Suffer the Children Page 16

  “I don’t believe it,” he breathed. If only Nadine could hear this.

  “What?” said Charlie. “What’s happening?”

  “I’ve got a heartbeat. Strong and steady as a horse. The baby is alive. Really alive.”

  Shannon hugged her swollen belly and smiled. “I knew he was alive. I told you.”

  The dead had not only come back. At least in this case, they were coming back to life.

  “But it’s incredible!” David laughed. “There was nothing three days ago. Then he kicked. Now his heart is beating. It’s nothing short of miraculous.”

  “That’s why I’m naming him Jonah instead of Liam,” Shannon said. She gave her belly a gentle pat. “In the Bible, Jonah spent three days in the stomach of a whale like he was dead, and was then reborn. It’s funny on two levels.”

  David laughed as if it were the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

  Ramona

  15 hours after Resurrection

  Ramona stared at the needle. She hated needles.

  Nadine pulled on a pair of gloves. “Are you anemic?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “When was the last time you menstruated?”

  “A little over two weeks ago.”

  Nadine checked her blood pressure. “One twenty over eighty. Normal.”

  Ramona swallowed hard. “That’s a big needle.”

  “You’ll feel a mild sting as it goes in. The actual procedure won’t cause you any pain as long as you relax and keep still. Drink this.”

  Nadine handed her a glass of water, which she drank slowly.

  “Now lie back. Once I start the procedure, it’ll be over in about ten minutes. Your body and gravity will do all the work.”

  “How much are you going to take?”

  “Between four fifty and five hundred milliliters. Once it’s mixed with the anticoagulants in the bag, it’ll end up five hundred, or a unit of whole blood.”

  “Five hundred?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s about a pint.”

  “A pint,” Ramona echoed. She visualized a pint of milk.

  “How much do you weigh?”

  “One fifteen, I think. It’s been a while since I weighed myself.”

  “You have about eight and a half pints of blood in your body. You’ll be keeping nearly ninety percent.”

  Ramona frowned. It didn’t sound very reassuring. After this, ten percent of me will be gone. “You sounded really concerned about my iron.”

  “Hemoglobin, actually. It carries oxygen from the lungs to cells throughout the body. The minimum level is a hundred twenty-five grams per liter. You’ll have lost about ten grams when we’ve finished. If you drop below one ten, it could cause a bit of a problem.”

  “Like what kind of problem?”

  “You could become anemic. You’d feel grouchy and tired, get headaches, and find it difficult to concentrate and think.”

  “Sounds like a fancy medical term for motherhood,” Ramona joked.

  Nadine didn’t laugh; she was all business. “It’s not recommended to give blood more than once every fifty-six days. It takes that long for the average healthy body to regenerate the lost red blood cells. Take too much, and the body starts to shut down.”

  “But I’m not anemic. So I’m going to be okay.”

  “You haven’t been eating, drinking, or sleeping properly in days. This could feel a bit rough. Ideally, I’d take a drop from your finger and run a hemoglobin test, but I can’t do that here. You should understand there are risks. Do you want to keep going?”

  Ramona forced down the last of the water and handed the glass back. “Let’s get it over with.”

  Nadine tied an elastic band around her upper arm to form a tourniquet. The vein in the crook of her arm bulged.

  “Make a fist. Good. Now let go.”

  The tourniquet, she explained, increased blood pressure. Opening and closing her fist increased blood flow. She tapped Ramona’s vein and swabbed her inner forearm with a prep pad to sterilize it. Then she got the needle ready.

  “Wait.” Ramona pulled her arm back. “I don’t want to do this. This is crazy.”

  “I told you everything I know and saw with my own eyes. The treatment worked with Kimberly. It worked with another patient I visited before I came here. I’d like to help Josh. I believe I can. But it’s your choice. Do you want to stop?”

  Ramona’s internal timer went off. I need to check on him.

  Josh didn’t need checking. He couldn’t hurt himself. Couldn’t get lost. Couldn’t do anything, in fact, except lie there.

  You promised you’d do anything. You promised you’d put him FIRST.

  Besides, she couldn’t take the constant stress anymore. The stress of not knowing if he was going to wake up again. The stress of not being able to help him. Nadine had told her she could cure Josh. She’d already helped two children become normal again. She’d said that.

  But maybe she was lying. Maybe she was giving out false hope.

  Maybe this woman is flat-out, bats-in-the-belfry, off-her-rocker nuts.

  Which was more likely? It didn’t matter.

  You want to know what’s nuts? This whole situation. The children dying. The children rising from the grave. You still have to try. False or not, it’s still hope.

  “Ramona? Do you want to stop?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “I saw the pictures taped to the wall in Josh’s room. Does he like to draw?”

  “Yes,” said Ramona, drawing it out into a hiss as Nadine slid the needle into the vein.

  Tricked me. Ouch.

  The blood began to flow. Dark, thick whole blood filled the tube and began to pool within the plastic bag on the floor.

  Nadine gave the bag a quick shake to mix the incoming blood with the anticoagulants. “Remember we were talking about iron? It’s the stuff that makes blood red.”

  “I don’t want to look,” Ramona said.

  “Blood is beautiful. It’s life. It goes around and around inside our bodies, twelve thousand miles a day. Make a fist for me again, slowly. Now open your hand again.”

  Ramona’s lips tingled. “I’m feeling a little sick right now.”

  “That’s normal considering the condition you’re in. Just stay calm.”

  “Normal,” she said, as if she’d never heard the word before.

  She tried not to think about the blood draining out of her body and into the bag.

  “Dizziness is the result of a drop in blood pressure. A little bit of your life is flowing out of you. We’re going to put it into Josh and try to cure him. Focus on that.”

  Nadine made it sound like a routine clinical procedure. Almost normal.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  The nurse nodded. “Hope is good.”

  “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  The nurse removed the tourniquet and asked her to make a fist again. “You may.”

  “Dr. Harris has a picture of a boy on his desk—”

  “We lost Paul a year ago.”

  “He didn’t—”

  “No one who died of anything other than Herod’s has returned.”

  Ramona opened her eyes and saw Nadine looking out the window, eyes burning with anger. Like a cat ready to pounce and tear much larger prey to pieces.

  “I lived alone with all that grief,” Nadine said. “No one understood. Not even David. Not really.”

  “I’m so sorry, Nadine. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “Now everyone understands. Everyone knows my grief, but I still feel like an outsider.”

  Ramona shook her head. “We’re all the same. The only difference is the timing.”

  “Your boy came back,” Nadine said. “Mine didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ramona said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Everything happens for a reason. Maybe Paul passed on so I would understand your loss and be able to help you reunite with Josh. Maybe I was
meant to do this.” She added bitterly, “Like Moses, leading people to the promised land but unable to enter himself.”

  Nadine withdrew the needle and pressed her finger against the venipuncture site.

  “Thank God that’s over with,” said Ramona. “I feel like crap.”

  The nurse taped a cotton ball over the wound. “You need to rest for about ten minutes. Here, have this.”

  She handed Ramona a lollipop. It was orange.

  “I want to see Josh.”

  “You need to rest first. Eat something. Drink some juice. I’ll get something for you.”

  Ramona sat up. A wave of nausea pushed her back down. She tried again, succeeded.

  “I need to see Josh. I need to see if the cure works. Please.”

  “All right.” Nadine helped her to her feet. “Now lean on me.”

  They entered Josh’s room. He lay in the exact position he’d been left in. Ramona knelt on the floor while Nadine filled a syringe with blood.

  “Josh, I’m going to give you a little medicine.”

  Josh’s eyes flickered to stare at the syringe.

  “It’s okay, little man,” Ramona said.

  “Yes, it’s a syringe,” said Nadine. “But there’s no needle, see? So there’s no reason to be afraid. Inside is a special medicine. You drink it. See, like your friend here.”

  She picked up Josh’s favorite stuffed animal, Graham the Bear, and mimed feeding it to him. She looked like a mother feeding her baby a bottle.

  “Yum, yum,” said Nadine. “Do you know the story of Pinocchio?”

  “We’ve read Pinocchio together, haven’t we, Josh?” said Ramona. Her voice was shaking now. The suspense was killing her.

  I don’t give a shit about Pinocchio! Just do it!

  “Pinocchio didn’t want to just exist,” Nadine said. “He wanted to be truly alive. He wanted to be a real boy. This medicine will make you a real boy again. Just like Pinocchio. Would you like that?”

  Josh’s eyes flashed to meet Ramona’s. She saw hunger in them.

  Yes, he would like that.

  The nurse opened the boy’s mouth and inserted the syringe. She pressed the plunger. Fifty milliliters of blood flowed down his throat.

  “Down the hatch.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed.

  He’s swallowing it.

  Ramona had wanted so hard to believe, but now that it was happening, she couldn’t.

  He gulped the next syringe. The awful sucking sounds made her feel nauseous again. She turned away in fear and revulsion.

  “You can look now,” said Nadine when she was done.

  Ramona turned back hopefully. “Now what?”

  “Now we wait.”

  Nothing happened. Seconds ticked by.

  “How long does it—”

  Josh’s face began to swell.

  He screamed. The scream pierced the air, loud and throaty.

  She glared at Nadine. “What did you do? What’s happening to him?!”

  The nurse said nothing. She stared at Josh with a manic gleam in her eye. He appeared to deflate. Skin rippled across his face.

  “Oh, Josh, I’m sorry!” Ramona cried.

  The screaming stopped. Josh sucked in a massive lungful of air and coughed. A dense, noxious stink filled the room. His body twitched. His slack cheeks filled out.

  “Oh my God,” Ramona said.

  Josh sat up, looked around, and fixed his gaze on his mother. His eyes sparkled with life and intelligence. His cheeks burned with health and youth.

  He licked his lips and said, “Mommy, can I watch Little Bear?”

  Doug

  17 hours after Resurrection

  Digging the children out of their graves was exhausting, backbreaking labor. By the end of the day, Doug was cold, tired, hungry, and fed up. But he didn’t want to go home.

  Archaeologists had been called in to supervise some of the digging. The rest of the crews, including his own, were simply told to be careful. They didn’t need to be told.

  Across the site, the pace was ebbing. The initial urgency had petered out. The bodies had stopped moving. When the recovery workers opened the bags, the children didn’t sit up and cry for their mommies anymore. Their eyes were open, the sole evidence they’d once woken up, but blank, as if looking inward now instead of out.

  As if waiting for something.

  The big yellow machines growled across the landscape, reopening its scars. Work crews jumped into the fresh-cut trenches to dig at the mangled earth. When they reached the children, they didn’t bother opening the bags anymore. They just pulled them out and loaded them on trucks. Doug had an awful feeling they’d soon have to pick up these same bodies and bring them right back again.

  Doug had learned over the past few days that feelings had sharp edges, and he dulled his with another long pull from his flask. His back and shoulders ached, but he didn’t care. Quicklime burned in his lungs, but he’d live. Snow continued to fall from the murk above and make a mess of everything; he accepted it.

  When he worked, he stopped thinking about the ghosts of his children.

  He didn’t feel grief right now. The pain of the past four days wasn’t there. Something else had replaced it—a nameless fear that came from a deep internal place governed by instincts instead of reason.

  At some point, he’d have to go home and face them, but not yet. He just couldn’t do it right now. In fact, he could face just about anything other than the mocking imitation of the people he loved more than himself.

  Mitch stabbed the ground with his shovel. The men heard the crack of bone.

  “Whoops,” he said. “Hey, I found another one.”

  “For Christ’s sake, be careful,” Tom said.

  When Doug had walked onto the site, he’d found Tom, Jack, and Mitch working in one of the trenches. Although he wasn’t looking for company, he’d joined them.

  He’d come to regret it. All they did was bicker to pass the time.

  “Why bother being polite?” Mitch said. “We all know these kids are toast.”

  “It’s common decency to respect the dead,” Tom said.

  “Like I care,” Mitch replied with a laugh. “They’re dead, so what? It’s all pointless, college boy.”

  “We’re also responsible, dipshit,” said Jack. “Our names are assigned to this group. It’s going to end up in the public record. I don’t want some screaming mother coming after me because her kid was sent home with a broken leg.”

  Mitch made a show of gripping his crotch. “If some screaming MILF wants to come at me, I’ll be happy to console her.”

  Doug leaned on his shovel. “Mitch, you’re right, it’s all pointless.”

  The kid grinned at Tom. “See? Even Doug—”

  “But we live here, and these are our dead. If you hurt one of them again, I’m going to punch your teeth down your throat.”

  Mitch sneered back at him. He was an expert at trading trash talk and already had a response ready to launch. Then his brain processed the look on Doug’s face.

  “Yeah, uh, sure thing, boss.”

  Now it was Jack’s turn to laugh, while Mitch scowled.

  “How’s everything at home?” Tom asked Doug.

  “Peachy,” he answered.

  “I just wanted to say I hope everything’s working out for you—you know, with your kids being back and all.” The man hesitated, his face flushed, and added, “I’m not sure what the right thing to say is here.”

  “As little as possible is usually best,” Jack muttered.

  “I’m hoping everything’s okay for you,” Tom said. “That’s all.”

  “My kids scare the shit out of me,” said Doug. “I’m dad of the year. Okay?”

  Tom blanched and went back to work.

  Doug’s phone rang. He climbed out of the trench and answered it.

  Joan’s voice: “Come home, Doug.”

  “Not right now, Joanie. We’ve got to get these kids out.”

&nbs
p; “Your own kids need you here.”

  He shivered as a strong wind blew across the field. “I can’t say that I’m ready for that just yet.”

  “The kids are asking for you.”

  The old fire burned in his chest. He felt the urge to put it out with a stiff drink. Instead, he said, “That’s not funny.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “Don’t play with me, Joanie.” His heart thumped in his chest. “You’re serious? They’re really talking? What are they saying?”

  “Pick up some milk on the way.” A moment later, the call disconnected.

  She expected him to come home. No discussion. And God help him if he forgot the milk.

  It was a familiar feeling—this was how she had managed him back when she was pregnant with Nate and he was still pounding shots and beers with the other san-men at the Cornerstone Pub.

  The message was always loud and clear: Come home now, or don’t bother.

  As he did then, he’d obey now. This time, however, he had an even bigger reason than the fact that he loved Joan.

  Just before she’d disconnected, he’d heard Megan laughing in the background.

  Which meant she was right—the kids were back. That, or he was losing his mind.

  He walked off the site. The other men called to him. He didn’t answer.

  He was going home.

  He walked straight to his truck and drove out of the works. The burial-ground operation kept the access road well plowed, but the public roads were still terrible. Snow fluttered in his headlights. Doug watched it, mesmerized, while he drove at a snail’s pace and chain-smoked.

  When he passed Cody’s Bar, he felt the tug of its gravity.

  I could have a quick one. Maybe the girl is in there. He tried to remember her name and laughed. Cindy Crawford. Just like the model.

  Her number was still scrawled in black marker on the back of his left hand, faded now to a dull smudge. The memory of being with her, equally faded, conjured up mixed feelings of guilt and longing.

  He remembered Megan’s laugh and drove past the bar.

  Love is a powerful thing. So is hope. With love and hope, you can conquer anything. You can even conquer yourself. The worst in yourself. He knew that firsthand. He was a veteran of that kind of war.

  He pulled into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven. The lot was full, so he drove his truck onto the sidewalk and parked it there. The store was packed, and the shelves were half-empty. People weren’t showing up for work, the world was falling apart, and nobody gave a shit anymore. He grabbed the last gallon of milk and cut in line, his yellow hazmat suit parting the way just as it had at the liquor store. He stocked up on Winstons at the counter, grabbed the jug, and returned to his truck.