The Typhon Project

Chapter Three: Million-Year-Old Light

The growl of the noseless driver's car growing quieter, I punched in the garage door code and then hurried into the house door. I stopped on the step, my hand on the doorknob. I pressed my eyes shut and whispered a prayer, "Please let them be alive." I knew the day was coming . . . .

Refusing to finish the thought, I opened the door and stepped inside. The mantle clock ticked through the silence. I breathed in the scent of home—a hint of vanilla mixed with lemon dish soap. For a moment, I imagined I was just coming home late from a date, that I was just a normal teenager. Maybe I'd get grounded for coming in so late.

That's the way it would've been if the magnetic field hadn't failed. If daylight didn't bring the terror of radiation and scorching solar flares. Now night was the only safe time to go outside.

I crept into the living room to check on Mom first. She lay on the couch sleeping right where I'd left her. She'd slept there since we lost my dad. She refused to sleep in her bedroom. She said it smelled like him. After five years, his clothes still hung in the closet.

I stepped closer to her still form.  A shock of panic rolled through me. Was she breathing? I tensed and watched her, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. Then she stirred. I let out a relieved breath.

I went upstairs to check on Lindsay. Her TV flickered. Curled up in her bed, her chest gently rose and fell. I took the remote out of her hand, turned off the TV, and pulled the blanket around her shoulders. I pause to enjoy her face, smooth and peaceful with sleep. When she slept, she still looked like the sister I grew up with—happy, bubbly, easy going. Everyone loved Lindsay. I had looked up to her. She had been a kind and gentle person.

The brain tumors changed her.

She didn't deserve this fate. She deserved to live more than I did.

I descended the stairs, passing a collage of family pictures on the wall. I often stopped to look as I passed; I needed to remember how they used to be before cancer ravaged their bodies.

In the kitchen, I warmed up some chicken broth, then set out two trays and filled them with a plate of Saltine crackers, a bowl of chicken broth, and a glass of diluted apple juice. I carried one tray to Lindsay's room and set it on her night stand and brought the other to Mom and eased it onto the coffee table, careful not to wake her.

"Hi, baby. You're home," she whispered.

"Sorry I woke you."

"That's okay." She pushed up on one elbow, but grimaced and fell back onto her pillow. "How did the last treatment go?"

"I didn't faint this time." I chuckled.

"Well, that's good. Now that you've got the hang of it, it's over.".

I helped her sit up and put the tray on her lap. She lifted a Saltine to her mouth and bit off the corner. Lesions peeked out from the collar of nightgown. I watched her chew, willing the cracker to add some weight to her. She was nothing more than a sheet of grey skin draped over bones.

"Mom, would you mind if I went for a drive with Graeme? Maybe just for an hour. "

"I don't mind."

"If you don't want me to, that's okay."

She swallowed. "No, you should go."

"I shouldn't go. I-I shouldn't leave you guys." I pulled my phone from my pocket. "I'll just text Graeme and let him know."

She placed her hand on my knee. "Sweetie, we'll be fine." She sighed. "Just fine. Go."

"But if Lindsay wakes up . . . ."

She lifted her chin. "Leah Marie Baines, you better go out with that boy or you'll be grounded." She smirked. "You need to have some fun every now and then."

"Are you sure?"

Mom rolled her eyes. "Leah. Go."

"Call me if you need anything, and I'll come straight home."

"It's not like the world is going to end while you're gone." She let out a weak chuckle.

I raised my eyebrows. "Very funny."

* * * * *

Graeme's old Chevy rumbled down the dark highway. He rested his arm on the open window, and the wind tossed his blond hair. He glanced over at me and smiled. His dimples. My gosh, his dimples.

I slid across the bench until I could lean against him. Being with Graeme was a vacation from reality. He wasn't sick yet, so it was easy to pretend the world wasn't ending.

I leaned my head on his shoulder. Was he okay? He always told me not to worry, but I did anyway. His younger brother, Liam,—the last of his family—died a couple of weeks ago, so Graeme was on his own now.

But we agreed not to speak of the dead and dying when we were together. Vacation from reality and all that.

He took an off ramp into the nature reserve. We sped past shadowy, stick-like birch trees kissed by moonlight. He drove through the parking lot and then down the walking path right to the edge of the sand that bordered the remains of a small lake. I grabbed the blanket off the back of the seat as we got out of the car.

Graeme stood on the sand, his hands on his hips. "Wanna go for a swim?" He smirked.

The lake was now more of a puddle, moonlight reflecting off its shallow waters. "I don't think we'd both fit." I laughed, though the sight set off an ache in my chest. I pressed my eyes closed and images of a healthy Lindsay and I splashing each other on a brilliant summer's day played in my thoughts.

Graeme tugged at the blanket, pulling me back to the present. He helped me spread the blanket over the sand, and we both dropped onto it. I tucked my hands against my sides and took in the stars. I'd learned that it takes the light from some of those stars millions of years to reach the Earth. Maybe if I got far enough from the Earth, I could look back and see the planet as it used to be. For a moment, the lake was full and the leaves were green. A breeze blew past me raising goose bumps even though I wasn't cold.

Graeme inched closer and picked up my hand. He pointed out constellations, and when he couldn't find anymore, I started making some up. The wind murmured through the dead trees. Neither of us spoke. That was the nice thing about Graeme—we could just be silent together without it feeling awkward.

Graeme rolled onto his side, facing me, and propped himself up on his elbow. He gazed into my eyes, a heavy burden behind his green eyes, and said, "There's something I need to talk to you about."

I didn't want a heavy; I just wanted to enjoy being with him—free and easy. I rolled toward him and kissed him lightly. "Do we have to talk?"

I tried to kiss him again, but he pulled away. Moisture glistened in his eyes.

My breath caught. "What's wrong?"

He pressed his lips together, blinked a couple times, and looked away.

Tears blurred my vision. "No." I shook my head.

"We knew it would happen sometime."

"How bad?"

He sat up, peeled off his T-shirt, then returned to my side. He took my hand and placed it on his side, just below his armpit. Trembling, I pressed down and slid my hand along his ribs. Lumps. Some bigger, some smaller. The bigger ones had to have been there for awhile.

And he didn't tell me.

My throat constricted. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Telling you wouldn't help anything. Last thing you needed was more to worry about."

Tears tumbled down my cheeks.

"Leah, don't cry. I don't want to spend our last time together like this."

"Last time? You might have months left!"

He dug into his jean's pocket. He withdrew his hand, held his fist out to me, then uncurled his fingers. The Red Pill sat on his palm.

The Red Pill.

I recoiled from it. No, no, no!