Defiant: Quantic Dreams Book 2 by Elizabeth McLaughlin (best mystery novels of all time .txt) 📕

and I can’t feed the sick the regular 3D printed stuff. Too much of it ends up in buckets.”

What a delightful detail. “What do you want me to do? Head into the mess and whip up a batch of chocolate chip cookies?”

“You subsisted on protein enriched snot for how many years? I need your recipe.” She stood in front of me and crossed her arms. “Cut out the moody bullshit, man. I’ve got enough crap to deal with without you being a whiny bitch.”

I smirked. “You can find the recipe in the database, you know that. And I’m not a whiny bitch. You try dealing with this shit.”

Eliza stepped forward and squeezed my arm. “Jacob, I need the help. You’ve spent most of your time hidden away with the medical team. You aren’t exactly the favorite person around here. You’ve ordered close to a thousand people into indefinite quarantine without any information on how or when it will end. People aren’t stupid, dear father-in-law. If you don’t make some efforts to reach out, whatever they think is going to become reality. If you want to avoid having the grumbling turn into calls for your removal you need to make a publicity tour.”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “You want me to go around and wave at the common people. During an epidemic. Not exactly sure that will ‘inspire’ anything. I’ll look like a crazy man.”

“I’m trying to help you gain back some good will.”

“I’m not here to be their friend, Eliza!” She had no idea what it was like to have this kind of responsibility resting on her shoulders.

“No.” She reached a hand towards me and then thought better of it. “You’re not. But you are here to lead them. How can they possibly follow you if they don’t know you?”

God damn it. I really hate when she had a point.

“Fine.”

Eliza and I sat at a table in the center of the mess and discussed how to create the bare-bones slop I had survived on for so long. She had timed the conversation to coincide with the rotation of families coming in to retrieve their afternoon meal. Through masks and face shields I saw expressions of surprise, happiness, and confusion. Eliza had been correct in her assumptions. Running down the details of converting over the 3D printers to produce the needed nutrients took all of ten minutes. Actually executing the programming took another fifteen, but I stuck around as long as I could, checking in on people. Eliza was right. The people wouldn’t—couldn’t—place their trust in a leader that hid himself away from the world. My reception was varied. Some people stopped by to chat, asking about Fiona and Marcus’s health. A few daring souls bent down to taste the snot coming down the conveyor belt and shared their feedback, most of which was sympathetic. Sharing a moment of my lonely ordeal cracked the ice between us. A little touch of shared sacrifice that we could all relate to.

Feeling high from my newfound likability, I thought it might be the right thing to do if I contacted families of the deceased and see if spiritual counseling or rites might comfort them. If I couldn’t perform them myself, I would find someone who could. I had been too focused on serving the living when it was just as important to serve the dead. I got the list of those who had passed from Dr. Naylor and scrolled through it. It was long. Too long. I hadn’t realized how many we had lost, nor how quickly. The best way to go about it was to start at the top and go down.

My showing up at the relatives of the recently departed was met with mixed reception. I had doors slammed in my face plenty of times. One man even threatened to rip my head off if I thought that saying a few words was going to make up for the death of his father. I didn’t take it personally. I would probably say the same thing. On my sixth knock, I came across an older man who had joined the rest of his family in their quarters. To my surprise, they invited me in warmly. The younger man of the house, presumably the man’s son, explained to me that they had just lost his mother less than twelve hours ago.

“Sir, are you her husband?” I addressed the old man as gently as I could. He nodded, his face unreadable. I understood why. “You were together a long time?” Another nod and he grimaced. “How many years?”

“Fifty,” the man whispered. He coughed as he tried to regain his composure.

“That’s a good amount of time. I’m sure you love her very much. What’s your name, sir?” The difference between ‘love’ and ‘loved’ was time and acceptance. One didn’t have to wonder; no one would be ready to accept their spouse’s death so soon after it happened.

“Abram.”

“We’re Jewish,” the man’s daughter-in-law piped up. “And we haven’t had the chance to perform any blessings. I don’t know of anyone in the shelter who is a rabbi, either.”

“I’m afraid that’s probably true. I don’t believe we’ve had an abundance of spiritual leaders for a while now. I’m an atheist myself but I was raised in a Christian household. I don’t know if any of that can help you, but I’d like to offer myself to say a few words or bear witness if it will bring solace.” I placed my hand on the old man’s shoulder, feeling his thin frame underneath the surgical gown. He was either the luckiest man alive to have escaped the virus or the most ill-fated to have survived it. “Abram, if I can’t find a rabbi, is there a way I can be of assistance?”

“You have to cremate the bodies, right?” the son spoke.

“Yes.”

“It’s against our faith!” Abram spat. “She has to be buried.”

“Dad, we talked about this. There’s nowhere for us to bury her. Even if there was, she passed from