with her black and red tie against her white blouse.
True. A fat woman in her forties, her skin stretched to a tight sheen across her features.
True. A businessman—it could easily have been Malcolm Laine or John Fairls or any number of men that Jackson had worked with—an ink stain blotting the bottom of his shirt pocket.
True. True. True. Toneless voices piled one upon the other. Gray faces nodding.
Jackson’s hand moved. Just a fraction. He could hardly tell by looking at it, but he felt the rasp of the hard road surface under his palm that told him he was not imagining it.
He pushed again, and this time he could see the movement. The voices didn’t own him. Not yet.
“Are you okay?”
It took him a moment to recognize that this voice was different, that it didn’t come from inside him.
“Are you okay?” Susan asked again.
He tried to turn to look to her, but he couldn’t move.
“No,” he whispered. The word came out soundlessly, a slight breath. He opened his eyes and stared at the burned-out house. Susan was somewhere off to his right, he couldn’t see her but he could sense her presence beyond the edge of his vision. “No,” he tried again, but still his voice was too quiet.
He tried to move his hand again. Nothing. Frustration rose within him, bright and red and pure. And he welcomed it. It pushed back the gray.
He tried again. His whole body shivered with the effort, although Jackson was sure that from outside none of the fight would be visible; to Susan he was just sitting there staring at the house, no more alive than one of the sleeping dead.
Maybe his fingers moved a millimeter, certainly no more than that. He pushed again. And he felt the graze of rough ground against his skin.
“Don’t leave me.” The idea terrified him: that Susan would decide he was dead and she would move on. The possibility that he could be alone and expected to navigate this new world with only the voices for company.
“I can’t,” he whispered. “I can’t do it.”
“What?” Susan asked. He stared straight ahead, but at the edge of his vision the gray outline of Susan came into view. He tried to turn his head to look at her, but he didn’t have the strength to move.
“What can’t you do?”
“I can’t cope on my own.” He didn’t know if Susan heard exactly what he said, but she must have learned enough from his tone. He felt her body press against him, the reassuring weight of her arm pressed against his shoulder.
He sat, watching the burned-out house, feeling the weight of Susan pressing against his side. He sat, and waited.
21
They stayed for more than an hour, long enough for the daylight to begin to fade. The breeze drew the scent of burning down the street and it washed over them.
For a long time Jackson didn’t try to move; he was too afraid that he would discover he couldn’t. But eventually he had to accept he could not always sit there staring at the house, they had to do something. Susan seemed prepared to wait as long as he needed. She hadn’t shown any desire to leave his side.
When he stretched out his arm, it felt like he was operating a robot. He could feel what he was trying to do and he watched to see if his limbs would react. He fell against Susan and felt her hands upon him, helping him. When he stood, he wavered like a tree caught in a high breeze.
“Are you okay?”
He nodded and turned toward her. “Thank you.”
She looked confused, and then surprised, and then finally she smiled.
Jackson’s vision rolled. For a moment everything blurred. The burned-out house quivered in front of him. “I know what it feels like,” he said. “I can’t explain it, not properly, but it felt like dying was the only outcome to wish for.”
“But you’re all right now?”
He shook his head. “I can still hear them.”
“You looked like one of them.”
“The sleeping dead?” Jackson nodded. “I probably was.”
He looked
True. A fat woman in her forties, her skin stretched to a tight sheen across her features.
True. A businessman—it could easily have been Malcolm Laine or John Fairls or any number of men that Jackson had worked with—an ink stain blotting the bottom of his shirt pocket.
True. True. True. Toneless voices piled one upon the other. Gray faces nodding.
Jackson’s hand moved. Just a fraction. He could hardly tell by looking at it, but he felt the rasp of the hard road surface under his palm that told him he was not imagining it.
He pushed again, and this time he could see the movement. The voices didn’t own him. Not yet.
“Are you okay?”
It took him a moment to recognize that this voice was different, that it didn’t come from inside him.
“Are you okay?” Susan asked again.
He tried to turn to look to her, but he couldn’t move.
“No,” he whispered. The word came out soundlessly, a slight breath. He opened his eyes and stared at the burned-out house. Susan was somewhere off to his right, he couldn’t see her but he could sense her presence beyond the edge of his vision. “No,” he tried again, but still his voice was too quiet.
He tried to move his hand again. Nothing. Frustration rose within him, bright and red and pure. And he welcomed it. It pushed back the gray.
He tried again. His whole body shivered with the effort, although Jackson was sure that from outside none of the fight would be visible; to Susan he was just sitting there staring at the house, no more alive than one of the sleeping dead.
Maybe his fingers moved a millimeter, certainly no more than that. He pushed again. And he felt the graze of rough ground against his skin.
“Don’t leave me.” The idea terrified him: that Susan would decide he was dead and she would move on. The possibility that he could be alone and expected to navigate this new world with only the voices for company.
“I can’t,” he whispered. “I can’t do it.”
“What?” Susan asked. He stared straight ahead, but at the edge of his vision the gray outline of Susan came into view. He tried to turn his head to look at her, but he didn’t have the strength to move.
“What can’t you do?”
“I can’t cope on my own.” He didn’t know if Susan heard exactly what he said, but she must have learned enough from his tone. He felt her body press against him, the reassuring weight of her arm pressed against his shoulder.
He sat, watching the burned-out house, feeling the weight of Susan pressing against his side. He sat, and waited.
21
They stayed for more than an hour, long enough for the daylight to begin to fade. The breeze drew the scent of burning down the street and it washed over them.
For a long time Jackson didn’t try to move; he was too afraid that he would discover he couldn’t. But eventually he had to accept he could not always sit there staring at the house, they had to do something. Susan seemed prepared to wait as long as he needed. She hadn’t shown any desire to leave his side.
When he stretched out his arm, it felt like he was operating a robot. He could feel what he was trying to do and he watched to see if his limbs would react. He fell against Susan and felt her hands upon him, helping him. When he stood, he wavered like a tree caught in a high breeze.
“Are you okay?”
He nodded and turned toward her. “Thank you.”
She looked confused, and then surprised, and then finally she smiled.
Jackson’s vision rolled. For a moment everything blurred. The burned-out house quivered in front of him. “I know what it feels like,” he said. “I can’t explain it, not properly, but it felt like dying was the only outcome to wish for.”
“But you’re all right now?”
He shook his head. “I can still hear them.”
“You looked like one of them.”
“The sleeping dead?” Jackson nodded. “I probably was.”
He looked
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