Page 10 of The Last Sanctuary

She shook her head, incredulous. Did her father even have a heart? Did he care about anyone else? He hadn’t shed a single tear when her mother left. He would’ve abandoned Zachariah without a backward glance or a second thought.

“We aren’t animals.”

“Aren’t we? It’s survival of the fittest, it always has been. Just now, everyone knows it.”

Anger boiled up inside her, pressing against her ribs, but she shoved it down. It was useless. Her father didn’t care about her outrage. Arguing with him was a waste of precious energy. And she felt tired, so tired.

Tears stung her eyes every time she looked at Zachariah. She wanted to sit on the back patio with him the way they used to, with steaming mugs of hot cocoa. She also wanted to tell him a corny joke, like the ones he’d told her when she was little.Why did the cookie go to the doctor? Because he was feeling crumby.

He was the grandfather she’d never had. Now, he was dead.

“What now?” she asked dully. “We have to bury him. We have to… do something.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“We have to bury him,” she repeated.

Her father glanced down at Zachariah’s body, his eyes narrowing. “I said I’ll take care of it.”

“That’s not the same thing.” Her father was extremely unsentimental. Who knew what his idea of ‘taking care of it’ meant. “He needs to be buried. We have to show our respect.”

“Fine.” Her father expelled a sharp breath. “I will bury him.”

“I’ll help you.”

“No, you won’t.”

“He was my friend, too?—”

“I said no!” He coughed again, a deep horrible hacking that shook his shoulders. Taking a step back to keep several feet between himself and Raven, he pulled down his mask to wipe his mouth with the back of his arm.

Raven stared at the mask, aghast. It wasn’t white like it was supposed to be. It was tinged with a sickly, pinkish hue. Her gaze dropped to his right arm. His faded plaid shirtsleeve was speckled with red droplets.

The realization struck her, sharp and swift as an axe blade. She saw suddenly what she hadn’t noticed before, what she’d refused to notice, choosing to focus instead on her stupid birthday, the stupid gift from her mother, and her ridiculous plans for escape, which seemed suddenly empty and selfish.

Sweat leaked down her father’s face, beaded on his forehead, and stained the underarms of his shirt. Sweat on a cool day. The bruised circles beneath his eyes, which she’d assumed were from lack of sleep. The coughing wasn’t from his asthma.

And the smell. She’d barely noticed before now, but Vlad had. Vlad, who frantically paced behind the iron bars at the bottom of the hill, his lips pulled back from his two-inch teeth.

He snarled and shook his head back and forth repeatedly, unable to rid himself of the pungent stench. The sour, noxious scent turned her stomach. Dread sank in her gut like a stone.

The stink of sickness.

Her father was infected.

Chapter Four

Raven slumped in a metal chair six feet from her father’s bed. Afternoon light slanted through the windows. It bathed the room in warm shadows. Her father groaned, tossing and turning in misery. His limbs were slick with sweat, his face gaunt, and his eyes hollowed.

“Ten feet,” he’d growled when she tried to come closer. The CDC broadcasts had recommended maintaining a six-foot distance from any suspected infected persons. Her father thought it was best to extend that number. After all, social distancing hadn’t saved the masses.

They were dead. Almost everyone was dead. It was too horrific to contemplate for longer than a few seconds at a time.

To distract herself, she brought him a damp washcloth to press against his fevered forehead, and a pitcher of water for his aching throat and rasping cough. Without power, the water was lukewarm. She couldn’t give him ice for his parched throat.

It wasn’t enough. How could it possibly be enough?

She stared dully at the bare log walls. Zachariah had died yesterday. This morning, her father had collapsed at thebreakfast table. Whatever her plans had been, she couldn’t leave her father now.