Five Years After by William R. Forstchen

Author:William R. Forstchen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tor Publishing Group

PART V

Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday.

—Psalm 91:5–6

CHAPTER ONE

Makala had been called out during the night to see to a new patient at the clinic, so John made breakfast for Genevieve. His attempt at two eggs over easy was blocked with “Yolks-ugh-Daddy,” as Genevieve disdainfully pushed it away. That gesture triggered a flash memory of when, as a boy, having breakfast at his grandmother’s, if he didn’t eat everything, she’d cluck sadly and say, “Think of all those poor starving children in China.” This morning it perhaps might hit too close to the mark and the runny yolk went to Chloe who eagerly wolfed it down.

His morning class had been canceled so the students could help with the fall apple and pumpkin harvest, and he looked forward to a morning of reading and listening to the shortwave.

As the tubes warmed up, he dialed in to one of several BBC frequencies, but atmospherics were iffy, and the signal faint. There was the usual back-chatter, barely heard even with volume turned high.

The news from China had essentially gone quiet. Radio Taiwan was now offline as well, due to the jamming. Essentially all of East Asia was dark.

“John?”

It was Makala, and he went out to the kitchen to greet her. Before he could say a word she held her hands out.

“Don’t come near me yet,” she announced, and without further comment she stripped off her overcoat, and then the denim dress and flannel shirt, and kicked the bundled clothes out the door. She had nothing on underneath and for a few seconds he thought she was starting to play one of their wonderful pastimes that frequently happened when Genevieve was gone. Smiling, he took another step toward her.

“Don’t!” she snapped, edging around him and heading into the bathroom. He heard the shower turn on. Hot water was a luxury for them; there wasn’t enough surplus electricity to turn the old hot water heater back on. Their custom had become weekly baths in an old-style tin tub next to the kitchen fireplace.

He heard her curse vehemently as the cold water rained down on her. After a few minutes the water shut off and she got out, still mumbling curses about wishing for a damn hot shower, then ran into the bedroom. She emerged a minute later in her frumpy bathrobe and sat down.

“I wish that had been the start of something different,” he said, still smiling.

“John, I think we have a case.”

“Case of what?”

“Plague.”

He froze in place, not moving.

“I think I’m clean now. Scrubbed down at the infirmary before coming home too, but I didn’t want to take any risks.” She lowered her head and rested it on the kitchen table. “I have a K-cup of coffee hidden in the cabinet, top shelf on the left for emergencies. Would you brew it up for me?”

He found the cup and opened the plastic lid.

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