Chapter 2

Matt awoke, instantly alert, aware of his surroundings, a habit developed from years of living with danger. He observed from the position of the sun, shining dimly through the fabric of the tent, that it was late morning. Then, becoming aware of himself, he sensed his headache was gone, and his fever seemed to have disappeared too.

"I made it, I'm alive," he thought. "No, more than that," realizing that somehow the effects of his forty-seven years of living, months of combat, the disappointment of failed marriages seemed to have disappeared from his body and mind. He felt like a seventeen year old, strong, confident, ready to take on the world.

Noticing the two mattresses laid out on the floor and the rearrangement of his tent, Matt began looking for his things, finding his watch, his glasses, cigarettes and lighter on top of his foot locker, which had been moved into the back. Checking the time, he was surprised to see that it was almost eleven, he had slept more than twenty-four hours. He put on his watch, pocketing his cigarettes and lighter, putting the glasses in the breast pocket of his shirt. "Now I'm ready for whatever they throw at me," he thought, "just as soon as I get some coffee."

But before that, he needed to hit the latrine. Finishing there, he saw Veronica and Brianna at the cook tent, standing, staring at him in apparent surprise at his recovery. He strode over to them, smiling, the two young women smiling back. "Well, how about some coffee," Matt said.

"I'll heat it up for you," Brianna said, hurrying over to the gas stove, lighting the burner under the coffee pot.

"Before you drink your coffee let me take your temperature," Veronica said, taking a thermometer out of her pocket, holding it up to his mouth.

"Okay, but I know it's back to normal," Matt said, opening his mouth letting her insert the thermometer.

After a minute, Veronica took it out, "Looks normal to me."

"Let me see," Matt said, putting on his glasses, taking the thermometer. Strangely, as he looked at it Matt couldn't make out the numbers at all. He turned it back and forth, turning his body to let the sunlight fall on the thin glass tube, but nothing seemed to work. Finally, in desperation, he removed his glasses, amazed to find that now he could read his temperature perfectly - it was 98.4.

Matt was standing there, staring at the thermometer, his glasses in his hand, "What is it? Didn't I read it right?" Veronica asked.

"No, you were right. It's just my glasses, or my eyes." Taking the cup of hot coffee, "Bree, get me a couple of those cans over there, in that box, please," he said as he sat on the bench at the long wooden table.

"Which ones do you want?" she asked, walking around the table to the box with the canned goods.

"Doesn't matter, I just want something with small print."

Veronica sat on the bench next to Matt, pouring a cup of coffee for herself. Staring at the big man as he lit a cigarette, she was suddenly conscious of how much confidence she had in him, in his ability to take care of them, to bring them through this terrible thing that had happened to them, and to the world.

Brianna put two cans - fruit salad and beef stew - on the table in front of Matt. "Are these okay?" she asked, pouring a half cup of coffee for herself, then filling the rest of the cup with condensed milk and sugar.

Matt picked up the cans, testing his eyes on first one then the other, with and without his glasses. There was no doubt, his vision was now perfect.

"Are your eyes okay?" Brianna asked, stirring the beige colored liquid in her cup.

"Better than that," Matt said, taking a drag on his cigarette. Then looking at the half smoked butt, grinding it out in the ashtray, wondering why he wasn't getting the same rush from the nicotine he'd been getting for thirty years.

"What should we do now?" Veronica asked. Standing to fill Matt's cup from the coffee pot.

"I guess we're all that's left," Matt said, sipping at the hot liquid.

"Rob and Paul died while you were sick, so it's just us three," Veronica answered.

"We should go to town, to San Carmena. There might be survivors there. We can't stay here indefinitely, that's certain. It's too late now. We'll leave tomorrow." Swallowing the last of his coffee, "Now I need a shower," standing, walking across the campground toward the bath-house.

Brianna running after him, "Matt, Matt," she called. He stopped, turned toward her, "Can't we bury them? Everyone who died of the plague, especially my dad. Please Matt, I think we need to bury them and... and pray or something, to... to say goodbye to them properly to all of them, but especially to... to my father."

He looked into her blue eyes, filling with tears. "You're right, we need to take care of them, uhh... say goodbye and pay them the... the proper respect. But first, I need my shower, I know I must smell pretty bad in these sweaty clothes. And then I need to eat, breakfast or lunch, or whatever."

"I don't think you smell so bad. But you go take your shower if you think you need one. We'll, Ronnie and me, we'll fix your lunch. Then, we can... can take care of the others."

Matt grabbed his towel from where it was hanging near the bath-house. The water tank was nearly full, so he didn't need to start the pump. He stood for a while under the downpour of tepid water, then ran his soapy hands over himself. Turning under the water, he realized how good he felt after his bout with the plague, fit, alive, his body seemed more taut than before, his muscles more well defined, and he felt stronger, and the small paunch he was beginning to develop seemed to have disappeared.

His shower over, wrapping the towel around his waist, slipping on his boots, Matt walked across the campground to his tent, unaware of the Veronica and Brianna pausing to watch him as they prepared lunch. At his tent, he changed into clean clothes, brushed his teeth. Looking into the mirror he saw he needed a shave, but decided to put it off for now. His dark hair was still curly, still beginning to streak with gray, but his blue eyes seemed brighter, with more of a sparkle, full of life.

At the cook tent, Matt took a seat on the bench. "Do you want more coffee, Matt?" Veronica asked, holding the coffee pot over his cup.

"Thanks," he said, smiling at her, she smiling back.

"We're making bologna sandwiches," Brianna said from the other side of the table where she was making their lunch. "Ronnie said we should use up the fresh food first, before it spoils."

"That sounds like the way to do it," Matt said sipping his coffee.

"That's what I thought," Veronica said, gratified at Matt's approval. "We had to eat some of the canned goods yesterday, we were just too tired to fix anything else." Matt didn't respond, just looked at her, as he sipped his coffee.

The sandwiches done, they all dug in. There was cheese and spicy mustard and mayonnaise for the sandwiches, and potato chips too, not too wilted yet, and pickles and olives. They were quiet at first, eating, the sickness and dying out of their minds while they enjoyed the food.

When Matt finished his sandwich and started looking around for more, Brianna jumped up, quickly fixing a second sandwich for him. They laughed at that, whether at Matt wanting another sandwich or at Brianna so anxious to fix it for him wasn't clear. Then they talked.

Matt talked about the young man who joined the Marines out of high school, surprised that it wasn't even close to how the recruiter described it. Then, after the resentment passed, seeing the opportunity, working for promotion, taking college classes, eventually selected for officer training. He talked of travel, combat - briefly - then retirement after twenty-five years, eventually ending up in Cancun, supplementing his pension by working for archaeologists studying Mayan ruins.

Veronica described how she became interested in archaeology at ASU, attending graduate school, taking a seminar with Dr. Carter Lewis at the same time he was going through his divorce. "We were attracted to each other. He was so... so commanding, so authoritative as a professor, and his wife had left him, and I... I was so impressed, and I didn't have anyone. And I know his wife, his first wife, blamed me, but it wasn't me, it was them, it was her."

"I know it wasn't your fault," Brianna told Veronica. "They were fighting a long time before my dad even met you, she already took us and moved out by then anyway."

As Veronica smiled her thanks at Brianna, "So what's your story, Bree?" Matt asked, peering at her over the rim of his cup.

"Just a normal seventeen year old whose mom and dad got divorced," she sighed. "For years we, my brother Easton and I, begged dad to take us on one of his expeditions, and finally, he agreed this year, for me - Easton's out of school and working - and I talked my mom into it too, after a lot of begging. Dad was supposed to home school me after summer vacation was over, but mostly it was Ronnie who did it. So... so now he's... my dad... he's gone and I don't know what happened to my mom or my brother or anyone. They're probably gone too, aren't they?"

"Probably," Matt said looking into her eyes.

Bree staring back at Matt, "Well now we've got you haven't we, Matt?"

Matt saw Bree and Ronnie both staring at him, "Yeah," looking from one to the other. "Yeah, you've got me, to... to watch out for you, as much as I can. That's still my job."

"That's all we ask," Ronnie said, her eyes on his face.

Matt sipped his coffee, lit a cigarette, took a drag, then with a look of distaste, ground it out in the ashtray. "We better do something about them... the deceased," he said. Looking at Ronnie and Bree, "You take care of cleaning up here, I'll see what needs to be done."

"Yes, sir," Bree said, her eyes bright with tears.

"Whatever you say, Matt," Ronnie said.

Matt stood, pausing for a moment to wonder at the significance of their words, then headed across the campground toward the tent with the bodies of Juan and Ernesto, the two locals hired as cooks and general workers. They were the first to die, and he decided they might as well be the first he readied for burial.

Inside the tent the two Mexican men had shared and where they died together, he found the bodies lying on their cots. It didn't look to Matt like such a bad death. Not like some of those he'd seen die in combat, their bodies shredded, their faces betraying the pain that accompanied their deaths. These two, Juan and Ernesto, seemed to have died almost peacefully.

Matt stood by Ernesto, reaching to turn the body, to see if there were any personal possessions in the pockets that should be saved from the grave. Probably a pointless gesture as the chance any of Ernesto's family survived to claim his possessions was almost nonexistent, but old habits die hard.

As he put his hands on Ernesto's body, suddenly the corpse disintegrated under his touch. Pulling away in surprise, Matt saw that all that was left of Ernesto Flores were scattered piles of some sort of crystals spread over the bed sheet and clothing.

Seeking to disturb the crystals as little as possible, Matt found Ernesto's saint's medal, watch, pictures of his wife and children. Carefully, he placed those on Ernesto's foot locker with his wallet and papers. Matt pulled up the four corners of Ernesto's bed sheet, tying them together, the crystals that were the dead man's final remains and his clothing bundled inside. "Guess this is as good a burial shroud as any," he thought.