Plague

then, far worse, he’d heard Brittney’s pleas for death.
    “Sam, I know you’re listening,” she’d said through the barricaded door. “I know you’re out there, I heard your voice. I can’t take it, Sam. Sam, end it. Please, I’m begging you, let me go, let me go to Heaven.”
    Sam had been to see Astrid earlier in the evening. That hadn’t gone too well. Astrid had tried, and he had tried, but there was too much wrong between them. Too much history now.
    He had kissed her. For a while she had kissed him back. And then he’d pushed it. His hands went where he wanted them to go. And she’d shoved him away.
    “You know I’m going to say no, Sam,” she said.
    “Yeah, I’ve kind of gotten that message,” he said, angry and frustrated but trying to maintain some semblance of cool.
    “If we start, how long do you think it will take before everyone knows?”
    “That’s not why you won’t sleep with me,” Sam said. “You won’t do it because you think it would mean giving up control. And you are all about control, Astrid.”
    It was the truth. Sam believed it, anyway.
    But if he were being honest instead of just angry, he’d have admitted that Astrid had her own problems. That she was filled with guilt and didn’t need one more thing to feel guilty about.
    Little Pete was in a coma. Astrid blamed herself, although it was stupid to do so and she was the furthest thing from stupid.
    But Little Pete was her brother. Her responsibility.
    Her burden.
    After that rebuff Sam had stood awkwardly while Astrid spooned artichoke and fish soup into Little Pete’s nerveless lips. Little Pete could swallow. He could walk if she guided him. He could use the slit trench in the backyard but Astrid had to wipe him.
    That was Astrid’s life now. She was a nurse to an autistic boy with all the power in their world locked inside him. Beyond autistic now: Little Pete was gone. No way to know where he was in his strange, strange mind.
    Astrid hadn’t hugged Sam when he said he was leaving. Hadn’t touched him.
    So that had been Sam’s evening. Astrid and Little Pete. And the twinned undead creature Orc and Howard kept watch over.
    If Drake somehow escaped, there were probably only two people who could take him on: Sam himself, and Orc. Sam needed Orc to act as Drake’s jailer. So he had ignored the bottles beside Orc’s couch and “confiscated” only the one in plain view on a kitchen counter.
    “I’ll dump this,” Sam had told Howard. “You know it’s illegal.”
    Howard shrugged and smirked a little. Like he’d known. Like he’d seen some gleam of greed and need in Sam’s eye. But Sam himself hadn’t known. He had intended to smash the bottle or dump it out on the street.
    Instead he had carried it with him. Through the dark streets. Past burned-out houses and their ghosts.
    Past the graveyard.
    Down to the beach. He’d cracked the seal, ready to pour it out on the sand. Instead he’d taken a sip.
    It burned like fire.
    He took another sip. It burned less this time.
    He headed up the beach. He knew in his heart where he was going now. He knew his feet were taking him to the cliff.
    Now, many sips later, he stood swaying at the top of the cliff. The effect of the booze was undeniable. He knew he was drunk.
    He looked down at the small arc of beach at the base of the cliff. The slight surge painted luminescent curves on the dark sand.
    Right here, right where he was standing, Mary had led the preschoolers in a suicide leap. All that kept those kids alive was Dekka’s heroic effort.
    Now Mary was gone.
    “Here’s to you, Mary,” Sam said. He upended the bottle and drank deep.
    He had failed Mary. From the start she’d taken charge of the littles and run the day care. She’d carried that load almost alone.
    Sam had seen the effects of her anorexia and bulimia. But he hadn’t realized what was happening to her, or hadn’t wanted to.
    He’d heard nervous gossip that Mary was grabbing whatever meds she could find, anything she thought would ease her depression.
    He hadn’t wanted to know about that, either.
    Most of all he should have seen what Nerezza was up to, should have questioned, should have pushed.
    Should have.
    Should have.
    Should have . . .
    Another deep swallow of liquid fire. The burning made him laugh. He laughed down at the beach where Orsay, the false prophet, had died.
    “Good-bye, Mary.” He slurred, raising his bottle in a mock toast. “Least you got outta here.”
    For