The Release

“He saved you,” Lucy said now, finishing the story, even as her shoulders heaved. “You were drowning. And he saved you.”

Salem had slipped below the surface and Lucy was terrified. Screams and shouting filled the beach and she remembered the alarm in her own voice, her fear of losing her friend. And Lucy’s father had sprinted from the blanket, waded into the ocean fully dressed and pulled her up, paddling back to shore with a gasping Salem in his arms. He had lost one shoe in the sand; it was absorbed into the muck. Maybe it resurfaced later and was discovered by an early morning jogger. One lone shoe without a partner, bobbing in the surf, resting in the foam, or tangled with seaweed.

“I can’t save you.” Lucy dropped her head on to Salem’s chest. Her forehead dug into the sharp edges of Salem’s gold crucifix. “I’ve never been able to save you. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”

“But he saved me,” Salem said again. “El me salvo.”

And Lucy curled up beside her best friend, their bodies touching. She kept her hand placed squarely on her heart until the distressed breathing stopped and the rise and fall of her chest slowed to a stop.

Salem was gone.

The room didn’t move.

Then Grant took a tentative step toward them and Lucy, sensing his approach, lifted her head. “No. Stay back.”

“Lucy—”

“I said stay back,” Lucy cried out.

A great and terrible fury passed through her. And in an instant she was on her feet, scrambling across the kitchen to Darla. Her foot slipped in blood that had seeped beneath Salem’s body and she lost her balance, tripping into the table. Her body knocked around the plates and glasses as they clinked together. She ran her hand over the table and threw the items to the floor, where they shattered or bounced, and then gripping the sides she flung herself forward, pressing her weight against Darla’s body and pushing her to the floor.

Darla darted out from under her and rolled to safety and then she lifted herself up and held her hands up in defense. She had the poise of someone who knew how to fight, but Lucy—who had only engaged in mock wrestling matches with her brothers—fought with blind rage. When she lifted a hand to scratch at Darla’s tan face, she felt a firm grip around her wrist, digging into the same spot where she had been handcuffed. And Lucy crumpled to the floor, allowing Darla to stand up straight and catch her breath.

“She let her die,” Lucy gasped. “She let her die! We had everything we needed to save them and you just let Spencer have it. How could you let me believe I was safe?”

“You are safe,” Darla said again. “You are safe. Ethan told me—” she stopped, sighed. “I didn’t know there were other people. I had one task.”

“It’s fine to be angry. It is normal for grief to look like anger,” Leland’s voice said near Lucy’s ear. “But you should not fight with your friends in a time like this,” he elucidated in a parental tone.

“She’s not my friend,” Lucy responded quickly and she yanked her hand away from his grasp. But she did not move from her place in the ground.

No one spoke. Grant wandered over to Salem’s body and stood looking at her—a sliver of sun filtered through the window fell over Salem’s legs. Then he turned back to the group, his skin red and blotchy and his eyes puffy. “What vaccine?” he asked.

Lucy stood by the window and looked out on the street. The boy had gone, run off somewhere, so the girl’s body was alone on the wet concrete. The rain had not lifted and the water ran off her body like tiny streams.

Grant sat at the piano. He ran his fingers over the fake ivory keys, stretching them out, and then settled them into position. He hit a chord and another, ru

“A Grant Trotter original,” he said in a half-whisper.

“You made that up?” Lucy asked, too tired and sad to even muster an impressed smile. “I didn’t know you could play.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“I should’ve said something.” Lucy turned back to the window. “I should’ve put it all together and realized. I should’ve warned you both.”

Grant stood up and stretched. “No,” he said. “In some ways, it’s better not to know. But I want it stated for the record. I was right. That first morning when I predicted that we were just taking longer to die? I don’t know why I didn’t take bets.”

Lucy began to cry again.

He walked over and put a comforting arm around her shoulder. “I feel like you should be consoling me right now. I am the one that just learned I’m going to die sometime today.”

Lucy leaned into his arm.

“I’m not afraid to die,” Grant said.

Pulling back, Lucy looked at him and wiped her tears on her sleeve. “I don’t understand. We’ve been fighting so hard to stay safe and alive…for almost a week…”

“You misunderstood.” He took a step back and placed his hands on Lucy’s shoulders. He was taller than her by almost a whole foot and he had to stoop his shoulders to look in her eyes. “I want to live. But I’m not afraid to die. This new world is much scarier than death, Lucy.”

“It’s not fair.”

“Amen.”

“We have to go back to the school and get one of the vials back from Spencer.” Lucy mentioned this is in a rush of importance, begging him to agree. She had been thinking about the trip back and how they could pull it off. She had a plan. The vaccine in Spencer’s possession was a travesty, especially since Grant was just playing a waiting game.

“No,” was Grant’s swift reply.

“Yes,” Lucy replied. “Yes. We can do this. And if Darla won’t help…I’ll go alone.”

“Lucy—” he shook his head. “I’m not letting you go. I’m not letting you or anyone else risk your life for me. There’s no guarantee that it would work or that…in the time that it took…” he trailed off and she knew what he was going to say. She cringed.

“Please.” She cried harder.

Grant shook his head and squeezed her shoulders tightly. “We’re not talking about it. And you won’t change my mind.”

“What do you want to do then?” Lucy asked and she tried to harden herself, stop the blubbering, and regain control.

Grant laughed. His genuine amusement shocked her and he put a thoughtful finger to his lips. “You mean…on your last day to live? What do you want to do?”

“No,” Lucy stammered. Then, “Maybe.”

Without missing a beat, he replied. “I want to bury Salem. Give her what no one else in our school or our lives got when they died. Something proper.” He then looked at her with a sad smile. “Then I want to see you get home.”

Abigail Pine’s body had already started to decay. Not the rapid decomposition the virus caused, but the normal human rate of putrefaction. In an attempt to mask the smell, Leland had dumped two entire boxes of baking soda over her. Everywhere, except her face. And despite her whiteness and bloat, she still looked peaceful as she lay on top of their floral comforter.

With Leland watching, twisting his hand in his robe nervously, Darla wrapped her in a white flat sheet; her body was stiff, but still moveable. They rolled her onto the sheet in stages and then secured it at the ends. Grant grabbed her upper body, lifting her with a mixture of tenderness and sheer strength, while the girls congregated at her legs and feet. Then they shimmied and shifted, maneuvered and backed their way down the stairs, through the family room, out the kitchen, and into the garden—where Leland met them holding two shovels.

They dug two holes. The rain made them a muddy mess and the further down they got, the harder the earth was, slowing down their digging process. After fifty minutes, they had created large and deep enough holes to fit Leland’s departed wife and Salem.