I stagger out of the library because I can’t listen to them talk about Cary’s fate like he’s not in the room, can’t listen to how he’s going to die before me. When I hit the hall, I run. I run upstairs, past the second floor, to the third floor. I rip the posterboard down and I stare out at Cortege below. The moon is bright enough to illuminate the street, but I don’t see Baxter and I think about how this day must have been carved out for him from the moment he was born, that he would live, find Madeline, teach high school, meet Roger, and end up in here with us, his death.

Part Three

PART THREE

Cary won’t talk.

He lays on the cot while Rhys douses the bite in peroxide. It bubbles angrily and he doesn’t even flinch. Rhys dabs away the blood with a wet cloth until the wound is clean. Then salve. I can’t get over the damage, what human teeth can do. What Baxter’s teeth have done. It shouldn’t surprise me after everything we’ve seen, but it does. An actual piece of Cary’s arm is missing and that part of Cary’s arm was in Baxter’s mouth. I try to remember if he spit it out, but I can’t and then I think I’ll be sick.

“I don’t think you’re infected,” Rhys tells Cary as he bandages Cary’s arm. Cary doesn’t respond. “Cary, you’re not going to die. I mean, you’re not going to die from this.”

Cary grimaces and presses his face into his pillow. Rhys finishes with the bandages and Cary clutches his arm to his chest. He shivers. Rhys frowns and feels Cary’s forehead, just for a second. Three days. We are giving Cary three days. We figure if he hasn’t turned by then, he won’t. But I don’t think anyone believes he won’t. Three days.

In three days, it will be twenty-five days since the world ended.

Eighteen spent in this school.

It feels like years.

“Someone will bring you food. We’ll check on you by the hour. Cary.” Rhys waits for Cary to acknowledge him. He doesn’t. “Cary, if you’re still you three days from now, you’re going to be fine. So don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

Cary doesn’t say anything and I want to draw the blankets up around his shoulders, a gesture of comfort, but most of me is afraid to touch him. Rhys and I stand there and listen to him breathe and I wonder if Cary feels how sick people feel when they’re told they’re terminal, that their time on earth is going to be so much less than they thought. He must. This is the day that was carved out for him.

“Cary,” Rhys says.