I’m on the floor beside her, legs crossed, elbows pressed into my knees. A band tightens around my head, and as it does, my neck grows weaker and weaker. I have to use my hands just to keep my head from sagging onto my chest.

She’s bleeding. It started during the night: at first a crimson smear, then a slow drip. Now it’s painting a Picasso inside her thighs.

Death waits, but I’m not ready to let it take her. Fuck you, I scream inside my head, because saying it aloud would scare her. She’s the color of blood-drained chicken. Exsanguination, they call it, death by blood loss. I don’t even know how to go about replacing what she’s lost—not in this world.

Lisa knows I’m watching her.

“Don’t worry so much, Zoe. I’m okay.”

She’s not okay. What she is doesn’t even have any of the same letters as okay. She’s bleeding still. At the very least I need to get to a drugstore, find some pads, diapers, antibiotics, anything, but I can’t go without her and I can’t take her with me. I wish the Swiss was still here. I’m glad he’s not. I wish my mother was here, or Jenny, or Nick. I want Nick here. He’d know the right thing to do. She’d be safe with him until I returned with supplies.

“I’m okay,” Lisa repeats. Her words slur together. “Let’s both sleep. Tell me about the place we’re going first.”

“We’re going north to a village called Agria. It’s by the water in a gulf.”

“They play golf?”

“You don’t know what a gulf is?”

“Uh-uh.”

Somewhere between yearning for sleep and berating myself for needing rest, it happens.

I dream of Sam. He’s in a car, the one he died in, his body mangled beyond repair. Blood bubbles between his lips. His mother is there, too, filing her nails.

You can’t save everyone, Sam tells me.

She can try, his mother says.

They argue back and forth while I listen to the steady drip. Gasoline, probably. Maybe blood. After a while I get tired of their banter.

How will I get my Girl Scout badge if I don’t save them all? I ask.

Neither of them has an answer. My former mother-in-law sets her file on the dash, closes her eyes, and quits breathing, just like she’s too stubborn to do anything else but die.

Sam looks at me, smiles a crimson smile.

I would have fallen in love with you, I say. In time.

Stop collecting badges, he tells me. They don’t matter in the end.

Then I wake up and Sam and his mother are gone, and so is Lisa. Only, this time she’s left me a trail. Little red blood droplets lead down the sidewalk, a morbid trail of bread crumbs. They’re a bold and royal red. Fresh.

I follow the trail, try to remember the story of Hansel and Gretel. The birds ate their bread crumbs while the lost and hungry children consumed their fill of the gingerbread house in the woods. But the house was just a ploy, a lure for children who couldn’t resist candy. Witches, the Brothers Grimm told us, liked nothing more than a good leg o’ child for supper. She took Hansel and Gretel captive, then plumped them for the eating. Her reward was a fiery end after being stuffed into her own oven by a gutsy Gretel.

What is Lisa’s gingerbread house? If I find that, I will find her.

The next few drops are smears. I try to think what that means, but my mind is both sleep hazy and scared sharp. I leapfrog conclusions, toss away hypotheses, form new ones that have nothing to do with reality and everything to do with conspiracy theories.

I’m running now, following the crumbs. I need to know where they go. I need to find her. Because I don’t think she’s alone. She can’t be—not without someone to tempt and guide her.

Over and over, I hurl the lash at myself. This is my fault. I fell asleep when I knew I couldn’t afford to. I