Page 66 of Following Their Heart

“My Gift.”

I frown.

He opens one eye and fixes it on me. At my confusion, he stops “listening” to his Gift, and he addresses me.

“The other morning, in the cave with Bernard,” he says. He smiles and shakes his head. “You shoulda been there, man. It was a trip.” He licks his lips and looks to the sky, like he’s remembering. “We were with Cora the night before, and Rev told us to go ‘deal with’ Bernard, just like he told you and me to ‘deal with’ the dead birds. We didn’t know what he meant, but he said we should listen to our Gifts.

“Well, we did. And it was…awesome.” He grins. “If you really listen, like inside yourself. You’ll hear it. Or feel it or whatever. It’s like I just knew I was supposed to start touching Bernard. I could tell he was sick, and in my mind, I saw these black, oily spots on his insides. But when I tried to touch him, he snapped at me. It took Shep’s Gift to calm him down. Shep started communicating with him, and he finally let me heal him.

“I think that’s what we’re supposed to do here,” he concludes.

“Heal dead birds?” I hear disbelief in my voice. Doc isn’t making any sense.

“Maybe,” he says. “Working together, me and Shep got rid of that cancer Raptor put inside Bernard. All the black, it was Raptor’s influence, and it was making him sicker and sicker. We healed that with just a touch. Who’s to say we can’t bring dead things back to life if you and me work together? I can heal, and you’ve got power over death, so why the hell not?”

He is mad if he thinks we can do this. “I do not have power over death. Death has power over me. My touch can only kill.”

“But being with Cora makes our Gifts stronger,” Doc says. He holds the bird out to me. “Take off your gloves and try. Just try and see what happens.”

“This is stupid. We should just load them in trucks and drive them out of camp. Maybe find a big ditch to bury them in.”

“Coward.” Doc raises his brows at me.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me. You’re afraid to try. You know what I think? I think you’re afraid it’ll work.”

“Fuck off, asshole.” My face is hot. He’s making me angry.

“I’ll fuck off if you take off your gloves and touch this goddamned bird. Come on. Stop being a pussy.”

My fists clench at my sides. I haven’t been this angry since I challenged Jud over his treatment of Cora. “It is not wise to challenge Death, my friend.”

“Maybe not, but someone’s got to do it.” He gets right up in my face. His eyes blaze. He is angry, too. “How are we supposed to get Jud back if we don’t try to be as strong as we can be? Up until now, we thought our Gifts justwere,that they had control over us and did what they pleased. But what if we have control over them? What if being with Cora lets ususethe power of our Gifts the waywewant?”

My anger cools as I consider that. Could Doc be right? Could I possibly wield control over death instead of letting death use me as its unwitting delivery system? Am I being a coward by not trying?

Da.I am. I search myself and find I am indeed afraid to try.

My Gift is the most dangerous of those bestowed on our camp. If I tinker with it, I risk hurting people I care about. I trust my layers. I trust keeping a distance. If someone touches my skin, their death is on their head, not mine. I have done my part to protect them. But if I take off my gloves and begin to tinker with my Gift, I become the one who is responsible if someone dies.

Oh, my Anechka! How sorry I am!

I have no memory of escaping the penitentiary. I was five years into a twenty-year sentence for murdering the bastard who raped my wife. I went to sleep on my cot one night, fever making me delirious, and the next morning I came to standing outside the brick-and-mortar Federal Detention Center in Seatac, the city midway between Seattle and Tacoma, where the international airport is.

The world outside was dying fast. A few other survivors stumbled around, looking bewildered, but mostly, the smell of death permeated everything. Dead bodies rotted wherever I looked. Every dwelling I sheltered in on my walking journey to my home smelled like decaying food and decaying people. It was a miserable three days.

When, finally, I reached my home to reunite with my wife and daughter, I found Anechka alone, so afraid after losing her mother the week before. She was only ten when I went to prison, and since then I had only gotten to hug her in the prison visitation center and speak to her once a week on the phone. I was not sure I would find anyone alive at home, and when I did, my heart soared!

There in the entryway of the home, where I proudly bought my blushing bride when we were first married, I opened my arms to our darling Anechka. My daughter shrieked with joy and ran into them. And when I kissed her sweet, pink cheek, she took her last breath.

It was a full week later when I realized my touch caused death. It was when I found a wounded man and tried to help him, only to have him die suddenly when I offered my hand for a shake, and he accepted it. I remember staring at my hand for hours as I knelt by his body.

After, I tested my touch on some insects and a garter snake slithering across the road. They died instantly, and that’s when I knew without a doubt there was something very wrong with me.

Anechka died because of me. I killed her.

Her cheek had been overly warm when I kissed her. Maybe she had the fever and the Virus would have killed her. But maybe she had fought the Virus and her body was recovering. Maybe she would have been a survivor like me. Like all of us here.

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