Plague City - By Matthew Milson Page 0,1

but kept it close for if the time ever came―a precaution his predecessor had not shared.

His fingers stuffed inside black leather gloves fumbled clumsily to grab the right key, but he would not dare remove the gloves to ease the task―not until he was safely inside. Not a second sooner.

Coal opened the door barely enough to slip inside and between the two cloth curtains nailed on all sides of the door frame. He removed his gloves, stuffed them inside his coat pockets, and bathed his hands in the washing basin sitting on an antique phone stand in the entryway, scouring them with lye soap.

He hung his coat on a rack beside the front door, shed his shoes on the first floor landing, and adjusted his scarf, which had invariably loosened its hug around his head from the turmoil. His nightly ritual.

At last, Coal made for the living room, the static-crackled voice speaking over the radio carrying into the hall as he approached. He stood silent in the doorway, listening for what news came of the Purging, ensuring his message was delivered as given. The radio signal grew weak and the voice was overcome with white noise.

Coal looked on as Eve sat on the floor in front of the radio, an old repaired Crosley, her head wrapped in a blue scarf with white flowers, leaning her ear closer to the speaker in an effort to hear the cold voice amongst the static. He need not see her face to know how the news of the Purgings affected her. Her slouch, her hung head, her nervous rocking said it all.

“More bombings,” she said without turning, aware of Coal’s presence in the room.

“I know,” said Coal. “Uprisings.”

The voice over the radio was barely audible when it was spoken, but then Coal didn’t need to hear it, he had written the words himself. In the back of his mind Coal wondered if Eve ever suspected him as the one to blame. She was smart, and knew him better than anyone. Was it really possible to hide such things from her―things terrible in her eyes, necessary in his own? He once thought so. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Eve was gentler than he in all concerns, above all the Plague. Caring. Understanding. She hated the disease just as much, but only for its ruinous toll. It was the disease that tore apart families, destroyed cities, threatened the very existence of mankind. Where she differed from Coal was in her compassion for those afflicted. It hadn’t always been that way for Coal, but of late it was a compassion he no longer shared. Coal himself could not say for certain when his mindset altered, or what had brought it about. Perhaps, he thought, it was when he fell in love, married, had someone to live for and protect, maybe that had been the tilting factor of his mercy’s balance. It seemed a reasonable excuse as any. What he knew for certain was this: He felt only despise for those who allowed themselves to fall to such ruin. It was, in his mind, the highest betrayal to their fellow man. The disease could be avoided if only the proper care was taken. Coal knew this with unfaltering certainty. It was a fact. And yet the Plague thrived upon his city.

Coal could not protect the city from its own degenerative nature, but he could protect Eve.

Exiles did not work. Forcing out beyond the wall those who were diseased did not serve to destroy it. Extreme measures had to be taken to preserve the one whom he loved most. Yet these ideas, these beliefs, remained unspoken to the very soul he desired to protect. She would not understand.

Coal took a seat on the couch, patting the cushion beside him. “Come off the floor, dear. It’s too cold down there,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulder as she sunk into the cushion and pressed against his chest. Coal pulled the purple knitted blanket from the back of the couch and enveloped the both of them in it.

Electricity for heat and light was expensive, even for the mayor. It was too easy to burn through the month’s allotment, and was better saved for the things that mattered―things like the radio. Blankets and candles, these things were cheap.

“Belle’s Revolution,” said Coal, repeating what lie he’d fed his own staff. It was easy enough to blame such an extreme group of radicals. Anarchists. Where they believed the government stuck its nose too