Home for the Holidays
by Julie Gilbert

She twisted the final bit of tinsel around the top branch and wiped the last of the tears from her eyes.  There was a scuff of gravel on the path behind her, too loud to be a squirrel.

“I wondered who did this,” he said, rocking on his toes.  His jacket was thin for the November weather.  “I finally caught you.”

She waded through the waist-high grass, seedpods whispering against her jeans. She planned to walk right past him but he kept talking.

“I look forward to the tree every year.  A sign that the holidays are coming, you know?”

“No,” she said, her eyes on the path.  She was past him now, her dark hair nestled against her red coat, her shoulders sloping as she burrowed her hands in her pockets.

“You must love Christmas, right?  I bet you’ve got lights up at your house.  I used to put them up at mine but that was before, well, it was before,” he finished.

“Everything was before,” she said, only because he seemed to be waiting for a response. 

He fell into step beside her.  The park was an empty swath of overgrown grass and toppled benches.  Her car hunched alone on the edge of the lot.

“I see you’re no longer following the Conglomeration Disease Control guidelines,” he said, waving a hand at his unmasked mouth.  “Me either.  I figure, if I didn’t get it by now, I’m not going to get it.”

“Look, I’m sure you’re a nice guy and all but I just wanted to finish my tree in peace and then go home.”

He ducked his head.  His brown hair was thinning

“You’re right. Sorry to bother you.  It’s just been so long since I talked to anyone,” he murmured.

She glanced overhead, feeling a burst of anger that the sky still dared to be so blue.

“I don’t remember the last time I saw an airplane,” she blurted.

“I’d almost forgotten about airplanes,” he said.  “My grandparents used to talk about the days after 9/11 when planes were grounded and the skies were empty.  At my old job, my office was on the fifteenth floor.  I used to watch planes go by and wonder about the people on them, where they were going.” 

She didn’t ask about his job.  The Conglomeration provided food and supplies, palliative care until everyone finally died out and the continent could be reclaimed.  There was no need to work, unless you were one of those crazies holed up in the mountains somewhere.

“I’m sorry I was rude,” she said.  “I think it’s Thanksgiving. Would you like to come over for dinner?”

As she slid behind the wheel of her car, she had a flash from the time before, when a woman never went anywhere with a strange man.

“You’re not going to murder me, are you?”

He shrugged, the gesture revealing the outline of a handgun strapped his waist. “What would be the point?  At least you don’t have to worry about rape.”

When they reached her house, he wandered around the living room while she prepared two Conglomeration-issued microwave meals.

“Spanakopita or pad thai?” 

“Pad thai, please.”

For a few minutes there was nothing but the scrape of metal against plastic.

“So how did it start for you?  Was it the cough or the rash?”

She stared at him, aghast.

“For me it was the rash,” he continued.  “My littlest one kept scratching her behind.  We thought it was poison ivy.  Then we heard the reports.”

“Cough,” she said finally, her throat closing around the word.  She pictured the tiny Christmas tree bobbing alone in the park.  It was easier than remembering dark, fever-filled eyes.

“No pictures,” he said, gesturing at her empty walls.

“No.”

“It’s easier that way.  When eighty-three percent of the population dies in fourteen months and the rest of us are rendered infertile, it’s hardly fair to expect that we’ll carry all those memories.”

"The Conglomeration has records,”she said.  “They won’t be forgotten.”

“You really believe that, huh?  I think they just told us that to make us feel better.  When the rest of us die out, no one’s going to care.”

“Then I suppose it doesn’t matter,”she said, the last tiny dream dying in her heart.

There was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” she asked, aware that the question was irrelevant.  She was the only living soul for miles.  There was only one answer.

“It’s past curfew,” the Conglomeration Officer said, standing in the doorway.  Snow floated from the sky, settling on his combat boots.

“It’s been years since you enforced curfew,” the man said behind her.  His hand hovered near his hip.

“The quarantine’s been lifted.  They discovered a vaccine.  Relocation starts next month.  We’re training now to enforce the new laws.”

She felt dizzy as bullets of information pierced the fog in her mind.

“I’m just leaving now,” the man said.  The officer withdrew to darkness at the edge of her driveway.

“You knew, didn’t you?” she asked.

“I heard rumors.”

She flinched, imagining the neighborhood lit with garish Christmas lights, the whoosh of cars on the road and the clatter of unfamiliar languages yelled across chemical lawns in the summer.

“That’s why I came to you.  I don’t want to be here when those people arrive.  I’m taking care of it tomorrow.  If you feel the same, meet me by your tree at daybreak.”  He fingered the bulge beneath his jacket.

She closed the door behind him and carried the dishes to the sink.  A sense of calm settled in her stomach.  She would choose a gunshot ripping through the air over the children of outsiders laughing in the street.  A strand of tinsel fell from her shoulder, curling on the counter. Her fingers hesitated over it for a second and then she turned off the lights and went to bed.