Next, they made her ankle-high moccasins by taping faux leather from a wannabe motorcycle jacket around her flip-flops. “I know we’re amateurs, but I’d look better wearing garbage bags on my feet,” Kristi said.
“They have charm,” Moraine promised.
“What will we do about the shawl?” she asked. “The ghost was definitely wearing one.”
“Voilà!” Tulli draped the black Pendleton blanket around Kristi’s shoulders. “All it needs is fringe. I’ll start shredding socks.”
As the pièce de résistance, Tulli fashioned three hair clips from the tail feathers. She thanked the turkey vultures; from rachis to barbed vane, their gifts held the plague eater’s blessing. Plus, those vultures had kicked her off the fence straddling belief and denial. Cathartes species didn’t live in the Mojave Desert; Tulli absolutely knew their territory because she Googled “where do turkey vultures live” after Kristi noticed one outside the White Train. Indeed, those birds were scientific proof of the supernatural; they had to be sent by powers greater than nature: spirits, ghosts, gods. All of the above?
“Are you ready?” she asked, pinning the blue-black feather to Kristi and the brown-black feather to Moraine.
“Shouldn’t we practice?” he asked. “I’ve only heard this song in my head. What if I can’t hit the high notes?”
“No time. The virus ruins lives every hour. Plus, Kristi’s boots are falling apart, and we won’t find another free motorcycle jacket. Do you want to scrap your leather pants, Buddy? It’s now or never.”
As the Apparently Siblings marched outside, turkey vulture groupies landed on the barrack rooftops. Neighbors peered out windows and gathered in dirt streets to marvel at the birds. Some people leaned against canes or shivered atop wheelchairs, their faces tilted skyward. “They think we’re carrion!” a man said, laughing at his own gallows joke. Nobody else would.
“Follow us!” Moraine shouted. “To the memorial courtyard!”
The vultures—two, three, four dozen—swooped from their perches and hopped-waddled-hobbled after the Apparently Siblings, their wings spread for balance. Draped from head to toe in black, Kristi led the procession, supported by her two friends. With the setting sun at their backs, their shadows stretched ahead of them and parted the light that fell against the glittering white stones in the circular courtyard. A pillar—white marble, nine feet high—jutted from the belly of the courtyard. Its bronze plaque read: IN MEMORIAM. Already, several names had been etched into the base of the pillar, but there remained room for thousands on its blank faces: one canvas that Tulli hoped would remain empty. She crouched against the eastward-facing side and beheld the night encroaching.
“What’s with the birds? Everybody go inside! Back to your rooms, please!”
Was that security speaking? A doctor or administrator? Though the voice was magnified by a bullhorn, Tulli could not see its source beyond the wall of spectators and turkey vultures that surrounded her.
“On my count,” she said, drumstick raised. “Káye, dáki, táłi!”
“What?” Moraine asked.
“Sorry. That was Lipan. Um, what’s the Diné word for three?”
“Just use English,” he said.
“Three, two, one!”
Moraine sang in clear, deep vocables; it had been ages since Tulli heard his voice without a hint of guttural death growl. Stunned, she nearly missed her entrance. The first beat on her toy drum cracked like a whip.
Rap!
Even with a bullhorn, the security-doctor-administrator could not overwhelm Moraine.
Rap, RAP, rap!
Tulli’s drum spoke of healing and hunger.
Rap!
Kristi spread her arms and began to spin as she orbited around the memorial pillar, clockwise. By the second loop, she staggered more than she spun; every successive loop was smaller, closer to the pillar, as if it drew her in. On the fifth, she fell and crawled.
“Almost done!” Tulli shouted.
RAP!
The ground crumbled, and darkness enveloped their world, a darkness so absolute, even phosphenes vanished. As if drawn together by organic magnetism, Tulli, Moraine, and Kristi found each other and linked arms as they fell. “Are we dead?” Moraine hollered.
“I feel great,” said Kristi, “so probably.”
“Do you see that?” Tulli asked. “Below us!”
Two arms lit by their own radiance—glowstick-bright bones illuminating muscle, veins, and flesh with cool red light—sprouted from the abyss; their skin was rough with pox scars, their nails curled like talons. The Apparently Siblings landed on one pillowy, massive palm.
“Children,” a hoarse, tooth-rattling voice said, “I enjoyed the performance.” It came from everywhere, as if the void spoke.
“Thank you!” Tulli rolled into a sitting position; she’d landed gracelessly. They all had. “Are you its composer? Are you the one who gave us visions?”
“I am.”
“It’s an honor. May I ask, um…”
“Why?” Kristi interrupted. “There are lots of decent people on Earth, so why choose us instead?”
“Because,” the void said, “I am your biggest fan. Apparently Siblings, when you scream in dim places, I listen, and I relish what I hear.”
So they did serenade the right person. Tulli knew it would happen eventually, though she’d expected a human talent scout. “Will… you help?” she asked. “Help make us and everybody else healthy again?”
The temperature dove from chilly to Alaska winter cold. Even Kristi, with her wool shawl and patchwork dress, shivered. “From the world Above,” boomed everywhere Below, “I take the Big Plague, drink its coils, and sate my hunger. The virus is now just a troubled memory. Make no mistake: you’ll all die eventually. Heheh. Mortals always perish. Maybe by illness. Maybe by accident. Maybe by something stranger. It’s not my place to know. When the time comes, I hope you will find me and perform for all the dead, the never-born, and the monstrous who live in my deep country.”
“Woah. Metal. What… what are you?” Tulli asked, leaning against her friends for warmth. “A spirit?”
“A ghost?” Kristi asked.
“A god?” Moraine asked. “Or could you be part of a complex delusion? Maybe I’m asleep, and all this has been a nightmare.”
“Just call me Plague Eater. The rest is mystery.” The fingers curled around them. “But I’m definitely not that last guess.”
“I have to admit,” Tulli said, “that the White Train is much nicer this time. I even saw Nurse Jon sipping a martini in the dining car. I asked if he wanted an autograph, and he said, ‘No, you left one on the wall.’ What a funny guy. I may really love him.”
Kristi snorted. “Get his number, but don’t invite him home. Our apartment must be rank. We left chili in the sink.”
“Let’s hire a maid after the tour finishes,” said Moraine.
“Maybe even rent a bigger apartment?” Tulli asked.
It had taken a few weeks to check, double-check, and triple-check their blood samples; not a hint of Big Plague remained. In fact, nobody carried the virus anymore, regardless of the bodily fluid or tissue that was screened. Big Plague even vanished from test vials in laboratories and secure government facilities.
Maybe that’s why so many people believed that the Apparently Siblings apparently saved the world. YouTube videos of their performance helped, too: turkey vultures bobbing their naked heads, the dance, song, and drum, a flurry of feathers, an empty courtyard, cheers when the crowd spotted Tulli, Kristi, and Moraine on the medical center rooftop.