“But what does it mean, the plague? It’s life, that’s all.”

—Albert Camus,
      The Plague

??????? ????????? had been the sort of woman to wear heavy clothing all year round regardless of the season. Largely because her mother and father hadn't been able to afford indoor heating for years and largely because she lived in a township called Frostford—a small place with a little under one thousand residents and at least five inches of snow sprawling from junction to junction. She lived in a moderately-sized house at the end of a cul-de-sac on Robert Avenue, had grown up there since birth with Tommy Valentine—a man whom she would have best described as SUPER-DAD! had he not passed away in late 2019 due to a long and tiresome battle with colon cancer. After that, the only word she could manage was ????! She had stencilled it into Tommy's gravestone using a tactical knife a few months after his funeral, sometime in early spring. She would later revisit him every alternate Sunday with her mother, Vanessa Valentine, to lay flowers alongside the memorial stone, tell him about the week she'd had, and then drive home in tears.

Scarlet and her mother would talk about him often, how he used to work in a factory down in Colorado making prosthetic limbs. How he used to go hunting in the winter, dreaming of a time where he might one day be able to share his hunt with a son. Obviously, that didn't work out too well for him, and in the fall of 2000 he was met with a loving daughter, one that made him quit his factory job, move up north to Frostford and settle for a simple wage. And a simple family. He was a simple man after all. A simple man with simple dreams.

Two years after his death, Scarlet had fallen deeply in love with a man who wasn't too much different: Michael Wilkes. They met in college around the time Canada experienced one of its biggest snowfalls since 2010. Michael, though Scarlet had settled for 'Mike', was the type of guy who had a little too much sex appeal for his own good: strong jawline, flawless skin, eyes that shone like a pair of spirit-lanterns, ones that blinked after every smile and twinkled with each muscle contraction. They lived together for a while before Scarlet came down with a terrible case of influenza and decided to head back to her home in Frostford, where her mother had adopted a new furry creature to keep her company: Darla. A tiny Bichon Terrier with white hair and brown eyes, the likes of which could capture your heart in the mere moments that followed without so much as a breath to compensate.

Scarlet noticed this more frequently as she became accustomed to her.

"How'd you get her?" Scarlet's mouth widened into a grin and revealed a striking set of Hollywood-white teeth. She picked Darla up and cuddled her.

"She was your paternal grandfather's dog. He gave him to me a couple months ago when he realised he didn't have the time to be putting up with animals." Vanessa's voice was stern but not offensive. In many ways she resembled Scarlett, only with a pucker and a hollow-cheeked countenance. Vanessa's hair was greying from a devilish shade of auburn, and her eyes—those gorgeous eyes—were lively and bright like matching blue suns, the freckles on her cheeks being the planets, and the wrinkles being the asteroid belts. She had been stirring up a blend of Red Rose Tea in the kitchen, which joined pleasantly with the living room—a book-lined enclosure that comprised mostly oak-wood fittings and pictures of mountain peaks, furnished with a luxuriant sprawl of crimson carpet. A few spoon taps later and she placed a cup on the coffee table by which Scarlet was sitting.

"Was he expensive?" Scarlet's voice was hoarse. She punctuated her sentence by clearing her throat and coughing into her sweater sleeve. She set Darla down on the leather sofa and reached for the mug, smiling at the word ?????-???! printed on the ceramic.

"She," Vanessa corrected. "And I haven't a clue; like I said, she was your grandfather's and nothing more. For all I know she could be worth a couple thousand dollars or a few hundred." Her voice was pained, as if tired and fed up with the extremities of life. Of course she wasn't, though Scarlet would have found it difficult to blame her if she were. Luckily, she was a strong woman. A strong woman with an even stronger heart. Vanessa made her way to the living room window and glared outside a moment. She swept a sheaf of her auburn over her right shoulder.

And Scarlet examined the outside at which Vanessa thoroughly gazed, her face reflecting in the window. Snow pierced down in a way not dissimilar to fusillades—foreboding sorts that left the battlegrounds in shambles. Any faster and you might have been able to hear it pound the rooftops like tomtoms at a heavy-metal concert, or a little like jazz percussion, which Scarlet loved. The wind was audible enough, too. It began with gentle whispers, eventually turning into whistles, and ending up in periods of long-winded howls.

Scarlet had grown obsessed with the sound of winter—how it always brought about a sense of calm. To her, it was a lot better than the summer, which was dry and boring and often overcrowded with one too many singing birds.

"And how is that Michael boy?" Vanessa asked, turning back and sipping her tea. "Is he giving you any trouble yet? Or have you two come along well?"

Although they'd only been dating a short while, Scarlet could tell her mother was concerned—concerned the way she herself had been when she first met Tommy. It had been very important to know who you were talking to before you knew who you were talking to. But that was a long time ago, and things changed.

Scarlet sipped her tea and withdrew a deep sigh. "We're coming along," she confided. "And no. No trouble. Not ye-eeeet. He's a nice boy. I just hope he stays that way for a long, long time." She giggled immaturely. After which she grabbed the TV remote and thumbed on the plasma screen. It unfolded a couple seconds later with crystal 4K quality, HDR, giving it that nice oomph. It was a lot different than the one she had back at the accommodation.

"I do hope that he treats you well. Life is too short for picking the wrong person; don't be like everyone else and chance it. Those people are too risky, or maybe too safe. I'm not sure what it is with them nowadays."

"He's smart . . . like Dad. But he has his moments," Scarlet said, crossing her legs and petting Darla. "And you're smart, too," she cooed at the dog. "Yes, you are!"

Vanessa forced a smile. "I'm sure he's just splendid. Just like your father was." Her smile morphed into a more natural one as she spoke. "Back then he was a gangster-outsider type of guy, believe it or not. He used to pomade his hair with something called brilliantine back before he went bal—I mean, back when he was only twenty or so. He actually still has those grooming-products upstairs. Well, he had, before I stuffed them in a box and threw them up in the attic." She hesitated a moment before blurting out, "The only possessions of his that I felt I should keep were his guns, even though I'm not a huge fan of them. You never know when you might need them."

Scarlet nodded. "Dad wasn't a gangster though, Mom." She let out a high-pitched chuckle, which made her throat sting. "He was at the very most a puppy-lover."

"He was that, too," Vanessa added. "He loved dogs. He always talked about getting a husky yet never tried buying one. Never even once visited a pet shop or animal shelter. You know why?"

Scarlet took a swig from her tea, which was now cooling down a great deal. "Why?" Her eyes glittered when she asked this. They made her look pretty.

"He was allergic to them; couldn't touch a dog. I know, crazy."

"There's no way!" Scarlet flicked through multiple TV channels until stopping on FTN News. "You never told me this?!" Her eyes widened and her mouth shot open as if to add something more, but nothing came out.

Scarlet half-expected her mother to tell her all sorts of stories that involved Tommy's dog allergy, ones that would either leave her in tears or in periods of stifled laughter. Maybe both. But she didn't, she simply nodded and said, "Mhm." Then sipped her tea. "Allergic since birth. Said he didn't find out till he was about five years old though. Which is a long time to figure that out, if you ask me."

A voice came from the TV, at first muffled, then loudening when Scarlet turned her attention to the screen and upped the volume. On the screen were the words ????-???! and ?????? ??????????! The words reminded Scarlet of the apocalyptic broadcasts she'd seen in old TV shows, typically ones of the horror genre. But this was slightly different; Scarlet didn't feel fear. Looking at the caption made her feel anxious, sure, but not much more.

There followed a beeping noise and then the news anchor began talking.

"We hate to inform the public of the following message: A deadly virus has struck the southern parts of the United States and is quickly spreading to the north. The origin of this virus is currently unknown, but it is said to have devastating effects on both mental and physical health. If you experience any of the following symptoms—compulsive coughing, irrational breathing difficulties, loss of appetite and thirst, loss of taste or smell, unpredictable behaviour—stay at home and isolate yourself for a minimum period of two weeks.

"Likewise, if you notice any of these symptoms in others, please keep your distance and make sure you are safe at home. Scientists are hard at work trying to both control the disease and prevent the spread potential. Until then, we repeat: remain at home!

He went on some more about how deadly it was, how it was important for people to remain civil and avoid human contact for at least two weeks. But Scarlet found it difficult to comprehend, as if she were living in a simulation or a particularly foreboding dream—the type that instead of making you wet yourself left you in a state of anxiety for the next few days, wondering if the contents of said dream would become a reality. Scarlet had experienced this with her father, as if she predicted his death months before it happened.

"FTN News, Mark Jefferson."

Scarlet's eyes became full of worry, and slowly her mouth shaped into a frown. "Wuh-what? A disease?" She stood up and examined a block of text unfold on the screen in big, bold letters. It was a copy of everything the news anchor had said. After a minute or so she spoke: "What do they mean, unpredictable behaviour? And what is—" She stopped speaking when she read the words 'control the disease'.

"It's . . . Oh, dear," Vanessa said, sliding her mug on the coffee table and pulling out her phone.

She called a number a moment later; it rang for about ten seconds before someone answered; it was a recording. Scarlet's aunt. "Hi, you've reached Rachel!" she said. "I'm probably too busy watching soap operas or reading. Or I'm in the shower. Whatever keeps me busy! Please leave a message after the beep!"

BEE-EEEEEEP!

"Hi, uh, Rachel. It's Vanessa. Look, I need you to call me back as soon as you can. There's a virus spreading and I just want to make sure everyone's all right. I don't know if you've seen it on the news; but it's something new, like a new strain of the flu or something. It's apparently very deadly and we're supposed to isolate until . . . well, you know the rest. Please, just . . . call me back, okay? I need to know you're all right!" Her voice quavered as she spoke. She sighed before finishing the message and tossing her phone on the leather couch, where Darla was curled up in a ball.

Stunned silence. "I, uh—" Scarlet began, unsure of what to say or do. She thought about calling Michael but believed it would be better if she left it. Considering that she had left her accommodation because of the flu, it might have appeared . . . odd, to say the least, if she called him soon after the news broadcast to the public. And if he truly was worried about her, he'd call her. A part of her knew deep down that that was likely going to happen very soon. "We just stay home. We just stay home and wait the two weeks like the news said. We'll be fine!"

"It's not that simple," Vanessa said, her voice angry and anxious at the same time. Panicked, she hurried back over to the window and looked outside. Still, just a snowstorm, though it had picked up by a considerable amount and bathed the cul-de-sac in a thick, snowy fog. "This isn't an ordinary virus! It's life-threatening! I've heard about it before it got this serious, started someplace in Russia. They called it Russian Flu."

Scarlet said nothing for a second. Then she asked, "Russian Flu? What the fu—what is that?"

But Scarlet knew that Vanessa couldn't truly answer that question, could tell by the way her lips curved downwards in confusion, the way her brow furrowed and her hollow-cheeked face softened. She appeared just as lost as everyone else. But she did know something. Everyone did: this virus meant business.

"Something like the plague," said Vanessa, "but more powerful if not contained. And it doesn't look like it's going to be."

"So let's stay home—?"

"Don't you understand!" Vanessa yelled. "We can't, we'll have to leave eventually or else we'll go hungry and die of thirst. The pipes aren't going to last much longer in this weather, I can assure you that. Think, please."

In that moment Scarlet expected a "You're like your father" but was surprised when Vanessa substituted it with "You're like me. Always forgetting things" and something else she couldn't understand.

"Well," Scarlet began, but couldn't get a word out. She struggled to form a sentence. Finally she said, "What do we do then? We can't leave."

"Oh, we can leave," said Vanessa, leaving the sitting room and hurrying upstairs.

"Muh-Mom!" croaked Scarlet. She sprang off the couch a second later, hoping to catch her mother. When Scarlet made it to the staircase she stopped, backtracked to the living room and tried calling Mike. No answer. So she tried again. Nada.

Sighing, she stuffed the phone in her pocket and examined the outside. Everything was white and impossible to see through; the wind had picked up by a considerable amount, whistling with each passing gale, causing the window muntins to creak. In the distance a figure began to form, one dressed from head to foot in black gear, though she hadn't been entirely sure of it. But it still warranted an uneasy feeling to form within the pit of her stomach, like many other things—too many things by her account. She glared at it awhile, intently.

Another minute passed by before a voice called behind her: "Come on." It was her mother.

Scarlet turned round, startled. It was like she had forgotten Vanessa was there, or that she had forgotten where she herself was. Then she offered Vanessa a matching set of worried eyes. The puppy-look. It had only occurred to Scarlet that she hadn't used those eyes in a long, long time—maybe since her father died. Hard to tell. But her eyes soon sharpened at the sight of her mother's apparel: a long, black overcoat, the hem just shy of touching the carpet.

Vanessa's blue suns were gone now. In their place was a pair of serious peepers. And in her right hand: a ring of keys. "We have to leave. NOW!"

A feeling chilling enough to warrant tears overcame Scarlet's subconscious. A moment of silence. She turned back a second expecting to see the figure closer to the house, but was pleasantly surprised when nothing was there. Nothing but acres upon acres of building snow. She turned round again. "What . . .? I don't understand."

"Car. Now." Vanessa snapped her fingers. "There's no time," she continued. "We have to hit the market before we're left to die. Stock up on water especially. Put your coat on. I won't ask you again."

It took all the discipline in the world for Scarlet to not yell at her own mother. She hated the way she snapped those wrinkly hands as if she was some military instructor. She wondered if even they did that. Probably not; she liked to think that instructors had some (fucking) mercy. A very painful sound indeed.

She ran her fingers through her black hair before saying, "Okay! Okay!"

They left for the market less than a minute later, drove in Vanessa's (formerly Tommy's) Subaru through six inches of unending snow. It was a challenge, that much was obvious. Took them about ten minutes to reach a small commercial intersection called Avolyn Road. A place where shops with modest business were most apt. The largest building there was an old post office that had existed long before the town had an official name. Of course, like everything else in the world, it underwent a great deal of changes—changes that Scarlet had failed to notice during most of her stay. Not until an extension had been built onto it and a movie poster proclaiming ???? ????! had been sellotaped to its front window did she realise it was a completely different building.

And Scarlet thought about this, surfacing in the noonlight, the gunmetal sky shining down over the town. It wasn't comforting as it usually had been, but it was something. Something that let her know good things didn't change.