The Dead Are Sleeping Page 2

  There was no crater, or even an expected lump of ore. Instead there was a pattern of burn marks on the grass of the fallow field. In the center were fragments of a brown material that reminded Tom of coconut husks – fibrous and organic. He wondered what it was made out of. As his friend watched, Tom reached over and picked a scrap up. It was still warm. A thin layer of white dust covered one side.

  “That’s no rock,” Will dryly commented. “Do you have any idea what it is?”

  “No,” Tom replied. He put the husk down, feeling at unease. There was something wrong here. “Maybe we should get back to the others.”

  “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all night.”

  August 16th – Morning

  Tom heard the alarm go off. He turned it off and then rolled out of bed to a sitting position. He felt tired and his eyes itched. Last night had been terrible for sleep. He had replayed the meteorite strike over and over in his mind, as if trying to find some new data from the experience. That was a fruitless exercise without more information.

  “Time to get out of bed,” he said to Anne, who seemed to still be asleep.

  She just groaned and rolled over.

  “You said that you’ve got to get to court at nine,” Tom warned her. “That doesn’t leave you much time.”

  She let out another groan. “I don’t feel good.”

  “Sick?”

  “I feel like I have the flu. I’m so tired and nauseous.” Anne sat up; the motion was apparently too much for her. She slumped back down on the bed to rest again.

  Tom said, “You were right, honey, we should have stayed home last night. Do you really have to go to work today?”

  “I guess sitting out at night made me sick,” she croaked out. “I’m sure Jimmy won’t mind if I took one day off.” Jim Tremaine was the lawyer she worked for.

  “You just stay in bed,” Tom said, reached over to feel her forehead. It was burning hot. “I’ll call your boss for you, okay?”

  “Thanks, honey,” his wife managed to say before dropping quickly into an uneasy sleep.

  Tom looked at her, his expression creased with worry. After convincing himself that she was going to be okay, he went downstairs to brew some coffee. When that was bubbling along he called Jim Tremaine and told him the bad news. The lawyer took it in stride, wishing his employee the best.

  Once the coffee was done, Tom carefully sat on the sofa in the living room and turned the television on. He changed the channels with the remote until a news channel came up. The meteorite event was, understandably, the top news story.

  As photos from the around the world were being displayed, the blonde newscaster was speaking: “Leading scientists are saying the sheer size of this meteor shower was unprecedented. And the number of extraterrestrial objects that have survived coming through the atmosphere to strike the Earth is shocking, to say the least. Reports are coming in from all over the world, as near as next door to our broadcasting facilities, New York, Texas, and California, and as far away as New Zealand, China, the even the Samoan Islands. It would be more sensible to ask where these meteorites haven’t struck then to ask where.”

  The narrative paused as some amateur video montage was played, showing lights streaking through both night and daytime skies.

  After a minute of this the newscaster continued: “What has been most shocking are the meteorites themselves. To discuss this, we’ve invited NASA scientist Gary Wu to tell us more.”

  Tom perked up at this, placing the coffee cup on the table so he could concentrate.

  On the television another face-sized screen next to the newscaster opened up. A man with glasses, black hair, and a buttoned up shirt appeared. A backdrop of a perfectly ordinary living room was behind him.

  “Good morning, Dr. Wu,” the newscaster said. “What can you tell us about these meteorites.”

  The doctor cleared his throat before speaking. “Hello. There is no reason for people to be alarmed. The astrological and geological history of our world is replete with such events, from an asteroid that killed the dinosaurs to the type of small asteroids that survive their journey in the atmosphere and end up in a museum. Luckily this was nothing like the former example and something closer to the latter.” His voice was high pitched and strained with nervousness. Perhaps he wasn’t used to being on television.

  The newscaster asked, “There have been reports that these meteorites aren’t the normal stone or ore one would expect. Can you comment on this?”

  Wu blinked a few times before answering, “Mafic intrusive rocks, as we call them, can vary in weight and composition, especially if superheated by our passing through our atmosphere. What people, who aren’t trained in such things, are apt to do is to assign invalid properties to things they don’t understand.”

  Tom felt his anger rising. He was enough of a geologist to know when a rock was a rock. What he had seen and touched last night was no mineral-based material.

  After a pause, the newscaster asked, “So you discount the stories about the meteorites being organic in nature?”

  “At this point I wouldn’t rash enough to discount anything, but I would look first at the more likely answers. Too many people are bound to go for fanciful explanations when the simple ones will do. A complete study will be done on these meteorites and the result will be released to the public when the tests are completed. Until then everything is conjecture.”

  “Conjecture indeed,” Tom said out loud as he switched off the television with the remote. Those so-called experts were trying to cover something up. Even a first year geology student could tell that those meteorite fragments weren’t made out of any mineral, but were instead organic in nature. But why were these claims being made? Without an answer, Tom went to the kitchen to rinse his coffee cup out. He then returned to the bedroom and checked in on Anne again, who was sleeping fitfully.

  Satisfied that his wife way okay, Tom went to the bathroom and showered and shaved. Once he was done, Tom slipped back into the bedroom, staying as quiet as he could as he changed into a pair of jeans, and a polo shirt. After feeling his wife’s forehead, he slipped out of the bedroom and left the house. He was worried. He had never seen Anne so sick before. But she was young and strong. Surely the illness would pass soon. If she wasn’t feeling better by tonight, he would take her to the emergency room.

  Tom went out to the car. He started up the Subaru and began to drive. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the streets seemed deserted. Sure there was some traffic, but not at the normal levels for this time of the day. It seemed rather eerie as if everyone else has decided to go on vacation without telling him. That feeling of unease only increased when he pulled into university campus. Instead of the normal crowd of students, there were only a handful of people on the sidewalks. When he pulled into the staff parking lot, a shiver of fear crossed his back when he saw that only a half-dozen cars were there. What was going on?

  When Tom arrived at his office, he noticed that the science building, which was normally busy with students and staff, was also deserted. It took some concentration but soon he was back to grading papers. The work kept his mind busy and he soon forgot the uneasiness that he had felt before.

  It was some minutes later when Will’s voice broke the spell.

  “What are you doing here?” his friend croaked from the doorway.

  Tom looked up from the paper he was grading, and was shocked by what he saw. Will was leaning heavily against the door frame. His face was extremely pale and a bead of sweat glistened on that massive dome of a forehead. He looked sick as if the Grim Reaper was about to come visiting.

  “My god, Will,” Tom blurted out, “I should be asking you that question. You look terrible.”

  “It’s a question of mind over matter. If I think I feel better then I will feel better. But enough of my troubles. You didn’t you get the email? Campus is closed today.”

  “I didn’t check,” Tom admitted.

  “Everyone’s sick. Well almost e
veryone. Are you feeling okay?”

  “Sure. No problems at all. Anne isn’t feeling very well though.”

  “That makes you one of the lucky ones.”

  “You really don’t look very good. Have a seat before you fall down.”

  William shook his head. “If it’s contagious I don’t want you catching it. But I want you to consider something: this virus or this germ that is causing such widespread sickness had to have come from those meteorites. It’s no coincidence.”

  Tom heard himself snort in derision. “A disease from outer space? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  His friend gave him a wan smile. “There’s a theory that early life on the Earth actually came from Mars, via an asteroid or a meteorite. Why should it be so strange that history repeats itself? Maybe the human race is due for a replacement.”

  “I don’t know what to think about that, but you should really go home and get to bed.”

  William nodded slowly, each movement looking slow and painful. “I suppose there are times when the mind must give into the body. And you shouldn’t stay here either. There’s no work for you here. Go home and be with your wife. We’ll meet here again, okay?”

  “Sure, Will.”

  The Diary

  I write this diary with fear in my heart; the fear of knowing what had already happened and the fear of the unknown future. But it is my hope that the words that I scribble every night will bring me wisdom. The world has changed so quickly that I cannot make sense of it. The few of us that remain will perhaps need words written on a page – words like mine – to teach the future generation of survivors. Of course maybe there will be no survivors but at least this diary will be a fitting tombstone for the human race. For some reason I get some small comfort out of that idea. It’s a reasonable end to a culture that accelerated past good taste and into the realm of constant self-reflection. But who am I fooling? I am moralizing already, trying to find meaning where there is none. The world as I knew it is dying, waiting on the edge of the precipice of finality.

  It was August when the first outbreak of the disease started. After the meteorites came a score were reported dead from the illness in just a day. If it had happened off in some far away land it would have been one of those blurbs you would see on some news site on the internet; a nothing in the grand scheme of our life. But this was here. This was now.

  The disease became stronger. As the days went by it began to kill more and more. The children and the elderly were the first to go. No person, except for a small handful, was immune. Medical teams were assembled, studies were made, and the world watched in horror as the images of the dead and dying were shared around the globe. The gruesome pictures and video looked to be something out of an old war movie, like the death camps of World War Two. The initial studies showed that the disease was caused by a virus, one of an unknown nature. This tiny infectious agent was apparently light enough to be carried by the wind, making it spread far and wide. The meteorite storm was obviously blamed, giving rise to a slew of stories about alien invasions. Maybe it was. Because of this the virus was given a name: The Solar Flu.

  The medical teams died. The doctors died. The nurses died. The scientists died. New theories were put out: some wild but most cautiously optimistic. It was thought that such a fast killing virus – death after contact was usually only a matter of days, if you were lucky – would burn itself out. But it didn’t happen.

  The European Union declared martial law, restricting the movement of anyone trying to enter its once weakly enforced borders. There were, of course, countless refugees trying to find safety. They were gunned down. Not many people seemed to care. But all the precautions were for naught. The virus moved like the wind and engulfed all of Europe. Not even the island nation of the United Kingdom was safe.

  With the blessing of the voters, Congress passed new laws making the president temporary dictator. It was all for the public safety. The army was called out. To handle the increasing number of dead, giant pits were dug near the all the cities and the remains were set on fire. The schools were closed, and people began to hide inside their homes. There was a run on plastic sheeting and tarps to cover windows. The idea was to block off the virus from entering. Of course it was a foolish idea but humanity was now grasping at straws.

  Like everyone else I watched these events unfold with unbelieving eyes. It seemed impossible that a cure couldn’t be found, especially with all the money and intellects that were thrown at the problem. The virus itself was eventually isolated, and what a hearty little creature it was, seemingly immune to any antibiotic. Even radiation couldn’t kill it. The theory – and it was just a theory at the time – that our immune system could not handle a virus created on an alien world.

  Michigan, where I lived, was hit like anywhere else. Lots of people packed up and moved on, trying to outrun the contagion. Others stayed huddled in their homes, hoping the grim hand of death would pass them by. Neither method helped. The soldiers, who had been deployed to keep law and order, died one by one. Chaos reigned.

  My wife Anna and I stayed at home. She was too sick to be moved. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. Together we watched the scenes on television: the deaths, the crowded hospitals, and the fighting over the few resources that remained. Men would kill for a tank of gasoline and they weren’t afraid to use guns to get what they wanted. Perhaps these looters were dead before my neighborhood could be ransacked. I didn’t know. After a while I didn’t care. My wife became sicker, unable to eat or even hold down water. She was wasting away in front of my eyes and there was nothing I could do. In another week it was all over.

  This is my story.

  October 15th - evening

  I sat on the back porch steps and looked onto the darkening street. There were no streetlights here since the electricity had gone out five days ago. A few brown leaves scraped along the black asphalt but the majority were tangled within the deep, overgrown grass. The houses surrounding me looked empty and disused, but still held onto some memory of the past inhabitants that would never return. After a few years they would become homes again, but only to wild creatures and then, as time took its hold, crumble until only the foundations remained. I could see parked cars in the driveways, and a few scraps of trash – mostly plastic bags and paper - that seemed to propagate like rabbits and make more litter every day.

  I took a sip of lukewarm beer from the can held in my hand. It tasted sour and stale but I had grown tired of drinking water. I was waiting for nothing in particular and had all the time in the world. I knew I was putting off the inevitable, but my sorrow was deep enough that even moving my legs seemed to take too much energy. I felt tired, dragged out, and left for dead. But I, against all the odds, was still alive. And the dead were all around me, tucked into their beds, buried in makeshift graves, or nothing but ashes after being burned in one of pits that had been dug in the early days of the virus. But the woman who meant most to me was now dead and that was a greater loss than any of the other miseries that fate had foisted upon me.

  After swallowing the last of the beer, I threw the can away, using more force than I expected. It came to a stop and sat in the grass. I knew this day was a long time coming, but like all things of this nature, unwanted and impossibly sad, you pray that it comes just one moment later. I got up. I felt dizzy just thinking of what I had to do. Getting up the stairs and through the door took more energy than expected. But I made it inside, feeling unreal as if I was witnessing someone else’s life. But this was reality.

  The living room was lit up with a few candles. The majority of the floor space was taken up by the big bed I had dragged from the bedroom so my beloved Anne could look out the bay window and watch the world go by. She was there, or perhaps it would be better to say that the body was still there, but the spirit inside had taken flight. I forced myself to look at her. The skin on her face looked like a skull wrapped in skin since the virus had wasted that body away. The skin was impossibly white as if
it had been bleached of all the blood and nutrients. No one with the infection could eat and even drinking water was too much. Anne had somehow held on for longer than anyone else I knew. Perhaps it was me – for I seemed to be immune – that had helped her go on further that possible. Maybe I had given her hope that she too could be healthy once again.

  I should have been feeling sorrow, but instead I suddenly felt overwhelmed by a guilty sense of relief. At least now Anne no longer had to suffer and be embarrassed by my continued ministrations; she was the type of woman who always wanted to do things for herself. She had hated to see me do the housework and take care of her. I knew from the beginning that she was going to die, and that knowledge somehow made it worse. For I had seen so many others go – friends, co-workers, and neighbors – and was always expecting yet another to be taken away. But instead I somehow soldiered on, my constitution just seemingly ignoring the virus that had claimed so many. This, of course, also brought a large measure of guilt.

  I wrapped the blue and white flowered quilt around the gaunt body and lifted Anne from the bed. She felt like a bag of skins and bones that had had all the vitality stripped away. It was easier than expected to carry her out the back slider and into the backyard. I put her gently on the deep grass, took a long-handled shovel that had been leaning against the wall, and began to dig.

  The mosquitoes buzzed noisily around my ear and a few got their precious drops of blood. It was a shame that the virus hadn’t killed these damn insects. I sweated since I wasn’t used to such labor, but only stopped to wipe the perspiration from my brow. By the time that the sun had dipped below the horizon, I had a rough rectangular hole a few feet deep. After taking a few breaths, I put the shovel down, and then gathered the remains of my wife up. I carried her over to the hole and lowered her gently into the soil below. I wondered to myself if she would be warm enough down there and then shook my head, knowing that she would think I was silly for even having that thought. The sky was dark enough now that the quilt, and body it contained, was only a pale lump nearly hidden in the shadowy depth of the makeshift grave. But I still pulled a corner of the quilt back and caressed the bony remains of her face with my hand.