Zion Rising |
The third volume in the trilogy (working title: Zion Rising), follows Peter, Alyssa, and the rest through increased dangers and a heart-stopping, intense final conflict with President-General Horne. They struggle to build the New Jerusalem in the ruins of a destroyed metropolis... but will they finish before it's too late? Linda is currently writing this book.
|
Sneak Preview
Mr. Caldwell: I am writing to inform you that Dr. Abigail Kline has been
terminated per Security Breach Code 1123-B, Section 2:ii:xxvii. I was unable to convince her that the Project must remain
top secret. As you are aware, every Specimen's sense of well-being depends on
our strict isolation from the outside world. Also, upon further investigation,
her multiple code violations regarding Specimen 886 were exhaustive and
reprehensible. I urgently recommend an immediate and thorough review of our
psychological profile testing system. Dr. Kline is the only employee to react
this way in the sixteen years I have run the Project. But one mistake is one
too many. I am deeply concerned for both immediate and long-term implications
of this breach. Sincerely, Dr. Olivia
Rand, Director Federal
Department of Developmental Research, Early
Childhood Division Tears ran down The other Doctors took Abby through the Door. The same Door
they took 885 through long ago. Abby screamed when they took her through like a Specimen. That was all wrong. Doctors weren’t afraid to go through the
Door. Doctors always came back out. Sometimes they came out with tables on wheels, covered in
lumpy white sheets; sometimes they came out with nothing, or appeared later
through a different Door. Doctors were never carried in like Specimens. Specimens never came back. He felt black and dark inside, like the Lab when all the
lights were out. He didn't have words for it. Abby taught him more words than
he used to know, but he couldn't name this black dark thing. When 885 left, it
was expected. These last many Days his mind was opened, thanks to Abby,
nice Abby, who spoke to him as though he were a Doctor himself, not the way all
other Doctors spoke to Specimens. He sat on his bed in his cage and thought. This was the
Laboratory, or Lab: all the world. Others lived in the long rows of cages, one
Specimen to a cage. His cage faced the shiny row of examination tables. Behind
those, the long white wall with many Doors, including the bad Door. Each cage had a bed and a toilet and a water bottle. The bottle
hung on the outside of the cage and poked through the mesh so he could drink.
They took his water when they were angry--when he was bad and bit the Doctors
who came with needles, or banged his head against the wall until he was bloody.
When they took his water he was thirsty. His throat stung
then. He remembered back as far as he could. Doctors taught him to
use the toilet, when he was small. That was fun. He liked being clean. They
taught him how to dress in the little robe all Specimens wore. They brought him
a new robe every Day and he changed it and they took the old one away. He slept when they turned all the lights out and called it
Night. He woke up when the lights came on and the Doctors came back. That was
Day. He used to take naps in the Day, but he hadn’t in a long time. He was bigger now than most other Specimens. This fact was
scary. He didn't know why Specimens were so small and got bigger and bigger,
but Doctors were bigger by far and all stayed the same size. Abby refused to
answer that question. Plus a Specimen got too big, weird changes happened to their
bodies. Then they went through the Door, like 885. 885 had been in the cage next to They knew about teeth. Their little teeth wiggled and fell
out, one by one, and bigger ones came in their place. It happened to every
Specimen sooner or later, and Doctors took the little teeth away. But neither of them knew what the hair meant. Not long after, the Doctors took 885 through the Door. He wondered if all Specimens were afraid of the Door like he
was. He thought some of them must be stupid. Some of them sat on their beds and drooled. Some never
tried to talk. Abby taught him that word too: stupid. He liked it. She said he was "very intelligent."
That meant, not stupid. The Helpers
especially did not like it when Most days he was let out for Playtime with other Specimens.
The Doctors watched them through big windows in the Playroom. There were always needles. Sometimes they squeezed something
into his body. Sometimes they took blood out. Injections,
syringes, testing--Abby taught him names for these things. Abby had a softness in her eyes the others did not. The
others were hard and cold and took his water bottle. Abby brought it back and
let him drink without other Doctors seeing. Abby had a name. A first
name, she said. Call me Abby. He chose his name for the sound the lock made when they
opened his cage. The sound of a moment of freedom. Freedom was a
word Abby taught him. Something he understood now that he didn't have, and
should have. When he made up his mind, he told the Doctors' Helper when
he took him out to clean his cage. He startled the Helper. "You are Kenny. I am The Day after they took Abby, Doctor Rand came with a
needle, herself. “Do you want the Door?” Dr. Rand yelled. He didn't care.
They could take him straight through now. He would follow Abby and 885 and all
the others, and see where it led. They almost had him down. He let go of her arm, twisted
free, and ran through the rows of cages in the Lab three times before they
caught him again. He screeched with the most noise he could make come out of
his throat. No matter how he bit and scratched and kicked and clawed,
the shot still came that made him fall asleep. When he woke up, he was smiling. Drugged. Another
word Abby taught him. Medicine in the
shot makes you feel funny. It's not your real feelings. He tried to find his real self, the self full of rage, hate,
and pain, so full it had to get free, even if the only way was through the
awful unknown of the Door. I am I am
freedom. I am hungry for freedom. Thinking the words made him giggle. He wanted to be angry,
but he giggled instead. Doctor Rand came to his cage. She took his water bottle.
"No water today. No food either. You behaved very badly." He wanted to throw his body against the cage until he was
too tired and bloody to keep it up. But he only laughed. Later that day, Specimen 742 in the cage behind his threw
up. A lot. Helpers came to clean up. Then two of the Doctors threw up. Doctors could throw up? He was afraid and black and dark again. When Specimens got sick, it was in groups; those in a Study,
or living next to each other. Then the Helpers got sick too. And more and more Specimens
threw up. The Doctors looked scared. One Doctor collapsed on the floor in front of "Shut up!" one said, pounding back. "Shut
up!" Then He was struck speechless.
Doctors
are in a cage too? Is the
whole Lab a cage? He tried to think. Doctors came and went through a set of doors, every Day and
every Night. These doors were locked to Specimens. One Doctor pounded on them
now. But Doctors could go through anytime they wanted. Abby had used those come-and-go doors too. She refused to
talk about what was behind them, except to say it was where Doctors went to
sleep at Night. The Doctors all yelling, pounding, moaning and throwing up
terrified him. He crouched in the back corner behind his toilet. He hid there
whenever the Doctors came for him for a Study. Doctors
can't get out. Doctors are sick. Doctors are scared. These new thoughts brought a terror he had never known. How could he find out what was more--more than the Lab? More questions than ever before, and no one to answer them. Where do new Doctors--like Abby--come from?
He hadn't paid them any attention until Abby came. They all seemed the same
until the day she smiled at him with her kind and pretty eyes. Why do the
Doctors want out? “Out” to
where? To their sleeping beds? And where
do those new, tiny Specimens come from? He saw them sometimes, on the way to
a Study, down a different hall, in a different Playroom. They were very cute,
and he always wanted to help them stop crying. Where did I come from? All he remembered about that
was a vague impression of being somewhere else in the Lab, a place he hadn't
seen since he left it. He was looking up at a plain white ceiling, in a cage
with bars on four sides, but none on top. A cage with no top? Yet he never
climbed up and out. Why didn’t I climb
out? He strained his mind for more, but that was as far as memory
took him. He puzzled more, naming everything he had names for:
Doctors. Specimens. Helpers. Cages, beds, sheets, toilets. Showers where they
washed him every Day. Needles and pills and medicine and IV's and drugs. Abby
taught him those thing-names. In the Playroom there were toys. Balls and blocks and paint
and paper. He liked painting on paper. He painted pictures of his bed,
his toilet, his cage, Specimen 885. The Doctors smiled and took his paintings
and he never saw them again. He painted Abby. The Doctor in the Playroom did
not smile when he took that painting. There were Locks on all Doors. “Locks” are
not-freedom. The lock is a button outside the cage. When a Doctor pushes it, it
makes the pretty ping-noise and the door opens. There is
no button on my side. If the Lab is a cage, who unlocks it for the Doctors? Exhausted by his thoughts, he finally slept. When Loud noises boomed--noise he had never heard before.
Specimens cried out. The Doctor who fell down by his cage was still there.
Doctor Rand lay over an exam table, throwing up onto the floor. All around were
moans and crying, and the horrible stench of sickness. All the Specimens he could see were sick. Except himself. No
one talked into the machines on the desks. "Let me out!" He pounded on his cage door.
"Let me out!" No one answered. He banged his head on the cage in fear. No Doctors
busy doing things? Everyone sick? The banging, creaking noise coming from the ceiling, which
rattled all the cages, scared him most of all. “Let me out!” he screamed again. "Why not," the Helper mumbled. He dragged himself
over to "No!" Doctor Rand said, her voice small and weak. "Come on, where's he gonna go?" "He's dangerous," Doctor Rand mumbled, and fell
off the exam table to the floor. The Helper pressed the button, then leaned against the next
cage to throw up. The sound of freedom. The Helper collapsed. It was open! His heart thumped in his chest. Freedom! He looked back at the other Specimens. He ran through the
rows of cages, pushing the buttons with joy.
He was the only one to run. Beyond the door was a hallway, just like other hallways in
the Lab. Some of the lights were dark or made crackling noises, the light in
them flickering on and off. A Doctor lay moaning in his path. This is
where they eat! he thought. And then, Doctors eat? But he moved on in spite of hunger. Intense curiosity pushed
him forward. At the end of the hall he saw something that went up and up
and up. He stood looking up, his
mouth hanging open. He never imagined so much up. He played on little sets of stairs in the Playroom. He knew
how to climb on them. But those were in short stacks. Some had a slide on the
other side. These went on and on. He climbed. After climbing many, many stairs, he was very tired. He
passed four other doors on his way. All locked. But the handle on the fifth
door turned. Someone came toward him, moving through the light. Abby smiled and said, "This is fire, He reached out for her hand, but his fingers passed right
through hers. "What happened to your hand?" he asked, trying to feel
it, touch it. "Don't be afraid. I can't hold your hand anymore. Just
follow me. Crawl on the floor, like a playroom game, and hold your breath. This
air is bad to breathe." Nothing prepared him for the shock that came next. Abby
tried telling him about Outside on
the way, but he didn't know most of her words. He screamed. The space before him was so big, so huge, his
mind could not make sense of it. Towers rose up, up, up, so high he couldn't see if there was
a top to them. It was dark except for fire burning. Doctors and Helpers in
funny clothes lay on the streets, sick. There were Specimens here too, but they
wore the same kind of funny clothes as Doctors and Helpers, not Specimen robes.
His eyes showed him things he could not understand. "Don't touch them!" Abby warned. "They're
sick." "Are those little Specimens, like me?" "These are people," Abby said. "We’re all
people. You--me--these--" she stopped, and the caring look came into her
eyes that he liked. " It was sick too. "It's a pet," Abby said. "An animal. People
keep them in their houses." "Like Specimens?" Abby laughed a sad laugh. "Not exactly." It was harder for Abby to explain dead. Many people they went past were dead or dying. Abby kept talking as they went, her voice angry. "I
should tell you where you come from, His ears perked up. This was his biggest question from those
last long thinking hours in the Lab. "You have a right to know who you
are." He listened, but he had never heard most of her words before: child, adult, life cycle, inhumanity,
pregnancy, abortion. He couldn't understand. Sick world he understood fine; he'd been sick before, and
everything in this world seemed to be sick. The streets echoed with people moaning, vomiting, crying.
Sick people leaned against the buildings, or staggered with staring eyes, like
drugged Specimens. They came to a place Abby called a Library. " "Why not?" "I just can't. Not anymore." He looked at her. "Trust me, "But I'm thirsty. Doctor Rand took my water bottle this
morning." "It's a good thing, too," Abby muttered. "Yes. I was a bad Specimen to bite her," he said. "No!" Abby said. "You're a very good
boy." "What's a boy?" "You are." "I’m a Specimen." "Stop saying that. You
are a boy. A human boy. Something in the water made all these people sick.
That's why it's good she took your water. Otherwise you'd be sick too.” “Oh.” “I'm glad you bit that evil woman. She deserved it." "Oh.” Abby said, "Follow me to the store we passed, and we'll
get food and safe water. Remember: only drink water from bottles in a store.
I'll show you how to find them." "Okay," When they got there, the door was locked. Abby said, "You'll have to break the window. Be
careful." "How?" "Find a big rock and throw it." "What's a rock?" "Oh, dear." Across the street someone broke glass with a great
shattering sound. Abby pointed. "Like that." The person went in and
came out with his arms full of things, laughing and running away. "And that," Abby said, "is what we'll call shopping. Now. Inside that broken window
should be whatever that person used to break it. Go find it." He went over. Abby called out, " He slowed down. Bleed
and cut and sharp were words he knew well. "Food comes in stores. Look at the pictures on the
packages. Take what looks good." “Is there food in here?” he asked. “Is this a store?” “It’s a store, but not for food,” she said. They went back across the street. "Remember three very important things." Abby held
up her fingers as she named each thing. "One, only go shopping at Night. If the door is open, with lights on, leave it
alone. Two, only take what you need, and three, run away fast once you've got
your things. Now. Are you ready?" “Again.” This time he shattered the glass, and let out a whoop of
delight. From then on, After a while Abby came and went. He went out shopping at Night when he needed food
and water. Abby didn't need any, though. Abby taught him how to work the televisions, which fascinated him. All those stories, in one
picture screen! After some Days, the channels all went away except one, and
the news show that was left over was confusing. Abby taught him to work the buttons for video and sound
recordings, and holo programs. He loved music! He never imagined such sounds. She taught Soon he knew his letters and read simple words. Abby showed
him where there were children's books that taught him about the real world. Not
the fake Laboratory world. There were so many things he never imagined. He hated to
stop to sleep. Abby laughed and called him a sponge. He had to look up a picture to understand. He didn't look
like a sponge. She taught him other things he couldn't learn from books.
That he was ten years old. Right and wrong. The Lab was wrong.
He leaned over the sink and studied his eye, almond-shaped
and deep brown, so brown the irises nearly matched the black pupils. He pulled
his lower eyelid down, and stared at the white part. Then he pulled both
eyelids down. That looked funny. He laughed. He stuck out his tongue and
watched how it worked when he curled it over his lips. He laughed, twisting his
mouth into more shapes. He liked to see his face and hair. His yellowish-brown skin,
he already knew. But his own face, round and smiling back at him, was new and
interesting. His nose was flatter than Abby's. His teeth were big in his mouth.
His hair grew black, straight, and shiny, sticking up straight in soft stubble.
He rubbed it. It was fun to touch. In the Lab they shaved him bald as soon as
he could feel it growing up there. Specimens weren't allowed to have hair. He
didn't know he could grow hair like
Doctors' hair. Abby said it would keep growing unless he cut it. He didn't
want to. The row of sinks with faucets had bad water; he never turned them on or even touched the water that
dripped out. He opened a bottle of good water and poured it over his hair. Abby taught him that while the Lab was bad, some things they
did for him were good. Washing his
body was good. Using the toilet was good. Washing his hands was good. He opened
the shampoo he found shopping and
washed his hair. He went to other stores and got soap, and towels, and clothes
like these Outside people wore that fit his size. He would never wear a Specimen robe again. He rinsed his hair and washed the rest of his body clean
with the water bottle and soap. The Library didn’t have a shower like the Lab.
The water was cold, and he got goosebumps. He thought about bodies while he dressed himself. Abby taught him about death,
and explained she was a spirit now, a piece separated from her
other body. That’s why he couldn't touch her, why she couldn't open doors or
take books off the shelves, and why she didn't need to eat. Doctor Rand killed her because she was nice to "What other people?" She had no answer for that. Big black birds flew in and ate the bodies. Abby promised the birds wouldn't eat him, but he was afraid.
The birds slept at Night, when he went out, but he didn't like to leave the
Library. Abby explained the ATF
Virus was killing all the people, but "I don't know why you're not sick," she told him.
"I’m glad for that. But dying isn't so terrible as I thought. I'll be here
for you if that happens." "I won't die." He wanted to live, to experience
everything in this new, fascinating world. "Someday I'm going to see a
real alive elephant." Abby smiled. [END PROLOGUE] "And
the glory of the Lord shall be there, and the terror of the Lord also shall be
there, insomuch that the wicked will not come unto it, and it shall be called "And
it shall come to pass among the wicked, that every man that will not take his
sword against his neighbor must needs flee unto "And
there shall be gathered unto it out of every nation under heaven; and it shall
be the only people that shall not be at war one with another. "And
it shall be said among the wicked: Let us not go up to battle against "And
it shall come to pass that the righteous shall be gathered out from among all
nations, and shall come to Doctrine and Covenants, 45:66-71 Chapter 1 Survivors [heading] Howard Thurley spent his entire life phobic of tap water.
Germs. Contaminants. Toxic waste. He never touched it. Howard kept a minimum six months' supply of bottled water in
his small apartment. It filled the closet in his spare bedroom, was tucked in
cases under his bed, in the pantry, on bookshelves, in corners. It only looked
disorganized. He had a precise rotation system, which he would have happily
explained to anyone--if anyone ever came over but his mother. That's not to say Howard had no friends. He had friends.
They were online computer junkies like himself. Most lived in The obligatory family holidays were uncomfortable affairs,
with Howard sneaking peeks at his portable connectivity device until his mother
caught him and made him put it away. He left his apartment to restock his water and other
essentials at precisely the same time, at precisely the same store, buying
precisely the same items, precisely once each week. Each week he stood in
precisely the same checkout line. If a different checker was there to ring him through, he
felt sure something would go wrong. Anxiety panicked him. He would rather order everything online, but he couldn’t
convince any of the major companies to send the same delivery person to deliver
his packages at exactly the same time of day every Tuesday. Howard liked things predictable. Scheduled. He hated
surprises. So out the door he went, every Tuesday at When his server went down suddenly at 3:42 in the afternoon
on The new flu was completely avoidable. And if the public was
too stupid to understand that unfiltered, untreated water was inherently
polluted and dangerous, and protect themselves accordingly, that was their
problem. Howard had a top-of-the-line filter installed on his shower,
his two sinks, and his toilet. He used bottled water to brush his teeth. If he
had owned a fish, it would swim in bottled water. If he had owned a dog, it
would drink the same water as Howard. But he didn't need pets. He needed online connection back. He was obliged to leave his apartment, searching for any
location that still had wireless running--any kind of network. Nothing was
operational. He needed a
connection and he could not find one. Chloe James was fifty-two years old when she dreamed the
dream of black, oily water coming out of her tap. Death in the water, it whispered. Death in the water. She woke up panting, and fasted for the next forty-eight
hours, terrified to touch anything with water in it. She called her neighbors to tell them not to drink water,
but they already thought Chloe and her dreams were crazy. Britt next door hadn't believed when Chloe dreamed about a
car wreck, but Britt's husband was dead now five years. Britt said it was
coincidence. Chloe knew better. When Chloe dreamed a death-dream, she
paid attention. Britt now lay dying of the new plague. Chloe dreamed again after her fast. She soared in the air
and flew across Central to a place with a name like freedom, a place where
something remarkable would happen. Her sense of excitement was next to
unbearable. In the morning she packed her things, including a good
supply of safe, previously bottled water, and headed off to find the place she
saw in her dream. Marcel leBlanc watched his roommates die writhing in agony.
He and they had been too weak to get to a hospital for the relief of the lethal
injection. Marcel didn't know why his eyes didn't fall out the same day
his roommates' did, but he wished they had. Two weeks later, he didn't know why he was alive at all. The
news feed, full of static and interference, said no one survived ATF. What was he, then? Some kind of freak? The news asked for any surviving citizens to show themselves
at checkpoints outside Central City. He was too weak for that, and the
checkpoints were far, with rapid transit down. But he was curious. As he gained strength, he left his apartment and
roamed, searching for other survivors, hoping he wasn’t alone. For some reason he felt drawn northeast. Tory Nichols was close enough to see the planes overhead,
and smart enough to run. A retired fighter pilot, on his way north he hot-wired
cars and gunned each engine until it ran out of gas, then found a new one. The planes maneuvered in an expanding flight pattern across
the southwest sector of Central, and he wasn't about to stick around to find
out what that green stuff they were dropping was made of. Artillery that heavy
was bad news. Worse news still that General Leopold Horne headed up the
operation. He smelled a scam in the checkpoint request too--no way
would he turn up at one of those. July-Marie Ponfive waved down the man in the speeding black
sportscar. He stopped. "I can't believe my eyes! I haven't seen another soul
alive, have you?" she asked. "Not many," he said. "Get in. Military's
doing something southwest, and I'm hauling my tail to get as far from it as
possible.” He stuck out his hand. “Tory Nichols." She shook it. "I’m July-Marie. It's a serious pleasure
to meet you," she said as he slammed on the gas. Momentum slammed her flat
against the front seat, knocking her wind out as they sped away north. Chapter 2 Lady In the Mirror I am
lerning to write. Today I am reading and practicing my writeing. Ther are no
more peple alive. Abby doesn't come so much now I am
lerning by myslef. I am all
alone. alone alone a l
o n e — notes to
himself (*should
be handwritten) He stuck his tongue back in his mouth and touched his hair.
It was less bristly now. Suddenly, instead of his face, he saw a woman, and the
bathroom behind her was different. She was flossing her teeth. She had short, straight blonde
hair, not red and long like Abby's, and she looked as surprised as he felt--she
screamed and dropped her dental floss. She wiped the mirror on her side. Afraid but impulsive, His breath came short and rapid and his body tingled all
over, like when his foot fell asleep. Their eyes studied each other. Wonder replaced fear as he looked at her. Her eyes were not
green or blue or brown but something between all three, and she was extremely
pretty. "Who are you?" her lips mouthed. She didn't make
any noise, but he understood. He swallowed hard. "I am The woman tried to say something else, but she vanished. He thumped the mirror. It was solid. He peered around the
edge. It was screwed tight into the wall. He stood staring at his reflection, breathing hard, afraid
to blink. Maybe this happened with mirrors, sometimes? He would have to ask
Abby. He bolted out of the bathroom and ran out into the night, as
far from the mirror as he could get. Chapter 3 TITLE HEADING Debra Gray Pike
drove her electric golf cart down the overgrown pathway. Six months and more of
weeds made the rough on this course actually rough. She hit bumps and potholes,
dodging them when she could. Her baby Zach made
spitting, raspberry noises from the back, where his car seat had been securely
and permanently rigged into the cart. “Just a minute, baby. We’re almost
there.” She rolled her eyes
as she pulled up. Just as she expected, they were teeing up. “What round are
you two on, anyway?” “Ninth hole,” Dr.
Marden said. “I know it’s the ninth,” she argued. “Nine
is the only one you guys have mowed.” “No, really, it’s
our ninth,” her husband Jon said. “You should at
least mow the tenth hole, over there, so you can play in a round, instead of
hiking back to the same tee every time,” Debra said. “She’s got a
point,” Dr. Marden said. Jon said, “Why
didn’t we think of that?” “We’ll get to it by
next week, maybe,” Jerry yawned. “I’ll get the grandkids working on it.” Jon hit his drive
onto the green. “Nice shot, Tiger,”
she grinned. “But can we go home? Dinner’s ready.” “Baby, can’t we
just finish this hole? I’m winning.” “Barbecued ribs
have your name on ‘em.” She put her hand on her hip, and Zach squealed on cue. “Ribs? Where’d you
find ribs?” “You better go,”
Jerry said with a grin. “That was a sweet
drive,” Jon said, pointing to him. “And you know it.” “That ball will be
there tomorrow. And the next day.” “True.” Jon looked
out at its placement with longing. Most days were far
too full for recreation--but every so often, Dr. Marden and Dr. Jon finished up
early, and came out to let off steam and decompress. Debra didn’t mind. But if
she didn’t come find him, he wouldn’t be home until dark, and she and Zach were
hungry. Their baby might be small, but she had the notion family dinner
together was important to keep up, especially in these odd times. “See you tomorrow,”
Jon called to his mentor. “What time?” “I was thinking
5:30,” Jerry called. Jon groaned, and
Debra laughed. Early morning would never be his favorite time of day. “If you
don’t want to go in early, don’t ask!” she said. “How about six?”
Jon called. “Oh, all right.”
Doc Marden’s blue eyes sparkled with humor. “We have a lot of labs to run
tomorrow.” “Don’t remind me.”
He got in the cart and gave his wife a lingering kiss. “Mmmm. . . nice,”
she murmured. “There’s more where
that came from,” he murmured back. “You two lovebirds
knock it off,” Jerry teased as he drove his cart past, on his way home. They
waved him goodbye, and Debra circled the cart around. She knew as well as
Jon did they were both so exhausted there probably wasn’t ‘more’--they’d fall
asleep when their heads hit their pillows, and be up and running again before
daylight--but she wasn’t about to call him on it. “Ribs?” he asked
again, excited. “Fresh?” “Yeah, they had
leftover from the cleanup duty lunch today, so I got to bring some home.” They
tried to feed the workers well--but half the time their appetites were plumb
gone by lunch. “Personally, I think anything with bones in it was a bad choice to offer them.” She chuckled as
she drew out the word ‘bad.’ Crazy menu--unlikely they’d be offering that again
in the future. “No wonder there was plenty left to go around.” “Baby! That was one
awful joke.” But he smiled too. “It’s not a joke,
it’s true.” “Yeah,” he sighed.
“I know. I just don’t want it spoiling my
appetite, thinking about it.” “Nothin’ spoils
your appetite.” She nudged him, and he laughed. He had an iron stomach for
gruesome--and thank goodness, or he couldn’t do his job. “You have daycare
again tomorrow?” he asked. “Yep.” Since Zach
was so young, and Jon’s medical skills so specialized, she pulled the daycare
duty card more often than she cared for. “But changing diapers and feeding
bottles is a far cry from cleanup duty. I’ll take it.” Every person in
camp was both needed and overloaded trying to clean up the devastation left by
the fast-killing American Toxic Flu. “When all the kids get to crying at once,
and I’m covered in baby spit all day, I remind myself where else I could be,
where my friends are, and I’m grateful it’s just baby spit.” Even so, it was
true that when the workday was over--she was ready for it to be over. “You should take up
golf,” Jon said on the way home. Debra laughed. “Not
on your life.” “Why not?” “Deadly boring, for
one.” “It’s good exercise.” “Two: deadly
boring. Three: did I say boring?” Jon laughed. “All
right, all right.” He cracked his knuckles, then reached an arm around his
wife. “Can’t wait for those ribs.” Chapter 3 TITLE HEADING “I don’t know why
cleanup duty should feel so hard,” Alyssa said, yawning to wake herself up in
the cool air. “It’s not like we have to travel in ice and snow like the
pioneers.” She’d been reading from their stories lately, seeking strength from
their faith and endurance. “We’re not likely
to run out of food, either,” Margret added, as she tossed a medi-pack into the
back of a transport truck. “Yeah, but who
wants to eat?” Alyssa said. No matter what they did to mask it, there was a
troubling scent in the air, which was unlikely to vanish completely for some
months. “And not much of
the food is fresh--yet.” Peter sounded grumpy. With most of his life lived on a
farm, Alyssa knew the food quality was getting to her husband. It didn’t bother
her much--she was glad to have food, no matter what type. Her time spent
homeless on the streets of Central City effectively removed any pickiness she
used to carry about her food. It was hard to believe that was barely over a
year ago--it seemed a vague forgotten part of the distant past, hardly real at
all. “To answer why it’s
hard, we’re not used to physical hardship,” Peter continued, resigned. “We’ve
gone soft.” Alyssa poked her
husband in the tummy. “You got that right.” “Hey! Did you have
to agree so fast?” Peter asked, pretending to be hurt. Alyssa smiled. “I’m
teasing.” He’d added a pound or two since their wedding, as much as he
complained about the food--but she didn’t mind. A heady rush went to her head
just being near him. Even right now, zipping him into a bio-suit. And as
challenging as cleanup was, it was more mental than physical. He was used to
the heavy farm labor of running his dad’s acreage, and living in an apartment
in a suburb, no matter the strange circumstances, just didn’t offer the same
amount of daily exercise. “Where’s “Probably making
salad,” Alyssa quipped. Peter laughed.
“Come on, hon.” “Out of what?”
Margret said. “Freeze-dried lettuce?” “Maybe,” Alyssa
laughed. “Or powdered gelatin and dried carrots. Seriously. Who makes salad
like “It keeps her
going,” Peter said. “Go easy on her.” “Oh, I do.” Alyssa
smiled. She loved her mother-in-law, and was closer to her than she had ever
been to her own mother. But it was true There was a sparkle
in her eye, too, that hadn’t been there in such a long time. But Alyssa and
Peter both knew that sparkle had far more to do with Phil’s unexpected return
than the number of lunches she’d served up. Even with the great
news Peter’s dad was reunited with them, the forced relocation into the President-General
Horne burned three-quarters of the devastated City before public outrage made
him stop. He kept the operation under tight control--until a rogue pilot
violated the no-fly zone and broadcast video on the evening news showing
survivors running from the noxious green gas. Shortly after, an
outraged and frustrated Horne ordered total enforcement of Article 28, sending
any and all who still professed religious belief into the quarantine zone of
Central City for ‘public safety.’ He allowed them
time to receive the new vaccine for ATF--American Toxic Flu--which Debra’s
husband, Dr. Jon Pike, had developed. But that was his only concession. They meant to share
the vaccine freely with the world by making the news public, but their hope
backfired. Horne found a way to blame them for creating ATF instead--something
Alyssa knew with every fiber of her being was untrue. The whole maneuver
carried with it the sense of impending doom, the quarantine enforced by the
presence of tanks and foot soldiers patrolling the border. It was rumored
among them--quietly, or not so quietly--that Horne was waiting until they were
gathered into one place so he could wipe them out in one stroke. Privately, Alyssa
thought that might be true. But for the time
being, there was nothing they could do but obey the powers in charge. We believe in honoring, obeying, and sustaining the
law. Alyssa figured that
phrase was written when laws actually made sense, and weren’t bent on the
extermination of an entire people; when one could appeal to law for reason and
honor, dignity and truth. Sure, religious
groups had been persecuted before in But go in they did,
and with palpable relief, the vaccine seemed to be effective. No members of any
of their camps had come down with ATF. Yet something more
pressing became immediately apparent. As horrific as Horne’s burning of the
City was, the advantage those sectors had over theirs was clear: no bones. Whatever the gas
was made of, it made short work of all biological matter, living or dead. The
disadvantage was the poisoned air and earth made it impossible for anything to
live there or for anything to grow. Who knew how many years it would be before
any of the area became viable again. Cleaning up what
was left of the victims in Horne’s name was
grumbled through gritted teeth countless times each day like a
curseword--including Alyssa, Peter, and all their friends. If not for him, they wouldn’t be here. If not for
the quarantine, they might have helped these people survive. Alyssa had to
concede that without that quarantine, the whole world could have caught ATF by
now, leaving a bare, grim handful of survivors on the earth. The world had
never seen anything so deadly--not even the Black Plague. The massive death
toll was difficult to process, mentally. There was no way to count. No way to
mourn for each individual life. At first, they sent
out immunized volunteer groups with properly equipped biosuits. Then they
upgraded the suits, fitting them with oxygen tanks to help offset the residual
odor. Then they began
assigning cleanup duty by lottery. Jon was fascinated
by it all--but he was a doctor. The various decomposition rates they
discovered, depending on exposure, oxygen, and moisture levels, interested him.
He volunteered for cleanup duty if he
wasn’t needed in the immunization lab. Let
him, Alyssa thought. She had to laugh
when she caught him in an intense discussion on it with her youngest
brother-in-law, Jordan. It was difficult to
figure out what was human and what was animal at this point, except by bone
structure. Vultures and other birds proved susceptible to ATF, and that
population died off faster than it was replaced as well. Jon said it was a
good thing insects and bacteria weren’t affected by it. One night they had Jon
and Debra over for dinner, and after the meal he sat explaining the role of
bugs in decomposition until Debra made him stop. Alyssa was fine with it, but
Peter turned a definite shade of green, and couldn’t eat his dessert. Alyssa smiled,
remembering. He grew up on a farm--you’d think he knew all about it. Alyssa thanked the
Lord for those insects, enzymes, and bacteria in her prayers. They sped the
process along over the spring thaw, so that while it was still gross, by now
most of what they collected was dried up. Jon had described what they could have been collecting, had their
timing been different. She hated to think
what the smell would be like then. It was bad enough as-is. Daily, the
collected remains were piled on trucks and hauled out many miles to what was
once farmland, and placed in deep, mass graves. Daily the pits were covered
with six feet of earth. Daily, and often all night, crews worked with heavy
equipment to dig new pits for the next day. Sometimes Peter drew that straw,
and he preferred it. Where his heart wanted to be was out in the fields with
the cattle and other agricultural duties--but that would mean separation from
Alyssa, who would be useless out there herself, and sleeping under the stars in
a cold The disposal of so
many millions of ATF victims overwhelmed everyone she talked to. Where
crematoriums were available, they put them to use. But none were built for this
much use, and the feeling among the leaders, and most of the people, was that
the bodies should be treated with as much respect and care as possible. Each
mass grave was dedicated by an Apostle. And at least one Apostle, if not one of
the First Presidency, was on hand somewhere in the City at all times. Alyssa
felt safe knowing they were that close by. She tingled all over as she
remembered meeting one of them in person for the first time. Peter suited up.
This was his fourth time in. “My stomach’s already turning,” he complained.
“Never in my life did I imagine this.” Alyssa had taken
five turns on cleanup. “Me either.” It took serious mental effort to stop the
images of rot and decay from streaming past her eyes. “It almost makes me
think Horne had a good idea,” he added. She nodded.
“Almost.” They were quiet as
Peter adjusted the buckles and straps on his biosuit. She kissed him quick
before he sealed the hood over his face. “Be safe,” she said. “Remember to pray
for wind.” “Come with me?” he
grinned. She poked him
again. “Not on your life.” “We’d be together,”
he said, voice filtered through the speaker. “We’re on-duty
together next week. And we don’t have to share every single thing to be happy,”
she laughed. “I’ll fix up our place while you’re gone.” “It’s not fair you
have the day off and I don’t,” he said. “Life isn’t fair.”
She laughed and sent him off, turning him around with a pat on the back toward
the cleanup bus. “Grouchy.” “I heard that,” he
said, and waved goodbye. She headed toward
their apartment, a second-story place with one bedroom. Just right for a
newlywed couple. She longed for a small house with its own little yard, but
thousands still waited outside city limits, in tents and makeshift shelters,
until enough housing was cleaned and sterilized to hold them. They were lucky
to be out of the tent phase themselves. At first the wait
was on vaccine. Now it was housing. Clean, habitable real estate was in high
demand. They worked fast,
but over thirty thousand refugees needed sanitized housing. The citizens of As she walked she
noticed leaves uncurling from the tree branches lining the street. Was it really
spring? She stopped and
looked at them a lingering moment, surprised that life and renewal continued in
the face of such massive disaster. She never thought to pay attention to a
budding leaf before. She touched a hanging, new green leaf with wonder. She sighed.
Privately, living here gave her the creeps. She felt as though
hundreds of pairs of eyes were always watching. There must be millions of
ghosts... disembodied spirits, watching to see where their remains would be
laid, so they would know where to claim them in the Resurrection. She tried to shake
the feeling off, with little luck. She missed seeing
the horses every day, especially Teancum, their stallion. Their horses had to
be boarded in pastures outside city limits. It wasn’t practical to park a horse
in an apartment garage--much less healthy for the animal, with no respite of
green grass around. She’d have to see
if that overgrown park near their apartment complex might do. She’d miss Peter
today, and wasn’t in a hurry to get back to their empty apartment without him.
She wondered for the umpteenth time if there wasn’t some faster, easier way to
purge everything of the decay, rot, and filth they found at every turn.
Something angels could do, instead. “Penny for your thoughts?” a familiar voice
behind her said. She jumped half out
of her skin. “Dad! Don’t do that!” “I’m sorry. I
thought you could tell I was here,” Peter’s father said, apologetic. “That’s funny--I
usually can,” she said. She was as amazed
as Peter’s family at his father’s strange and marvelous reappearance--not as a
mortal, but as a resurrected being, with angelic duties. She hadn’t known
him well in mortal life, but found she accepted him as a father figure
readily--he was more comfortable to be around than her own father had been.
Chuck. . . Chuck had been drunk whenever he got around to talking to her, at
least in the last years before he’d passed away. . . which was mainly what she
remembered of him, if she thought of him at all. Phil was like fresh
air and a comfy pillow rolled into one. She’d fight Peter for his attention if
she ever had to. She might even fight “So. . . your
thoughts?” he asked again. “I was wondering
why there’s no better way to go about cleanup duty. Not to be rude or
anything--but why can’t we have more--help?” “You mean, more
volunteers?” “I mean angels.
Like you. You don’t get tired. Or sick, or anything else. You could take care
of all of this in a snap.” “We are helping,”
Phil said, matter-of-fact. Alyssa let out an
exasperated sigh. “I try not to question the Lord--” Phil laughed out
loud. “You still think you know better. Sometimes.” His smile was that of a
father’s kind affection for his daughter. “In any case,” she
said, frowning, “God should be able to wave a finger and poof--dead bodies gone.” “Of course He could. It’s not a matter of what He can
and can’t do, you know. Maybe you’re not asking Him the right questions.” Phil
smiled. “If you don’t have
anything better to do than tease me--” she started, but Alyssa had to smile
back. The Spirit burned so strong in Phil’s presence. She hadn’t quite adapted
to it, but she couldn’t stay angry or upset around him for long. “Faith can move mountains,” Phil said, more
serious. “But it’s not always expedient to move them, snap, like that.” “Back to the old
‘expedient’ thing.” She hadn’t been baptized a year, but had heard that word
more times than she could count. Phil continued,
“This work solidifies your unity and purpose in ways you can’t see. It provides
exercise which builds spiritual muscle--muscle we’re all going to need, and
soon.” He wrinkled his
brow, looking up as if at the weather. She’d learned not
to ask Phil for more explanations. It wouldn’t come. Even angels had to follow
rules. “Besides which, the
struggle to obtain a goal makes us that much more grateful and pleased with our
accomplishment than if it were handed to us on a platter.” With his words came
a picture in her mind, more a feeling than a visual image, of what it would be
like to live here someday. It was incredible--peaceful--and more beautiful than
she’d been able to imagine before. She breathed deep to soak in the feeling
before it vanished away. She caught her
breath. She saw then a glimpse, in vision, of the new temple as it would look
when it was completed. “Oh!” “It’s beautiful,
isn’t it?” Phil said. She raised her
eyebrow. “How did you know what I saw?” “I sent it to you.” She accepted that.
“How long until it’s finished?” “It’ll be done in
time,” he said, cryptic again. “I wish I could
just go where you go and see everything,” Alyssa said, impulsive. “And leave Peter?”
Phil chided. “What about your children?” “We don’t have
any--” she said, frustrated. Her ovaries were
dead, killed by government-regulated birth control shots during her time with
Margret, in The Gardens. A doctor in Liahona confirmed it. But priesthood
blessings had promised her children. “Not yet,” Phil
said, his voice kind. Still--if she
wasn’t here, with Peter, she couldn’t raise the children she was supposed to
raise. She sighed. “But all you do sounds so interesting.” “Be patient,” he
said. “Your time will come, someday.” “It’s hard to wait!
I get these little glimpses--like the image of the temple--” it still shone in
her mind’s eye-- “and I want to see more, but I can’t.” She let out a
frustrated sigh. “You control that,”
Phil said. “I don’t have any control over it,” she
argued. “It just happens or it doesn’t.” “Yes you do,” Phil
corrected. “How?” She stopped
walking and looked up at him, raising her eyebrow. “By the way you
live,” Phil said. “Surely you’ve noticed.” She hated it when
he made her brain fight through the puzzle. Sometimes talks with her
father-in-law gave her a very real headache--but there was no one better to
learn the Gospel from, and she was a quick study, eager to make up for lost
time, lapping up all the information she could. “You mean, when I
study the scriptures like I should,” she said. “Things like that?” Phil beamed.
“Exactly. Faith grows stronger as you exercise it, and so do your gifts.” “I keep backing off
though. Sometimes it scares me.” “Yes, you have. And
you shouldn’t.” “I know.” “Fear has no place
in the hearts of the children of men who love the Lord,” Phil said. Alyssa nodded.
“Right. But it’s so hard to get rid of.” Another woman came
up then--Jenny Soong, a friend of Debra’s from New Hope. “Sister Richardson,
have you seen Deb anywhere?” “Please--call me
Alyssa. She helped load the trucks today, but I’m not sure where she went after
that.” She stopped. When did she
leave? Oh. She’d been smooching on Peter, before he left for the day. Debra
probably hadn’t wanted to interrupt. “Who were you
talking to, by the way?” Jenny asked. “Uh.” Her shoulders
fell. “Um. . . nobody in particular,” Alyssa replied. She cleared her throat. “Oh. Okay.” “I--sometimes I
talk to myself.” She tried out a friendly smile. “I forget I’m doing it.” Jenny smiled big.
“Oh, me too! With all my kids--if there’s no adult around, well--yeah. I
understand!” She walked on, but Alyssa detected a hint of confusion in the
older woman’s eye. Well--with any luck, by afternoon her kids would have
diverted her attention a thousand ways from Sunday, and she’d forget all about
it. Alyssa couldn’t remember how many--only that there were a lot of little
Soongs running around. At least seven. Maybe nine. “Phil! Why didn’t
you tell me you were invisible?”
Alyssa asked with consternation. She wanted to smack him. But it had to be one
hundred percent wrong to smack an
angel, father-in-law or not, so she refrained. But her temper flared up, in
spite of the Spirit’s calming influence.
“Oh--we’re back to
‘Phil’ now? Whatever happened to ‘Dad?’” he teased, smiling. “You could have
told her. She’d believe you.” “You made me look
like a--a--a crazy woman!” she said through her teeth, frustrated. “I was testing
you,” he said. “Testing me? For
what?” She still wanted to smack him. “You’re getting
better all the time. I’m impressed.” “So I did well, at
this test?” she said, raising her eyebrow. “Whatever it was?” “Excellent!” he
beamed. “And don’t worry--you’ll know the difference without my telling you
soon enough. People will have to get used to us sooner or later. I’m not the
only resurrected person around, you know.” That took her by
surprise. “You’re not?” He laughed again.
“Of course not. How do you think the temple’s going up so fast?” She looked over at
the site, barely visible from the historic town square they were walking
through. She could see scaffolding she was sure wasn’t there a few days ago. A man she didn’t
know passed by and waved then--at Phil. “I told you we were
helping,” he said. “Wait a minute,
what does that--” she started, but Phil politely interrupted. “I’m sorry, but I
have to run now, sweetie” he said. She let out a
breath. “Of course you do.” As soon
as the conversation got anywhere interesting. “Remember, I love
you like you were my own daughter.” He gave her a quick but comforting hug. “I love you too,
Dad,” she said, breathing in his comforting scent. She once told Beverly she
wanted to be sealed to them as their own child--and it was still true. Before she could
think too much on that, he was gone, off to who knew what angelic business. Alyssa shook her
head, smiled, and hummed on her way home, pondering on all the things Phil
taught her. Chapter 5 title [heading] "To survival," Tory Nichols said to
the small group, and raised his glass of champagne. They echoed the sentiment
in a bedraggled chorus, clinking glasses. It was his birthday. Some party this year, he
thought. And he shouldn’t take even this much time off-duty. He didn't want to be in charge, but got stuck
with it by his cursed military training and the fact that he knew what to do,
what was going on, and how to organize teams when nobody else did. It was a
pitiful group. He gathered about fifteen people on his trek northeast.
A few others were already here, and more showed up every few days, making the
total population just under three hundred. Three hundred, out of a city of tens of
millions. July-Marie was already drunk. "Let's get
loaded, Tory, and take the world away, huh? What do you say?" He shook his head and pushed her away. They'd had a roaring good time those first few
days together. But tomorrow came, and the next day, and July-Marie turned out
to be deathly boring. It was a shame, too--the only halfway pretty woman in
camp, and as uncreative as a guppy. Tory preferred intellectual stimulation, a
decent brain in a woman's head over beauty, but neither was he blind. None of
the remaining women showed much promise in either department. He sighed and took a swig of his Moet et
Chandon, cursing Darwin and his whole concept of survival of the fittest. Crazy world, where he could pour out expensive
champagne like cola, and no decent girl to share it with. It just wasn’t fair. An empty city. He never quite shook off the
unease. When Horne left off the aerial maneuvers, Tory
put Marcel to work. He set up a low-frequency radio signal to inform other
survivors of their location. New people showed up every few days or so. He put that weird Howard to work setting up
local networks and servers. Howard didn't know as much about hardware as
software, but he was motivated, and making progress--even if he did mutter to
himself and avoid ordinary human contact. Tory learned fast not to slap the man
on the back. Freaked the poor guy right out of his skin. Tory chugged his champagne and poured himself
another glass. Even if he got flaming drunk, he didn’t dare share the night
with July-Marie. She was clingy and possessive, and he needed a clean break.
There were other men here who didn't find her dry as dust. Let them have at it.
He looked over her way. She was hitting on
Marcel, and Tory felt reasonably sure the two had slept together already. He sipped this glass more carefully. Tory surveyed the motley group. Over there was
Chloe the dreamer. Now there was an oddball. He shuddered. Nope. She was a
short, heavyset black woman, which he didn’t mind at all, and her looks weren’t
bad, but what a freak! The woman was just plain strange. No way, not in a lifetime, not if they were the last two
people on--he stopped that thought in its tracks. That old joke should never come true--but, ugh.
Way too close for comfort. Howard was off alone in a corner, fussing with
some hardware with a flashlight, muttering. Tory went through his memory mnemonic, sorting
through the new faces, matching up names. Kimmie, Chiezo, Jack, William,
Maizie-rhymes-with-Daisy, Scott, Olivia, Jay-Jay, and that annoying Reynaldo
who, if Darwin’s theory held any truth at all, shouldn’t even be here. There were no children or elderly. He felt
seriously old at fifty-five, being about the senior member of the group. He hadn't felt old a few months ago. Over in a corner were a few escapees from some
insane asylum, mumbling queer things about Independence and prophecies and The
Holy City. They gave him the creeps. No need to lock them up--yet--but they
sure were weird. Among them were two or three other survivors of
ATF, like Marcel, and the rest were lucky or smart enough not to have drunk tap
water at Outbreak. Thanks to newscasts early on, they all knew to
boil the water a good long time to kill the disease. He was grateful for a
couple of physicians, four or five engineers, and a few others with brains in
the group. And deeply grateful ATF wasn’t airborne, or survival would be a lost
cause. He found Old Blue Springs a natural place to set
up shop. It was a suburb with natural resources, north of Horne’s toxic
chemical burn. It seemed untouched by time itself, as though little progress
had been made in the last thirty years. Tory couldn't figure out how it escaped the
Central City construction boom of the twenties and thirties. No skyscrapers
meant open blue sky, residential areas, grassy fields and parks. Tory suspected there were a few people left in
the houses, but if so, they hadn't made themselves known. He couldn't blame anyone for being afraid. If
they wanted to hide, let them. He posted notices and enforced simple camp rules
to keep order. On their arrival, he set the group to collecting
and cremating the dead, purifying the water supply and getting electricity up
and running. It was tough work organizing everyone into teams that cooperated,
and Tory was exhausted. Fatigue didn't even begin to describe it. "Sir? I hate to bother you, being your
birthday party tonight and all, but the prisoner's ready to talk." Tory looked at the young man he'd put on prison
guard, trying to remember his name. Ben--chews-his-pens--that was it. He leaned back in his chair, rubbed his stubbled
chin, and wondered for the eighty-fifth time that day how his life had turned
into some kind of bad action movie, worse than the latest sorry remake of Escape from L.A. "It’s all right, Ben. I'm coming."
Tory drained his glass and left the bedraggled party. The prisoner was a problem. Horne had left off
messing with the City--his next announced move was to bomb the Middle East to
get gasoline flowing freely again. Tory doubted that would work--he’d done
military time over there. But if it kept Horne off their scent, that was
worth something. Horne left sufficient troops in place to hold
any survivors within Central City boundaries, though--Tory sent people out to
check and report on the numbers. Trying to break through the barrier would be
suicide. They were safe enough until Horne figured out a
more subversive way to exterminate them. Tory didn't want to alarm the others by thinking
aloud, but he felt sure it was a temporary reprieve. He knew the man’s paranoia
ran deep. The prisoner was no professional infiltrator and
had been an easy catch, but so far refused to say who he worked for or what his
mission was. Apparently hunger made him see reason. He interrogated the man more gently than he
wanted to, because he wanted answers, and he wanted real ones. He knew enough
about this process to know kindness often worked better than pain. Good solid
food in front of the man’s face made big progress. At the end of it, Tory still wasn't sure how to
proceed. He left the guy in custody. He ordered regular
meals sent up, and whatever other personal items the man wanted. There was no
sense in being cruel, but no sense in letting him go free, either. He could rot there in relative comfort. The guy was a research scientist working for
Kensington. No wonder he didn't blend in. Even Tory's rag-mop crew of
half-trained, wanna-be spies did better than this wing nut. And more scientists than this one were lurking
out there. He’d have to send scouts to find them and bring them in. He wished he had more people to spare. He could
ill afford a firefight with casualties. But no way was some scientist-puppet of Horne's
taking any of his people back for ATF lab tests like so many guinea pigs. Not
while he had breath in his body. Personal self-defense courses ratcheted way up
on the priority chain. He'd wait for morning to tell everyone--no sense
breaking up the party. Morale was low enough. He headed back, intent on finding a stronger
drink than champagne. If he drank long and hard, one of those newer women might
start looking good. |
|
|