The Mammoth Book of Apocalyptic SF - Mike Ashley [25]
"Greg came in while I was on the phone," he said at some point. "He tried to stop me. I hit him. God, I hit him, knocked him down! I took him home and we talked it over."
"Does he agree, then?"
"Yes," he said tiredly. "It was like hitting your father, your god."
"Why didn't you stop when you knew what it was?"
"We couldn't," he said. He was as pale as death, with red-rimmed eyes, a haunted look. "If we did it, then so will someone else, if they haven't already. We kept trying to find an out, an antidote, a cure, something."
We were still on the sofa side by side. He drew away from me and got to his feet, an old man laboriously rising; he staggered when he started to walk. "I need a drink."
I followed him to the kitchen and watched him pour bourbon into a glass and drink it down. If he and Greg couldn't find the cure, I was thinking, then who could? They were the best in the field.
I keep thinking of what Greg said that day on the coast: the plague killed off one-third to half the population of Europe, the same numbers that make up the A, the AJB, the AO blood groups. And out of that horror, he thought, had come the Renaissance.
I know so much more about blood groups and complexes now than I did two weeks ago; I put in a period of cramming, as if for an examination. I am in the A group. Mikey is AO. Warren is O. Sandra is A, and Chris is O.
I drove Warren to the lab the next morning, where we were met by a middle-aged man who introduced himself to Warren and ignored me. They went inside without a backward glance. When they were out of sight, Greg appeared, coming from the corner of the brick building, walking toward me. He had a Band-Aid on his jaw; Warren had one on his middle knuckle.
"At the last minute," Greg said, "I found I didn't want to see anyone, not Warren, not the hot-shot epidemiologist. Just tell Warren I'm taking off for a few days' rest, will you?"
I nodded, and he turned and walked away, old, old, defeated, sagging shoulders, slouching walk, his hair down over the collar of a faded gray ski jacket that gleamed with rain, sneakers squishing through puddles.
Such a clear picture of him, I marvel, coming wide awake again. The car is much too warm now; it has a very efficient heater. I want to sink back down into dreams, but instead I force myself up straighter in order to reach the key, to turn off the ignition. My hand feels encased in lead.
I packed for Warren and later that day he dashed in, brushed my cheek with his lips, snatched up his bag, and ran out again. He would call, he said, and he did several times, but never with anything real to say. I was as guarded on the phone as he was. Anything new? I asked, and he said no, same old stuff. I clutched the phone harder and talked about the children, about the rain, about nothing.
I did the things I always did: I braided Sandra's hair, and made Mikey do his homework; I talked to my own class about The Canterbury Tales; I shopped and made dinners; I washed my hair and shaved my legs... Mikey had a cold and Chris caught it, and I was headachy and dull feeling. Late fall things, I told Warren over the phone. He said it was rather warm in Atlanta and sunny. And, he said tiredly, he would be on the seven-o'clock flight due in Portland on Friday. We made soft thankful noises at each other; I had tears in my eyes when I hung up.
Trish Oldhams called the following evening. She wanted Warren and when I said he was out of town, there was a long pause.
"What is it, Trish? Anything I can do?" I hoped it was nothing; my headache was worse and now I was afraid it was flu, not simply a cold.
"It's Greg," she said at last. "I was going to ask Warren to go check on him. He called, and he sounded ... I don't know, just strange."
"What do you mean, strange?"
"He said he wanted to tell me goodbye," she said in a low voice. "I... is he sick?"
"Not that I know. I'll drop in on him and call you back. Okay?"
Time is a muddle for me now. I can't remember when Trish called but I didn't call her back. I found Greg