Page 142 of What Blooms in Barren Lands

The TV was on. I almost always kept it on, relishing the luxury. It only had one channel, which mainly broadcasted news from all parts of the world in English and an occasional movie from before the pandemic. The volume had been turned down low, but I increased it once I saw the images on the screen. Old footage from some travel documentary, no doubt, of glaciers and volcanoes, the land of ice and fire. Iceland.

A reporter appeared on the screen. She looked nothing like the reporters of the past; she had no make-up on, and her mousy hair was up in a messy bun. Her teeth were markedly yellow.

“It has now been confirmed that the virus’s origin can be traced to melting glaciers, which led to the release and revival of an ancient virus that had been dormant for millennia. This virus, LSC-312, in its original form, likely caused little to no symptoms in humans. However, rapid, subsequent mutations and most notably crossing with Lyssavirus, the virus responsible for rabies, turned it into the disease we know now. These findings align with what we know about individuals immune to the modern form of the virus, as immunity has been observedalmost exclusively in persons residing in Arctic or sub-Arctic areas who had been exposed to the older, harmless virus strands ...”

Sensing my own excitement, the twins abandoned their toys and looked up at the TV with their plump pink mouths slightly agape.

“Well, what do you know,” I told them incredulously, “Daddy was right all along, wasn’t he?”

Five years had gone by in a heartbeat.

My sons’ hands in each of my own, the three of us crossed the Royal Mile of Edinburgh, crowded with spectators of the renewed Fringe Festival, the cheerful mob laughing and clapping as kilted men swallowed fire or pranced around on stilts. Feet galloping uphill on the slightly uneven cobblestones, we were headed to my favourite, family-friendly pub. It was the first to reopen in the post-pandemic era, assuming the optimistic name of ‘New Hope’. Dave and Kevin were meeting us there.

I had moved my little family to Scotland at the same time they relocated back to London. Dave teased me unceasingly about coming there to ‘chase ghosts,’ but they both still visited me as often as possible, despite the fact that Scotland had become a separate country and they needed a ‘visa to visit bloody Edinburgh of all places’.

“Mum, what’s it called again?” Alex asked, eyeing his plate with distrust some moments later.

“Sticky toffee pudding, darling,” I told him. “It used to be your daddy’s favourite.”

“Sickly coffee pudding.” Danny laughed, jesting.

“Stiffy cocky pudding,” Alex joined in.

“Well, if you two don’t want it, I’m sure your uncles would be more than interested ...”

I made to pull the sweets away from them across the shiny table surface.

“Nooo ...” they protested in unison, hands gripping the sauce-free edges of the plates.

Almost everything in the pub was made of polished dark oak: the walls, the floors, the window booth we sat in, and the bustling bar with its dozen beer taps. Most were only remnants of days long past, since only two kinds of beer were available.

“Is it true?” I asked Kevin quietly once the twins seemed sufficiently occupied with their puddings. “Have you found the cure?”

“Not me.” He scoffed modestly. “I am nothing but a cog. But the Institute did, if that’s what you’re asking. Although it’s technically not a cure. It’s an antiviral drug that suppresses the virus to levels undetectable in blood. Not unlike HIV meds, for instance. We’re in late stages of human trials.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” The breath caught in my throat, and I exhaled heavily. “My chin nearly hit the floor when I heard that on the news.”

“Living here has done wonders for your English, hun.” Dave chuckled approvingly, taking a large sip of his pint. “You’re actually starting to sound like a person from this century.”

I only made a face at him in response instead of just telling him to shove it, which no doubt would have been met with an even more gleeful approval.

“You do work with them though, right?” I asked Kevin, leaning closer to him as I propped my elbows on the smooth surface of the table. “You check their blood levels and whatnot?”

“Yes. Part of what I do these days,” he admitted with a certain reluctance.

“Do they remember what it was like, being furies?”

“Some of it.” He pushed his new glasses up his nose, plastic ones with square black rims that made me do a double-take each time I looked at his face. “But they say it’s like remembering a nightmare. Most of it is very blurry and confused.”

“Small blessings, I guess,” Dave remarked. “Imagine remembering that you feasted on the innards of your friend or a family member.”

“Right?” I shook my head in disbelief. “How do you live with that? Even if the memories were hazy, I’m still not sure I would have wanted to.”

“Same way we live with what we’ve done, I suppose. Still, some struggle,” Kevin allowed with a pained expression. “Like this young mother we work with who ... uhm, ate her baby when she turned. Sadly, she does remember more than most ...”

“God!”

“But most of them can recover with therapy and have meaningful lives. Which got me thinking.” Kevin’s voice was almost a whisper, barely audible above the pub’s bustle. “Would we have done what we did if we had known a cure was possible in our lifetime?”