there weren’t no coffins or nothing, just bodies, wrapped in a sheet if they had it, and when the bodies got too high, they sealed the doors and built a ramp around the building like this.” He waved his hand in the air in a zigzag motion.
Daniel saw the ramp now, a pebbled sort of beige concrete that rose in a graceful series of slopes up the side of the Dome.
“You see, they couldn’t use the door anymore,” the smuggler had explained. “Bodies. All the way to the top, bodies.”
No one held burials here today. “They just dump ’em in the swamps now,” the smuggler had said. “Let the river take ’em.” Practical, Daniel thought. He thought of the funeral he held for his brother, Charlie. No parades or bright music there. Few flowers, fewer people. After burying so many Fever victims, funerals had become smaller. More affordable.
What am I doing here? Daniel asked himself. But he knew the answer. Daniel was here to save the world. So no one else would have to lose their little brother to this disease. But such ambitions needed support, research, evidence. And then there was also morbid curiosity. Orleans was a necropolis, a city of the dead. He wanted to see it for what it was.
He had gone no more than a quarter of the way around the Dome when it drifted toward him, above the hum of the wind, from somewhere inside the Dome. Singing. Girls’ voices, or maybe young boys. High and sweet, like a Christmas choir. Daniel froze. Was it possible that his encounter suit had already been compromised? That he’d contracted Delta Fever? That he was hallucinating and this venture into Orleans would be the death of him? Then he saw the lights up ahead, so small they might have been fireflies or a sprinkle of powder on a length of black velvet.
The Dome was as wide as a city block, and while the sidewalks had once been broad to accommodate the crowds of concertgoers and sports fans, they were now broken and shadowed, treacherous to cross. Daniel dialed his goggles up and hugged the bulging side of the Dome.
Just at the edge of the building’s curve were a pair of double doors. A flare of little lights, bright green dots, danced along his vision, and he adjusted his goggles again. The battered doors had been pulled apart, rust settled into the scratches. They were standing wide open, and a line of people was flowing inside. They couldn’t see him, he was sure. But the candles they held, tall white columns clutched in both hands before them, and their few torches flared in his night-vision goggles. He blinked, dazzled. Women. Wearing simple gowns of white cloth, veils of the same material draped over their hair like brides, like ghosts. And in their wake, a line of young girls carrying flowers.
Daniel’s heart leapt in his chest. His mind staggered, wrestling with what he was seeing. In the heart of a dead, diseased city, here was a group of women and little girls. They bore no weapons, only flowers and candles. They were defenseless, vulnerable. And yet they survived.
A second thought occurred to him. These women and girls had to be Delta Fever carriers, every last one of them. You could not live in Orleans without contracting some form of the disease. And here he was, with a weapon in his bag that could kill them all. Daniel began to sweat beneath the skin of his encounter suit. He’d thought the entire city was a tomb, but Orleans was clearly very much alive.
INQUIRY: Are there nuns in Orleans?
Daniel shook his head. The question sounded wild, even to him. But the datalink did not judge.
RESPONSE: Historically, there were several orders of nuns within the city limits of New Orleans. Most famously, the Ursuline Sisters, overseers of the Ursuline Academy, the oldest Catholic school in the United States. When the Holy See pulled its resources out of the Gulf Coast, the Ursulines were the only sisterhood that remained. Their motto: Serviam, I will serve. Current status of the Ursulines is unknown.
Daniel took a
Daniel saw the ramp now, a pebbled sort of beige concrete that rose in a graceful series of slopes up the side of the Dome.
“You see, they couldn’t use the door anymore,” the smuggler had explained. “Bodies. All the way to the top, bodies.”
No one held burials here today. “They just dump ’em in the swamps now,” the smuggler had said. “Let the river take ’em.” Practical, Daniel thought. He thought of the funeral he held for his brother, Charlie. No parades or bright music there. Few flowers, fewer people. After burying so many Fever victims, funerals had become smaller. More affordable.
What am I doing here? Daniel asked himself. But he knew the answer. Daniel was here to save the world. So no one else would have to lose their little brother to this disease. But such ambitions needed support, research, evidence. And then there was also morbid curiosity. Orleans was a necropolis, a city of the dead. He wanted to see it for what it was.
He had gone no more than a quarter of the way around the Dome when it drifted toward him, above the hum of the wind, from somewhere inside the Dome. Singing. Girls’ voices, or maybe young boys. High and sweet, like a Christmas choir. Daniel froze. Was it possible that his encounter suit had already been compromised? That he’d contracted Delta Fever? That he was hallucinating and this venture into Orleans would be the death of him? Then he saw the lights up ahead, so small they might have been fireflies or a sprinkle of powder on a length of black velvet.
The Dome was as wide as a city block, and while the sidewalks had once been broad to accommodate the crowds of concertgoers and sports fans, they were now broken and shadowed, treacherous to cross. Daniel dialed his goggles up and hugged the bulging side of the Dome.
Just at the edge of the building’s curve were a pair of double doors. A flare of little lights, bright green dots, danced along his vision, and he adjusted his goggles again. The battered doors had been pulled apart, rust settled into the scratches. They were standing wide open, and a line of people was flowing inside. They couldn’t see him, he was sure. But the candles they held, tall white columns clutched in both hands before them, and their few torches flared in his night-vision goggles. He blinked, dazzled. Women. Wearing simple gowns of white cloth, veils of the same material draped over their hair like brides, like ghosts. And in their wake, a line of young girls carrying flowers.
Daniel’s heart leapt in his chest. His mind staggered, wrestling with what he was seeing. In the heart of a dead, diseased city, here was a group of women and little girls. They bore no weapons, only flowers and candles. They were defenseless, vulnerable. And yet they survived.
A second thought occurred to him. These women and girls had to be Delta Fever carriers, every last one of them. You could not live in Orleans without contracting some form of the disease. And here he was, with a weapon in his bag that could kill them all. Daniel began to sweat beneath the skin of his encounter suit. He’d thought the entire city was a tomb, but Orleans was clearly very much alive.
INQUIRY: Are there nuns in Orleans?
Daniel shook his head. The question sounded wild, even to him. But the datalink did not judge.
RESPONSE: Historically, there were several orders of nuns within the city limits of New Orleans. Most famously, the Ursuline Sisters, overseers of the Ursuline Academy, the oldest Catholic school in the United States. When the Holy See pulled its resources out of the Gulf Coast, the Ursulines were the only sisterhood that remained. Their motto: Serviam, I will serve. Current status of the Ursulines is unknown.
Daniel took a
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