The End Is Now

Ray leaned in and kissed her back.

Helen turned her head aside, whispered, “Make love to me. I want to be touched. I want to feel normal for a little while.”

* * *

Back in high school, when Batgirl was a popular prime time TV show, Ray had read A Tale of Two Cities in English class. Mr. Patel made a big deal out of the opening line of the novel, and that line was the only thing Ray remembered about the book. The line was: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Laying in Helen Anderson’s bed, with her sleeping beside him, that line was a perfect description of how Ray felt.

He couldn’t shake a tinge of guilt, as if he were cheating on Eileen. That guilt was pillowed by a soaring sense of joy; sparks of awe, magic, and wonder as he studied Helen’s sleeping profile in the early morning light. That joy was wrapped in a ball of terror and dread, as the reality of what lay outside Helen’s front door crept along in the back of Ray’s mind. They hadn’t been outside in five days, but the radio reports were enough. His terror looped right back to concern for Eileen. She’d cheated on him, she’d left him, but part of him still loved her, still worried.

Helen opened one eye. “Stop staring,” she sang sleepily.

“Sorry.” He lay back and stared up at the ceiling, thinking about Eileen. Odds were she had it by now. The thought rattled Ray, but in the last radio report, between seventy and eighty percent of Los Angeles residents had the disease, so yes, there was a good chance his wife was frozen, was dying. Maybe she and Justin both had it.

“What’s the matter?” Helen asked.

Ray looked at her, questioning, then realized there was a tear on his cheek. He wiped it with the back of his hand. “I was just thinking about my wife. My ex-wife, I guess. I was wondering how she’s doing, whether she’s . . . you know.”

Helen put a hand on his arm. “You’re a good soul. I have a grown son in Houston, and all I’m thinking about is how to get more Xanax.”

Ray reached up, took her hand in his. “You’ve done a lot of good in the world.”

Helen laughed harshly. “Yeah. I was in a bad TV show.”

“It wasn’t bad, and anyway, that’s not what I’m talking about. What about all the money you raised for autism research?”

Helen sighed, shook her head, but didn’t argue.

“I can’t stand the thought that Eileen might be like these people. All alone. Dying.” He rose up on his elbow. “Would you mind if I . . .”

Helen stiffened. “You want to go to her?”

“Just to make sure she’s all right.”

“And what if she isn’t? Will you stay with her?”

Ray hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I’m staying with you. If that’s what you want.”

“Of course it’s what I want. You’re my guardian angel, remember?” She leaned over and kissed his nose. “If I was married and my husband ditched me while this hell was breaking loose, he could be bleeding to death on my doorstep and I wouldn’t bring him a Band-Aid.” She gave a little one-shouldered shrug. “But that’s just me.”

Ray wished he could feel that way; it was all Eileen deserved. But he couldn’t. They’d spent twenty-two years together, and even if the in-jokes and silly banter had faded over the last five, they’d always watched out for each other. The more he thought about it, the more urgently he needed to check on her.

He turned and kissed Helen. “I’ll be back in two hours. Three at the most.”

“Would—” she paused. “Can I come with you?”

She was safer inside, but Ray could see this meant a lot to her. It meant they were together, not two strangers waiting out a storm together.

* * *

There were bodies everywhere. In the street, on sidewalks, on lawns, in driveways. In cars, both parked and wrecked.

Ray hit the brake as a teenaged boy lurched out from behind a delivery truck, right in front of the car. The boy’s arms were raised, his head nodding, eyes wild with terror.

“I’m sorry,” Ray shouted through the raised windows. “There’s nothing we can do. I’m so sorry.” He inched the car forward. “Please, get out of our way. Move, please.” The boy set his hands on the hood of Helen’s Prius, opened his mouth, trying to speak. With each jerk of his head he began to sink, his legs freezing up. Ray turned to look behind him, backed up until the boy slid to the street. He steered around him.

Helen had her hands over her eyes. “This is terrible. These poor people.”

“Why are there so many in the streets?” Ray asked as he steered around a woman in a bathrobe. He was fairly sure she was still breathing, but he avoided looking at her as he passed. He didn’t want to see her eyes tracking them.

“They don’t want to die alone,” Helen said, her voice slurred. She’d gone through half of the tequila bottle since they’d left her house. There were tears on her cheeks. “Once they start nodding, they’re not afraid to catch it any longer, they’re afraid to be alone, with no one to help them. So they run outside.”