The Feeders

25-The World is Ending

"Don't forget to put on your PPE before you go inside," the woman says. 

I don't know what she's talking about, but I see Salem go for a small table nearby and take a bag with something inside. He takes another and hands it to me. We tear the plastic open and find a gown with a hood, some plastic booties, gloves, goggles, and a mask. 

I fight the wave of fear as I put the stuff on, knowing we didn't wear any of this stuff when dealing with mom and dad. We never have, and we've had their sweat and blood all over us. That ninety-nine-degree temp seems more and more dangerous by the minute. 

Am I sick? No, I can't be. I'm all Salem has now--except for grandpa Red, whom was off enjoying his retirement somewhere warm, that's what he told us anyway. As a boat owner and captain, I suppose he can go wherever he wants. Thinking of that, most people would picture a stern man in a suit with badges and shiny shoes. Grandpa Red actually looks more like Jack Sparrow. And he was smart, like Salem. Smart enough to be far away from this mess that's going on. 

I feel warm already in the gown, the hood part covering my hair especially. I slip the goggles over my head and adjust them on my eyes until they feel tolerable. Comfortable is too much to hope for. I do the same with the mask, so that I'm breathing the warm air I'm breathing out. I feel like a girl in a bubble. The booties cover my shoes and then I slip the gloves on. They're snug. We probably should have been wearing them from the beginning, in case they tried to find our fingerprints later for some reason. I didn't think breaking in here would actually be that serious, but the way everything has been set up...I'm starting to wonder. 

"We're ready," Salem says. 

The door buzzes and he opens it. Someone coughs. The smell of vomit and rot are at war with bleach cleaners in here. I can smell it through the mask they provided, which is thicker than the ones we were originally wearing. Someone comes out of a room to our right. She's wearing scrubs and a nametag. Malory Standifer, RN. She is dark in tone, but pallor, and she's moving slow, as if her steps hurt. 

She's sick but still at work, I realize. Probably nobody healthy wants to help these people. My heart aches for them. 

"Can I help you?" she asks. 

By the sound of her wheezy, almost breathless voice, if she's anything like mom was, she's at least three days in. 

"We're with the CDC, looking for a specific individual," Salem says. He looks on a paper he's carrying. "Name is Zachary--"

"Ah, yes. I know who you mean. We only have one Zachary. They're going to help him, I hope?"

My heart skips. He's still alive. I hoped for it, but I barely let myself believe it. I can't believe how well this is all working out as she leads us to him. 

"He spends a lot of his time in the day room," she wheezes. "Drawing the most beautiful pictures. I really hope he can get back home to that girl he likes."

The girl he likes? Could she mean me? Surely there's nobody else...

She opens a door and waves us in. "Visitors for you, Zachary,"

Zachary looks up, and he's clearly sick. His skin has taken on a bluish tint. He's got an oxygen tank beside him, attached to his nose. His hair looks wet as if he's been sweating. His eyes are sunken and dark, but they still shine. She shuts the door behind us. I push the hood back and pull the mask away. I'm almost certain I'm already sick anyway. 

"Jan, no," he says softly. "Why are you here?" 

"I had to find you," I say, rushing over.

"Put your mask back on," he says. 

"I want you to be able to see me."

"I can see you. I've been seeing you." He waves at the table in front of him. 

I see some drawings of a beach--his family's beach house probably. There's a drawing of star constellations, of our school, of some of his family members....but most of them are me. I pick one of them up. It's me, laughing, my eyes are closed, and my nose is scrunched up. An actual photo couldn't have captured my look better. 

"I see you all the time, Janice."

My heart wrenches. 

"Come on, we're getting you out of here," I say. I go to take his hand but he pulls back. It's a weak movement, but I let go, not wanting to force or hurt him. He seems so fragile. 

"No," he says. "I can't go. I need to be here."