Free Suffer the Children by Craig DiLouie Page B

stepped into the cold. He paused to take a deep breath and get his bearings. Art Foley, his neighbor, stood on his porch smoking his pipe and staring at him. Accusing him with his eyes.
    His wife’s voice in his head, shouting: What did you do?
    Doug winced, his face burning. It wasn’t my fault!
    But Foley wasn’t actually being accusatory about anything. He was looking at Doug with more like mute pity. The man had no kids himself. He clearly wanted to offer his condolences but was afraid of crossing some line of decorum with his neighbor. There were no rules of etiquette for this; they were all pioneering new territory in grief. Doug acknowledged him with a nod and got into his truck, where he lit a cigarette, feeling like he could chew through metal.
    Pity yourself, Foley. We’re all victims today. The whole damn human race.
    Doug arrived at the Department of Solid Waste Management with little memory of how he’d gotten there. He found the compound crowded with government workers, volunteers, and Army National Guard piling into and out of olive-green trucks. He recognized a few coworkers who’d retired, suddenly called back into service because of the crisis. A local vendor had set up a stand to hand out free coffee, and Doug got a tall one, cream, no sugar.
    “Doug!”
    He turned and saw Otis huffing toward him waving a handful of papers. Release forms for Doug to sign, it turned out.
    “The training session’s just starting,” Otis told him. “If you hustle, you can get in. Sign these as soon as you can.”
    He took the forms. “Lots of soldiers here with guns. All to make sure I do what I’m told.”
    “They’re here to help.” Otis gripped his shoulder. “You’re a tough son of a bitch, brother. You’re going to be okay. We’re all going to get through this together.”
    Doug scowled, but he was touched. “Thanks.”
    The men running the session worked for FEMA. They gave him abright yellow hazmat suit and told him to put it on. He tried the respirator mask just to see what it was like. It smelled like rubber and ass. They told him he wouldn’t need it. He’d be wearing a simple hospital mask in the field.
    He sat on a chair in the crowded room. Some of the men were smoking, so he lit a Winston. He drank his coffee and listened.
    “Contrary to popular belief, the dead pose little health risk to the living,” said the instructor, a nerdy government type. “The bacteria that cause decay in dead tissue aren’t dangerous. But you still have to be careful if the child had an infectious disease like HIV or tuberculosis. That’s a risk. It’s also obviously rare, though.”
    A man in the back raised his hand. “How do we know when there’s a risk?”
    “The next of kin was supposed to report any infectious diseases when they registered their child for burial. It’s all in your information packets.” He checked his watch and turned to another man behind him. “Mike, can we get those passed out?”
    Mike distributed the packets to the men, big manila envelopes stuffed with paper. Doug opened his and inspected the contents. Pickup lists and forms. Grief counseling contact lists. Flash cards telling him what he should and should not say. Everything looked hastily photocopied. It was a thrown-together operation.
    It had been nearly two full days since the children died, and the clock was ticking. Every day that went by without burial, the bodies of the children continued to fall apart.
    Like Otis said, somebody had to pick them up.
    An hour later, Doug drove a twenty-four-foot U-Haul truck down Shanks Road. The vehicle had been freshly painted white with a red cross to cover up the company’s logos. On the passenger side, Tom Rafferty, a beefy man with an earnest face, leafed through the pickup list. Tom was a volunteer.
    “So many,” the man said. “All in one day? Are they serious?”
    “We’ll do them one at a time and see what happens,” Doug told him.
    He took a swig of coffee while