Z for Zachariah: Chapters 10–13

Though we had both known the fever was coming, and I had dreaded it more than he had (or more than he had seemed to), now that it was there, and he was visibly distressed, my own fear seemed to vanish.

I suppose that is why doctors and nurses could last through terrible epidemics.

It all seemed remote now and out of place; it made me sad to think about it.

I will boil everything pertaining to food from now on, or bake it.

He even consented to take two aspirin tablets.

I boiled some water, poured it into a pitcher and put in two bags. After it had steeped awhile, I took out the bags, added quite a lot of sugar and put the pitcher in the basement.

The front door flew open, and Mr. Loomis came out, trying to run but staggering.

By this time I had reached the driveway; I turned in and shut off the motor. Mr Loomis, running in a groping kind of way, as if he could not see well, had not gone to the tent but to the trunk.

“Who was upstairs?”
But he was being evasive. “Someone moving.”

He still sleeps most of the time, and when he wakes up it is because of a dream, a nightmare. Only for a few minutes now and then does he seem to be rational and to recognize me or even see or hear me.

The rest of the time he is delirious, and often he is terrified, always of the same thing—he thinks Edward is here and is threatening him with something vague and dreadful.

“He’s a thief. He’ll steal—” He stopped, as if he had remembered something, and then to my dismay he gave a terrible groan and tried to get out of the bed.

But there is only Faro lying in the trampled grass by the tent near his dish, waiting to be fed.

Edward was married. He had a wife named Mary and a son named Billy, and he was frantic with worry about them.

That was why he wanted to take the suit, even for twenty-four hours. To find them, if they were alive; and if they were dead, to settle the anguish once and for all.

I could understand most of what he was saying: he was cursing Edward in terrible language, profanity I will not write down here.

There were three holes, spaced about two inches apart, across the middle of the chest. They had been patched—that is, new plastic had been welded over them so that they were airtight—but from the inside you could see that they were bullet holes, round and quite large.

There is nothing more I can do for him.
I realized that late this afternoon. It is an empty, despairing feeling.

He did not open his eyes. His face is pale blue, his eyelids almost purple, and translucent.

There are two narrow windows behind the altar (there is no pulpit, but just a high oblong stand to read from), and two more set in the side walls, also narrow, so that it is always dim inside, and quiet.

There are two narrow windows behind the altar (there is no pulpit, but just a high oblong stand to read from), and two more set in the side walls, also narrow, so that it is always dim inside, and quiet.

I kept the fire going and changed the hot-water bottle every hour, putting it next to his feet. They are so cold I am sure they are not getting any circulation.

I did not try to take his temperature, but I did count his respiration. He was breathing almost fifty times a minute; I recall from my school course that normal is about sixteen.

I was just realizing that I had forgotten the Bible, and was considering whether I should go back for it, when I noticed that he had come to a point and was inching along the church floor toward the altar. I could see nothing there, and it gave me an eerie feeling.

I looked up, and above me rose the square opening that formed the inside of the steeple, actually more like a high cupola.

On one side of this, just inside the eaves of the roof (where I had noticed some boards were missing) I saw a rather untidy collection of sticks, leaves, and straw, a nest.

But I did not think it likely that the adult crows would venture down the steeple into the church, or that they would even realize where the baby had fallen.

Also, as soon as I carried it outside I heard a raucous sound, looked up, and there were two big crows flapping overhead.

As I walked back to the house, I decided it might be a good omen.

I am a little superstitious, and have always thought that birds bring good luck; when I wake up in the morning, look out the window, and see a bird the first thing—especially if it is close up, and looking toward me—I feel as if it is a symbol, and that something good will happen that day.

I thought of the Bible, but in the end decided poetry might be more soothing, so I brought an anthology from my room and read Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.”

I thought of the Bible, but in the end decided poetry might be more soothing, so I brought an anthology from my room and read Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.”

I thought of the Bible, but in the end decided poetry might be more soothing, so I brought an anthology from my room and read Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.”

If Edward had taken the suit, and left, and never come back, he would, in effect, have doomed Mr. Loomis to stay in the laboratory—perhaps forever—probably forever.

If he was honest and sensible and really meant to return the suit, and would have returned it, then maybe Mr. Loomis should have let him borrow it.

On the way back I picked some flowers, some wild roses that grow beside the road, and at home I put them in a vase and took them to his room. The apple blossoms had wilted and fallen off.

I played the piano for half an hour, hoping it would penetrate to wherever he was.

I thought: if it could be done, if the books would become safe to handle, and Mr. Loomis did not want to go, I could go. That is, if he would lend me the safe-suit.
And that thought brought me back to Edward, with a jolt.

I thought about the most nourishing liquids I could concoct.

When I had dismantled the stove, I planned to haul it, piece by piece, on the small (and rather rickety old) hand truck.