Jacqueline Druga

THE FLU

For being there, listening, and inspiring,

this book is dedicated to my oldest child, Noah.

“If the epidemic continues its mathematical rate of acceleration, civilization could easily disappear from the face of the earth.”

—The Army Surgeon General, 1918

Acknowledgement

It takes many people to write a book. They are they backbone of drive for me. Because of that I wish to thank:

My children are my best inspiration. The love I have for them, no matter how many years go by, fuels my emotions in writing my books. My sons were very instrumental in character building.

Drew for just plain loving this book and all the support he has given me. My daughters, Ali and Roni, for reading this and giving feedback.

And finally Liz, you are an amazing woman and friend who has given me such support I don’t think I can express my gratitude enough. I honestly believe without your encouragement and belief in my work, people would not be reading this book. Thank you so much.

FOREWORD

Blood, black like tar and thick enough to choke on, will seep forth from every orifice in the human body, the effects of internal organs literally melting from the infection and heat of the fever. Glands swell to the point of black bruising and eventual strangulation. Severe gangrene settles into limbs where circulation has ceased. Suffocation on body fluids, delirium, agonizing pain… death.

The plague.

To wake up one morning physically on top of the world, and be buried beneath every nightmare symptom imaginable, isn’t unthinkable.

When was the last incident of Bubonic Plague? To answer ‘hundreds of years ago’, would be incorrect. On average, every year, thirty-five people in the United States die of the plague; close to two thousand worldwide. But those are hardly frightening statistics.

What of the flu? Every single Fall it starts. Annually we are invaded by several strains. You hear about it, you get it. Coughing, sneezing, and fever—the whole works. You’re sluggish a few days; you go on and think nothing about it.

In March of 1918, neither did Private Albert Mitchell of Kansas. He went to work as a cook in an Army camp just before dawn. Feeling under the weather, Albert went to the infirmary and was diagnosed with the ordinary flu.

By midday, 522 other soldiers in that camp were symptomatic as well. Within two days, the infection had spread across Kansas; by week’s end, every state in the union was infected.

Spanish flu.

It took two months to make it across the Atlantic, and before a year had passed, nearly forty million people had succumbed to the Spanish Flu. Researchers say the reason it didn’t take more lives was because the flu lost strength the longer it was in circulation. But had the Spanish Flu reached the continent of Europe within one week of the first outbreak in the States, the human race could have easily faced extinction.

In 1918 the feat of traveling from Kansas to Moscow in less than one week was impossible.

Yet, today a man can wake up in Chicago and before his day is over he can be in London. And should that same man, asymptomatic in the quiet incubation stage, harbor a deadly airborne virus while on his transcontinental flight, he just started the next pandemic.

Needless to say, put all fear aside; after its wrath, the Spanish Flu vanished. Or did it? Nothing can be considered eradicated as long as it exists in laboratories throughout the world. However, we do not need for a lab accident to occur. Nor do we need for man to distribute it in the form of biological weaponry. Nature does quite well on its own.

The Spanish Flu appeared out of nowhere.

It happened before… it can happen again.

THE ONSET

A whisper,

A hush,

Running full circle,

Quiet as a mouse it creeps in,

In a lion’s roar vengeance it stalks,

After the kill,

In a whimper it shall end,

Quiet as a mouse once more

CHAPTER ONE

Winston Research Station

16 Miles South Deadhorse, Alaska

August 17th

There was something just a bit odd about the odor that flowed with the smoke that lifted high in the sky. Not only a signal of direction for Inez Johnson, it was also a sign of warmth.

Nobody else would have noticed the change in smell. Nobody else ever went out to the remote scientific research institute sixteen miles from his village. Inez was the only one. How long had he been doing the biweekly barter visits? Two years, three? Inez prided himself on coming up with the idea. It gave him a little extra money that forty-year old Inez needed for his wife and three young children.

Every other week he would load up with items: fish, baskets, furs, purses, things neighbors contributed to get in on the trade. He would take them on his sled, trudging the distance across the wilderness, no matter what the weather, alone except for his dogs

The people at the station expected him, welcomed and fed him. Usually someone would even be looking out for him. But something was wrong, Inez could tell. Not only was there a slightly tainted smell to the smoke, but there were no sounds.

The satellite dish that set atop of the building didn’t turn as it always did. It was buried beneath the snow that had fallen three days earlier. Inez even worried that the scientists had left. There was no movement, no footprints. Nothing.

He left his sled where he always did and made his way to the front entrance. He used his foot to clear away the snow enough for him to open the door. The second Inez stepped inside he knew something bad had happened here.

The putrid odor made his eyes water. The darkened building reeked of it. As he removed his hood, the silence was more noticeable.

Inez called out fearfully. No one answered. He listened closely; perhaps he had missed it. Someone had to be there, Inez knew it. Not only was the building semi-warm, but the sound of a softly crackling fire carried to him.

The smoke. A fireplace.

Inez went to the recreation room right off the entranceway where the fireplace was located.

Inez was an intelligent man. He could see there wasn’t any power and without power those in the station probably couldn’t run the heating unit. In order to stay warm, they probably gathered together in one room.

Inez was right.

The moment he stepped inside the room the smell worsened. It hit him hard along with the sight.

All sixteen workers were indeed there. They lay about, some on the sofa, most on blankets on the floor, all of them motionless, all appearing the same.

White faces, their necks blackened and swollen. A thick brown substance seeped from their mouths.

Inez trembled. Slowly he walked in. Removing the glove from his hand, he reached down and touched the body of a woman.

Cold. Hard. Dead.

He stumbled as he quickly retreated. His eyes shifted left to right around the room. All of them were dead. The fire smoldered rather than blazed. It hadn’t been long since it was ignited. And Inez saw the reason for the new smell that accompanied the outdoor smoke. By the fireplace was a man, half his body slumped into the fire; he had obviously tried diligently to stay alive.

Taking in his last look at the horror, seeing all he wanted to see, Inez ran from the station and never looked back.

CHAPTER TWO

Wadsworth, Ohio

August 18th

His hand trembled, but only for a moment. With a twitch of his index finger, Jimmy Lewis depressed the trigger angrily and the side of Berchum Hayward’s head exploded. Before Berchum dropped to the floor, Jimmy grabbed him by the shirt.

“Shut up!” Jimmy ordered with a trembling voice to the eight screaming people he held hostage in the Dairy Mart.

Tall, thin and still showing the acne of his ‘barely older than eighteen’ age, Jimmy was one of three who had seized the small store. All of them were armed and tried to portray anything but the panic they experienced in their impromptu takeover of the store.

Berchum’s heels streaked through the blood, marking a path to the door as Jimmy dragged him.

With the glass already broken, Jimmy aimed his voice loudly outside just before he opened the door, “You were warned!”

With a fling through the open door, out went Berchum’s body. “You have one hour!”

It didn’t take long for the FBI to arrive. They probably wouldn’t have shown up at all had Agents Darrell Harden and Jeff Bloom not been en route from Cleveland to Kentucky when they got the call. It was timed perfectly, because when they received the news of the hostage situation, they were pumping gas not four miles down the road. And more serendipitous than being so nearby, Agents Harden and Bloom just so happened to be the ones chasing down a lead on Jimmy Lewis and his gang.

They had him.

The street was blocked off for nearly half a block. Onlookers pushed against the police line. Medina County Sheriff Ben Watson, in a wobbling, bad imitation of John Wayne’s walk, moved to the back of the car. Agents Harden and Bloom had spread paperwork on the trunk while they spoke to Wadsworth’s Chief of Police. The tall, stern, older Sheriff seemed more perplexed by the crowd than the situation in the little corner market.

“Six hours now,” Watson griped. “When we using the gas?”

Harden snickered as he turned his head to the Sheriff. “And what? Count how many those three can take out before the gas takes them down? Trust me, sir, we’re more experienced in these matters.”

“You think?” Sheriff Watson questioned. “Son, I’ve been in law enforcement longer than you been alive.”

Another snicker escaped Harden. “But this is Ohio. I mean, really, how many hostage situations could you have had in Medina County, Ohio?”

“Seven last year.” Watson nodded. “Yep. Carl? What do you suggest?”

Carl Hogan turned from the agents. “I already have a plan in action. This is going on too long. In fact…” the younger Chief of Police smiled and gave a twitch of his head to the incoming sound of a motorcycle engine. “Need I say more?”

“Christ.” Watson shook his head. “You called in the Harley Cavalry?”

Confused, Harden looked to Agent Bloom. “The Cavalry?”

Sarcastically correcting him, Bloom nodded. “The Harley Cavalry.”

“What the hell is the Harley Cavalry?” Harden asked Chief Hogan.

Hogan pointed.

Mick Owens parked the motorcycle in the first available opening and dismounted. He sported a tight black tee shirt and a pair of faded jeans. Other than his shoulder harness, the badge clipped to his belt was the only indication that the big man was a law enforcement official.

Mick’s walk was intimidating, as if his bulky six-foot-five frame wasn’t frightening enough. His shoulder length blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and he wore a black bandana.

He looked every part of the biker he used to be and probably still was. The product of parents who rode all their lives, Mick didn’t come from money and was as down to earth as they came. Growing up poor and living his entire young life in a trailer outside of Lodi, Ohio, made him honest, proud, and a bit rough. Although Mick would argue that fact, claiming his level of roughness touched around the realms of ‘only a little’.

“Hey, Carl.” Mick extended his hand to Chief Hogan, then to Watson. “Sheriff.”

Sheriff Watson grumbled, “Can’t miss a single moment of action, now, can you?”

Mick smiled and tossed up his hands. “Hey, I was perfectly content hanging back.”

“No, you weren’t,” Watson scoffed. “You were monitoring that damn radio waiting for the call.” With a ho-hum nod of introduction, Watson pointed to Harden and Bloom. “Mick, want you to meet the FBI agents on duty here. Harden, Bloom, this is Chief of Police, Mick Owens of Lodi.”

Harden was shocked. To him, Mick didn’t even resemble a police officer. “If you’re the Chief of Police in another town, what are you doing here?”

Chief Hogan answered, “Mick has jurisdiction. Still on the State Police payroll.”

Mick flashed a smile and began to take off his shoulder harness. “OK, bring me up to speed.”

“Another one dead,” Hogan said. “Six hours now. Three armed. Eight remaining, four are women. And you know, the usual I want this-I want that demands.”

Mick cringed. “Why in God’s name do people do that? Do they actually think they’ll be the one criminal that gets away with it?” He looked at the agents. “What do you know about them?”

“Everything,” Bloom answered.

“Give me the personality run downs,” Mick requested. “Carl, you have the plans to the building?”

“Right here.” Hogan pushed the layout forward. “Got an idea?”

“Absolutely.” Mick grinned. “But first, I need to know…” he turned back to Harden and Bloom. “You want them dead or alive?”

* * *

It wasn’t the usual attire for a television reporter, but it was a sight that Jimmy Lewis didn’t mind. Hidden behind the one shelf, Jimmy stared out the store window.

“Hey, Jimmy?” Marcus, one of Jimmy’s crew, called from across the store. “Something going on out there?”

“No,” Jimmy answered dazedly, never turning around.

Marcus shrugged to his cohort, Josh. “He must be dreaming.”

Jimmy was. Labeled an ‘easy sucker’ when it came to beautiful, sexy women, Jimmy was transfixed by the television reporter who obviously, to him, earned a special right to do that news report not far from the store. Jimmy swore at that moment he was going to find out what station she worked for and watch that channel faithfully.

He had never seen a reporter dressed like her. Tight black skirt that looked like leather; wrapped against her well-formed body, the garment barely covered her thighs, and it far from covered her toned rear-end every time she bent over to pick up items that she kept dropping. It was a vision Jimmy knew would increase any news broadcast ratings.

He watched her, biting his bottom lip every time she moved, smirking whenever he could see that hint of a purple G string she wore to ward off unsightly panty lines. Gorgeous from head to toe, the reporter captivated Jimmy. Leaning against that shelf, he surveyed her, projecting the results in a distorted manner into his mind, fighting the inopportune post-pubescent hard-on that pressed more tightly against his jeans each second as he slipped into a fantasy vision of his head wedged between her thighs. Just as he brought his bottom lip into his mouth, swearing he could taste her, the slight ‘thump’ of something falling in the back of the store snapped him away from the window.

“What was that?”

Josh answered, looking to the back of the store. “Something fell?”

“Something fell?” Jimmy snapped with sarcasm. “Just fell?”

“Want me to check it out?” Josh asked.

With a motion of his revolver and a nod of his head, Jimmy indicated a woman huddled by the bread rack. “Yeah, take her as your cover.”

“Got it.” Josh reached down and snatched the woman from the floor, causing her to scream. “Shut up!” he yelled, then cast a look at Jimmy, and then at Marcus by the coolers. He roughly pulled her to the back storage area. It was quiet, filled with boxes.

“Anything?” Jimmy called from the front.

“No, it’s…” Josh stopped when he heard another ‘thump’, not as loud as the first. “Hold on.” Pulling the hysterical woman closer to him, Josh walked in the direction of the sound—a door, seemingly to the basement. Quietly, he reached out and opened it.

The surprising ‘meow’ of a cat and the scurrying of its furry body caused Josh to not only jump, but laugh at himself as well. “A cat.” He turned his head from the door, watching the cat run away.

“A cat?” Jimmy yelled. “I fuckin’ hate cats.”

“Me too.” Still chuckling at his unwarranted fear, Josh turned around to close the door and found himself face to face with a chest. He slowly lifted his eyes, and while he was momentarily unable to react, a huge hand shot forward and grabbed his face.

Thumb on one temple, fingers on the other, Mick’s hand nearly crushed him as he lifted him from the floor and injected a sedative-filled syringe into the side of Josh’s neck.

Still holding the young man, Mick dropped the syringe and swung his other hand out, covering the woman’s mouth to prevent a scream. He waited a few seconds, felt Josh’s body go limp, and Mick quietly lowered him down to the floor.

Releasing his silencing hand from the woman, he shook his head to her as he pulled out his revolver and crept to the door that led to the front of the store. Quickly he peered into the area where the captors held the hostages. He spotted Jimmy and Marcus at what Mick believed was a short but safe distance from those they held. He knew the racking of the slide would be easily heard in the silence, so he had to be fast.

And he was.

Pegging his targets, Mick spun into the doorway, raised his revolver and fired. No hesitation between shots. No time.

Marcus dropped first from a shot delivered to his stomach, then as anticipated, Jimmy raised his gun. Mick fired once and that was all that was needed. The clean entrance hole in the front of Jimmy’s forehead propelled a shower of blood from the back of his head. Jimmy flew back amidst the screams of the hostages.

The standoff was over.

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

Tube socks, an empty bag of chips, and a few wrestling magazines were strewn about the living room floor. Two sets of huge teenage feet were propped upon the coffee table as Dustin and Christian Hughes watched the event playing loudly on the television.

Totally engrossed, the boys, two years apart could have been outdoors, but they opted for the excitement of the news. After all, in a sense it had to do with their town.

Seventeen-year-old Dustin passed a new bag of chips to his younger brother, Christian, while his eyes never left the set. Chip, chomp, pass. They ate, sat, and looked alike. The two could have passed for twins, same light brown hair, facial features, and build, but the height differences told another story.

Dustin briefly lifted his eyes from the set, listening to his mother’s footsteps racing about the floor above. When she hit the steps, he hissed, “Here she comes.” He listened to his mother, counted the steps, and did a preemptory call out, “I’ll clean up.”

As if she didn’t hear him, Dylan Hughes froze on her entrance into her living room. “Shit. Look at this mess. I want this cleaned up,” she stated, moving her thin body quickly toward the dining room. “I mean it. Dustin?”

“I said I would,” Dustin answered. “Hey, Mom, check out…”

“Twenty bucks is on the table.” Dylan tucked her long light hair behind her ears. “Are you listening? And where is Tigger?”

Both Dustin and Christian pointed to the chair.

All Dylan saw were magazines, until she lifted the pile exposing her six-year old son Anthony. A child who suffered from Endocrine Dysfunction, his tiny body–no bigger than that of a three year old–curled tightly in the chair as he slept.

Dylan whined. “Damn it. Don’t let him sleep too long. And there’s twenty bucks on the table. Get a pizza. Don’t blow it on junk. I’ll be home after the store closes. Guys?”

“Mom?” Dustin, again, tried to get her attention. “Check this out.” He pointed to the television. “Mick did it again.”

Grabbing her purse, Dylan halted mid-kiss of Anthony as she looked at the news. Hearing the broadcast about Mick’s ending of the hostage situation, she sighed. “Christ, as if his ego isn’t big enough.” She moved to the door. “Love ya, guys, I won’t be late. And clean up.” Throwing open the front door, she stopped, physically blocked by the man standing there. Sam.

Big, with a little extra weight and short-cropped black hair, Sam Hughes smiled nervously at her. “Hey.”

As always, his presence affected Dylan. There was something about him. Of course, to Dylan, there had always been something about Sam, and had been since they were five years old. Viewing his handsome face caused her to smile inwardly and her stomach to twitch like a teenager’s. She sort of enjoyed that since the sensation had gotten lost in the shuffle of a long-term marriage recently ended. “What are you doing here?”

Sam cleared his throat. “Um… I knew you were working, thought I’d come by and sit with the boys.”

“They don’t need a babysitter. Dustin…” Dylan looked over her shoulder. “Well, he does OK. And I’m a mile away in town.”

“I know that.” Sam spoke with the hint of a country accent. “Can’t I spend the evening with them anyhow? Adult supervision is never bad.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’ll make them clean up,” he spoke persuasively.

“Sam, you do this all the time.”

“I’ll leave. But, I did drive all the way.”

“Oh, yeah, ten miles.” Dylan opened the door wider. “Fine. And my house better be clean. Further visits are contingent on it.”

“Spotless.” Sam smiled and stepped inside. “Hey, Dylan.” He called as she was about to leave. “Should I… should I be gone when you get back?”

Dylan walked out.

Sam shrugged. “Hey, guys.”

A less than enthusiastic ‘Hey, dad’ emerged from the teenagers still watching television.

“Thanks.” Sam said sarcastically. “Where’s Tigger?” He saw the pointing fingers of his elder sons and looked down at the chair. “Damn it. We can’t let him sleep too long.” He walked over to join his boys on the couch. “What are you guys watching?”

“The news,” Christian answered. “It’s cool. Look, Mick did it again.”

Sam shook his head. “Christ, as if his ego isn’t big enough.”

After getting quick odd glances from the boys over the same remark spoken a few minutes earlier by Dylan, Sam stole the bag of chips and plopped down with his sons.

* * *

Fairbanks, Alaska

Nothing was better than the hard unforgiving surface of a hotel mattress; at least that was what Trevor Donahue thought. Falling back, arms out, and landing with a deadened ‘thump’ on the bed, Trevor grabbed his camera from the nightstand and began to check it out. He propped his lanky body against pillows and crossed his legs.

The story had been started. Trevor only needed to make his mini road trip to get the photos to go along with it. How many days had he spent in this Holiday Inn? Five or six? He had started to lose count, especially since the sun didn’t set. At least the magazine was paying for what was turning out to be a little vacation. He had nothing to do but line edit his story, stare out the window, watch television, and swim in the indoor pool. The hotel lounge left a lot to be desired, although the karaoke contest two nights earlier wasn’t bad.

Thinking about when he would finally make it home to Los Angeles, Trevor reached to replace the camera on the nightstand. He looked up at the knock on the door that adjoined his room and the next.

“Come in,” Trevor called out.

“Good news.” Bill Daniels walked in, an older man with a deliberately shaved head. “Weather’s looking good for tomorrow.”

“Yes!” Trevor pumped his fist excitedly like a teenager. “So you going or hanging back?”

“Well…” Bill folded his arms, “was gonna hang back. My story’s done here and I don’t have to be back in Anchorage for a few more days. But since we’ve been stuck here, I think I want to tag along. Eskimo villages or not, I’m pretty bored.”

“Excellent.” Trevor smiled. “I can use the company. I always feel so outnumbered when I do these ‘other culture’ pieces.”

“Guess what? You are outnumbered.” Bill pointed back with his thumb. “I’m heading to bed. Maybe you should too. Chopper lifts at five.”

“Got it. Night.” Trevor rested back, thinking about his journey north to what was considered the largest Eskimo village in Alaska. He’d take in the neighboring communities for pictures, but mostly, he’d stay in Barrow a day or two, get what he needed and head home. The road trip had been delayed enough, but if all went well, Trevor would be home in time for his birthday in a few days. He always looked forward to going out with friends on that day. His only fear was, with the change in climate—arctic cold of Barrow to the summer warm of LA—that his body would go haywire. The last thing Trevor needed on his favorite night of the year was to be sick.

* * *

Cleveland, Ohio

Agents Harden and Bloom assumed exhausted looks as they entered the FBI branch office in Cleveland. Even though it was evening, and only a few office lights remained on, they wanted to get across that the day had beaten them.

After shuffling their feet across the linoleum, they made it into their office, home free.

“Oh, yes.” Jeff Bloom plopped down in his chair. “A little more paperwork and case closed.”

Releasing a sigh as he, too, sat in his chair, Darrell Harden agreed. “Earlier than anticipated, too.”

“Know what we should do?” Jeff asked.

“What’s that?” Darrell kicked his feet on the desk.

“When we finish the paperwork, we should shoot straight to Atlantic City. Eight hours. We can be there by morning.”

“Can your brother get us a room?”

“Oh, sure. Didn’t he last time? I’ll give him a call.” Jerking himself upright, Jeff reached for the phone. “I can go for a little road trip.”

A hand reached down and took the phone from Jeff, replacing it on the base. Captain Johansson stood there with an ornery grin. “Glad to hear you’re in the mood for a road trip.”

“Sir?” Jeff looked up confused.

“Good job on that case today, boys,” Captain Johansson told them.

Darrell smiled impudently. “Thank you, sir.”

“Ready for bigger and better things, I suppose?” the Captain said. He plopped a folder, two-inches thick, before Jeff. “That’s only the preliminary. Pearson and Lawrence were transferred from this case just this morning. It’s all yours. Start with that, the others are in my office.” He started to leave but stopped. “And good thing you boys are in the mood for a road trip. Got a long one for you. You now are following the leads on the world’s hardest to find man.”

Waiting for the Captain to leave, Jeff let out a sound of disgust accompanied with a word of frustration. “Fuck.” He looked at the folder.

“Don’t tell me…” Darrell cringed.

“Ricardo Rodriguez.”

“Ah,” Darrell whined. “I told you not to tell me. That case is three years old.”

“We have it. However, I hear Pearson and Lawrence ended up in Maui on the last lead.”

“No shit?” Darrell nodded, impressed. “Pass that here. Let’s find out where…” he flipped open the folder, “Mr. ‘Man of a Thousand Identities’ will take us next.”

“Hopefully, Vegas.”

Darrell smiled at that. “I can do Vegas.” A little more excited with the prospect of traveling, Darrell dove into the information in the file.

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

In the closing hours, Dylan leaned against the counter by the register of the ‘Hit and Run’ Video store. She peered down at her watch and looked back up at the near-empty store. She listened to the slow moving footsteps. “I’d like to close soon,” she yelled out. Footsteps were her only response. “Sometime tonight!” She listened to the pacing. “I’m charging you double if you don’t make a selection!”

“Christ.” Mick peered around the shelf. “Give me a minute.”

“You are by far our worst customer,” Dylan told him. “We closed three minutes ago.”

“So what,” Mick scoffed. “Here. Got one.”

“Thank God.” Dylan exhaled in relief.

“I think.” Mick walked to the counter with the video case. “Now,” he set it before her, “since you are the video expert, would you say this movie would be a good choice to entice a certain female into coming over to my house, watch this, hang out, and get a pizza?”

Irritated, Dylan lifted the box. “You would hate this.”

“Now, now.” Mick smiled. “My likes are not important. Female perspective. What do you think?”

Inhaling thoughtfully, Dylan looked at the older romance movie. “You’d fare better with a classic action-adventure Bruce Willis flick.”

“Thanks.” Snatching the case, Mick hurried to the shelves.

“Mick,” she whined.

“Hold your horses. Got one.” He flew back to the counter and laid down the movie. “Well? Huh?”

“Better. You stand a chance with this one.”

“Excellent.” Mick smiled. “I’ll rent that.”

“Video card, please.” Dylan held out her hand.

“You’re shitting me.” Mick snickered. “It’s me.”

“Yeah, so? Video card, please,” she repeated. “I got written up twice last month for not asking for a card.”

“You never ask me.” Mick reached for his wallet.

“Well, you’re the reason I got written up. Video card, please.”

“Here.” He laid it in her hand. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. I just told your dad I feel important coming in here not having to show my card.”

“Yeah, right. You know my father’s my boss.”

“How the hell was I supposed to know your own dad would write you up?”

Dylan handed back the card. “Ten dollars and sixty-three cents.”

“What!” Mick leaned over the counter and peered at the computer screen. “When did you raise your prices?”

“We didn’t. You owe late fees. Come on, Mick…” she held out her hand, “pay.”

“Fine.” He slapped a twenty on the counter, and leaned onto it to be at her level. “So did it work? Did I entice you to come home with me, watch the movie, and get a pizza?”

Handing him back his change, Dylan shook her head. “Can’t.”

“Come on.” Mick winked. “I need to spend some time with you. You know I’m crazy about you.”

Dylan laughed. “You are not. You just think you are because you’re choiceless.”

“Choiceless? What the hell kind of word is that?”

“Very descriptive. You aren’t interested in me, you just have limited choices because I’m the only woman in town not afraid of your big ass.”

“Dylan…”

“I can’t, Mick,” Dylan said. “My boys have been home all evening without me.”

“All right. I give. I’ll come to your house. What do you want on the pizza?”

“Mick, I can’t. Not tonight.”

“Dylan, you’re killing me. Why not?”

Dylan hesitated then answered as she shut off the register. “Sam is probably there.”

“Sam? Sam?” With a slight jerk of his head, Mick rolled his eyes. “Ah, now, see, for sure I’m coming over.”

“Don’t you dare. You know how he’s being, how he’ll react.”

“We aren’t doing anything wrong. I don’t want to hide this,” Mick argued calmly. “You’re broke up.”

“We’re still married.”

“Only because he’s contesting the divorce he initially wanted.” Mick took a breath. “Look, I refuse to have a repeat of the senior prom.”

“Oh my God,” Dylan chuckled. “Here we go again. How many times do you have to bring this up?”

“As many as needed. I’m emotionally scarred over that.”

Dylan continued to laugh.

“No. He breaks up with you two weeks before senior prom all because he thinks he’s going with Suzie-what’s-her name. I ask you. You accept. He changes his mind. I’m in the cold. Same thing.”

“It is not.”

“Yes, it is.” Mick held up a finger. “Sort of. Same-old same-old. A million times he breaks up with you…”

“Oh, now, stop. You’re exaggerating.” Dylan pulled forward a little cart. “And I’m arranging these while we argue.” She fussed with the movies.

“Ok, maybe not a million times. But bet me it’s a hundred,” Mick rattled. “All these years. He breaks up with you. Grass is always greener, relationship is stale, I don’t feel it anymore. All those cockamamie reasons he gives you. He flies the coop, returns, sings a sappy ‘I love you take me back’ and you buy it. Always. You’re doing it again.”

“I am not. It was different this time, Mick.” Dylan softened her voice and faced him. “You know he was going through a rough time. His parents both died at the same time.”

“Life’s tough, Dylan. It was bad what happened. But you don’t turn your back on the one person that can pull you through. You just don’t. You deal with it. You move on. You don’t disappear from the face of the earth for three months. Three months he was gone.”

“And he’s been back for months, too.” She placed her hand on her hip. “Who am I with?”

“I don’t know. Who?”

Dylan rolled her eyes. “Stop it.”

“I can’t publicly date you. Have to hide it.” Mick lifted his movie. “One of these years, Dylan, I’m gonna stop chasing you around so much. Have a good night with Sam.” He moved to the door. “I’m just gonna go home… watch my Bruce Willis woman-enticing film while eating a pizza all by myself.”

“Mick…”

Mick hid his smirk as he stopped before leaving and peered over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“Give me a half hour, get the pizza, come on over.”

“Are you sure now?” he asked innocently.

“Mick, go. See ya soon.”

With a flash of a grin, Mick darted from the store.

After shaking her head, Dylan returned to her video cart and the un-alphabetized movies she knew she had better get in order before her father wrote her up again. She knew the rules, three write-ups in one month meant termination, and low paying or not, she didn’t want to lose her job.

* * *

Deadhorse, Alaska

How quickly Inez developed the cough surprised his wife, Delia, but not as much as how deep the cough had suddenly become. She had been a volunteer health aide in her community and others for some time, and had never witnessed such a rumbling in such a short span of time. Her only explanation was that she had been busy with the children and hadn’t noticed the illness creeping up on Inez.

But it had, and Inez had failed to open his eyes in his struggle to fight the fever and cough that assaulted him. His way of getting well, she supposed, was resting a lot. Of course, Inez, in the late hours was the only one who could sleep. The silence of the home was broken by the loud coughing spells that seemed to wrack the children as well as herself.

She was sponge-bathing him for the fifth time, wiping off the dirty sweat that didn’t accompany a breaking fever. He smelled sour to her, an odor of a sort she had never smelled before. He didn’t speak much all day, mumbling occasionally to Delia that he was ill and he was sorry for being so useless. Inez also murmured something to her about the science station he often visited, making no sense in his mention of his last visit and the people who lived there. Delia knew what he meant. He wanted their technology to help him. But that was something she couldn’t do. It was too cold and the journey too long to make on her own while leaving the children with him. So she did the best she could do. Aside from administering her own help, she crossed the river to the next village and sought the help of their medicine woman.

Delia was hopeful. The medicine woman gave care to her husband, and offered some prayers, as well. He was strong and Delia knew it wouldn’t be long before he beat whatever had overtaken him so rapidly.

CHAPTER THREE

Lodi, Ohio

August 20th

About the time of day that most parents complained that all their children did was sleep all day, Dylan closed Dustin and Christian’s bedroom doors. Aside from an uninterrupted morning while they slept, she wouldn’t have to view the unsightly danger zones of their rooms.

Happy that her newly-introduced rule of, ‘if it isn’t in the hamper, it doesn’t get washed’ seemed to be working, Dylan carried the small armful of items with her down the stairs en route to what would be an easy laundry day.

Annoyed, wondering who was knocking on her door at ten in the morning, Dylan dropped the clothes on the floor and answered it.

She didn’t recognize the Hispanic gentleman who smiled at her. Early to mid-thirties, he stood tall, the jeans and crisp tee shirt accenting the perfect body that matched an even better face. He was topped off with one of the best haircuts Dylan had ever seen on a man in Lodi. Obviously, he wasn’t from around there.

She returned his smile as she thanked God that she had showered and dressed presentably. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Mrs. Hughes?”

After thinking, ‘cool, he’s looking for me’, Dylan nodded. “Yes.”

“Hi.” He extended his hand. “I’m Patrick McCaffrey.”

Dylan’s face must have shown her shock. Patrick? Patrick? Not that she was prejudiced, and not that she would have immediately labeled him a Raul, but the name Patrick McCaffrey was the last name she would have given him.

“You don’t recognize the name?” he asked.

“No.” She shook her head.

“I’m the new first grade teacher over at Lodi Elementary.”

With a long ‘oh’, Dylan opened the door wider. “Come in.”

“Thanks.” Patrick stepped inside. “Mrs. Hughes…”

“Dylan. Call me Dylan.”

Patrick snickered. “As in… Bob?”

“You got it. My parents had a sick sense of humor. My maiden name is Roberts. Imagine growing up like that.” She took a deep breath. “So, what can I do for you?”

“Well…” he paused, “did you get my letter last week?”

“Yes.” She nodded.

“Then you know I’m new to these parts and… I really wanted to take this next month to get to know my students. You know, on a different level. So their first real year of school isn’t so difficult. I had a ‘meet me’ donut gathering this morning at the library. You and Anthony didn’t show.”

“Right,” Dylan replied. “There was no reason to.”

“Anthony isn’t in first grade?”

“Yes, he is. Well, he’s going into first grade.”

“He went to Lodi for kindergarten, right?”

“Partly,” Dylan answered. “I pulled him.” She shook her head. “It was very uncomfortable.”

Patrick looked confused. “Did you transfer him?”

“No.” Dylan pointed toward the back of the house. “Do you want coffee?”

“Love some, thanks,” Patrick replied.

“This way.” Dylan waved at him to follow her toward the kitchen.

“So, you had a bad experience with Lodi School?”

Chuckling, Dylan paused in her stride in the kitchen. “Hardly.” She indicated to the counter. “You can have a seat.” She walked to the coffee pot. “See, I pulled Tigger—that’s what we call him—because I felt uncomfortable. I think he felt uncomfortable and I know others did, as well. Parents and such.” She poured the coffee and brought the mug to Patrick. She set it before him and talked as she walked to the refrigerator and pulled out the cream. “People can be cruel. You know. So, Tigger will be bused to Medina for special education.”

“Oh.” Patrick appeared almost embarrassed as his hands played with the cup. “I was unaware Anthony had a learning disability.”

“He doesn’t,” Dylan said. “He’s smart. Very smart. It’s physical.”

“He needs special care?”

“Not really. I think it’s better to show you…” Dylan waved her hand and brought Patrick to the window. “Look.”

Patrick peered out.

“How old does that child look to you?”

“Two or three.”

“He’ll be seven in December.” Dylan exhaled. “That’s Anthony. He has a growth disability.”

“Let me get this straight. He has no learning disability where special education is needed; physically he doesn’t need special treatment. Why, if I may be so bold, do you want to label that child, Mrs. Hughes? Why do you want him to think there’s something wrong with him?”

“I don’t. But to be quite blunt with you, Mr. McCaffrey, I don’t need to make him think there’s something wrong with him. Other people, children, they do that quite well on their own.” Dylan folded her arms defensively.

“That’s because people aren’t used to seeing ‘different’. It starts with our young. How can we teach them not to stare, and that different isn’t bad, if they are never exposed to it? They may stare, Mrs. Hughes, at first. Don’t you when you see something different? But I can guarantee after a few days, a week… they won’t stare anymore. Anthony… or Tigger, as you call him…” Patrick pointed out the window, “will be just another first grader. Isn’t that what you want for him?” He gave a gentle smile and took a long drink of his coffee. “Will you think about it?” He set the mug down. “And thank you for the coffee.”

Dylan nodded slightly as Patrick walked from the kitchen. She followed.

At the front door, Patrick stopped. “Perhaps I’ll see you and Tigger tonight at Central Park. I hear Fridays are concert nights. Will you be there?”

Dylan only nodded again.

“Hope to see you then.” With another flash of a smile, Patrick walked out.

Dylan was mesmerized. He spoke so well, so strongly, and brought up a valid point. Where every other teacher had encouraged special education for Anthony, Patrick was the first who didn’t. It was a breath of fresh air having someone like him in Lodi. Open-minded, smart and, not to mention, really good-looking.

* * *

Winston Research

Reston, Virginia

“Nothing.” Paul Lafayette, head researcher of virology, dropped a clipboard of notes down on the research director’s desk. “Ten days now.” Paul’s index finger glided over his narrow mustache with concern.

Director Henry Davis shook his head. “It’s not the first time, Paul. Last loss of communication with the Alaska station was fifteen days. You know it.” He pushed the clipboard forward.

“See, I understand and recall that. However, we’re talking August here. The weather—”

“Has it been clear?” Henry asked.

“No. Unseasonable storms have hit and—”

“There you have it.” Henry cut him off. “That damn satellite dish shuts down every time ice and snow get heavy. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.” Paul lifted his clipboard again. He walked to the door and stopped. “Can I ask when I am allowed to be concerned about this? Because I have a bad feeling. It’s the wrong time of year for us to lose contact. In five years we have never lost contact at this time of year. And we’ve had unseasonable weather before. It melts faster.”

Henry’s thick fingers tapped on the desk. “Only because you’re not off the mark often… how about three days. Will that work?”

“Yes.” Paul nodded. “I’ll make preparations in case we have to shoot up there. I wish it were sooner but… I appreciate it.”

Henry watched Paul leave the office. He understood Paul’s concern, but in Henry’s mind, one day or three just didn’t matter. Considering where the station was located, length of time didn’t make a difference. But that argument was moot. In Henry’s mind, all really was fine.

* * *

Allakaket, Alaska

“At least we didn’t end up having to eat each other,” Trevor joked with Bill as they walked into the small village’s community circle.

“I’d starve if I had to dine off of you,” Bill responded facetiously.

“The pilot was meaty,” Trevor noted. “Get a good four days off of him.”

Bill laughed. “In all seriousness,” he stopped walking, “we were lucky. We could have crashed completely. We could have been stranded out there longer than ten hours and… that radio may have died altogether.”

“True.” Trevor let out a breath and looked around at the people who were responsible for finding him, Bill, and the pilot, when the helicopter they flew lost all power and made a rough emergency landing not far from the town. “Wouldn’t that have been par for the course on this story? Stranded in Fairbanks. I don’t think anyone is ever stranded in Fairbanks. Finally we lift off and we crash… sort of. Well…” He sighed. “At least tomorrow we’ll be in Barrow. The end of this project is in sight.”

“Barrow ain’t the end for you. It’s only the beginning.”

“Yeah, but…” Trevor waved his hand, “it’s the beginning to an end. I’ll still be home in time for my birthday.”

“If something don’t happen to you.” Bill started to walk again.

“Look around.” Trevor motioned out his hand. “What can happen to me way up here?”

“Um… helicopter crash, perhaps? Hear they’re common.”

Trevor snickered. “Let’s just find a place to set up camp.”

Bill followed Trevor to the additional stop they hadn’t planned on making, but it all was the same. Trevor was there to write, learn, and photograph the Eskimo culture. Bill was just along for the ride. In all the years Bill had been in the field, never had he run into anyone who encountered as many delays as Trevor. And if the previous two weeks of mishaps were any indication of how the rest of the shoot would go, Bill knew that not only would he be in for one hell of an adventure, but he stood a chance of not seeing Anchorage until the following spring.

* * *

Interstate 70 West

Ohio

A piece of lettuce, heavily doused in orange-colored special sauce, plopped messily onto Jeff Bloom’s lap. “Aw, damn it anyhow.”

“I told you not to get a Big Mac.” Darrell gave an arrogant nod as he drove. “Those things just aren’t car friendly.”

“I wanted a Big Mac. Sometimes you just get in the mood for one.”

“Not on a highway.”

“Anytime. Usually at inappropriate times,” Jeff said. “Like now, but it’s good and fresh.”

“Look where we are,” Darrell said, pointing at the windshield.

As he inhaled a huge bite of his sandwich, Jeff looked up at the ‘Leaving Ohio’ sign. “Thank God. Then again, Ohio’s not that bad.”

“Ohio is that bad,” Darrell quipped. “Not as bad as the place we’re heading. Kansas.”

“Have you ever been to Kansas?”

“Read about it.”

“Doesn’t count.” Jeff crumpled his sandwich wrapper. “What do you make of this guy?” he asked. “I mean, really, do you think we should be expending all this energy and government money looking for him?”

“Absolutely,” Darrell answered. “He embezzled. Big time, too. What was the figure?”

“A hundred and fourteen million.”

Darrell whistled. “And you have to ask. Not only did he steal it, not only did he launder it so well, but… but he took it from the United States government. Right under our noses.”

Jeff snickered.

“What’s so funny?” Darrell asked.

“Well, I mean, come on. Did you take a look at the funds he stole from? I didn’t know we had most of those. Hell, I bet the people who qualify for those funds didn’t even know.”

“Jeff,” Darrell tossed a serious glance his way, “he steals from the government. He steals from me and you. Now he has the mob helping him.”

“We don’t know that. Hasn’t been proven.” Jeff picked up the takeout bag and started eating the fries from the bottom.

“The man changed identities, background, and locations seventeen times in three years. He’s getting help. Big help.”

Jeff shrugged. “Valid point. But this tip sounds good. Do you really think he’s pulling off impersonating a Baptist minister?”

“Jeff, the Latino man pulled off being a black author for three months in Iowa.”

“But that was Iowa.” Jeff tilted his head. “I would think people in Kansas would be a little smarter.”

“Oh, aren’t you just the territory racist,” Darrell snapped.

“Me?” Jeff laughed. “You. How many remarks did you make about Ohio?”

“But it’s Ohio.”

Jeff bobbed his head. “True. And Iowa is pretty close to…” He snapped his fingers in thought. “Hey, Iowa isn’t too far, is it?”

“Why?”

Jeff hurriedly pulled out the atlas. “Thought so. We sort of have to zip by it. We could check out that ‘past black author’ thing while passing by… Davenport.”

“Davenport?” Darrell questioned. “What’s in Davenport, Iowa?”

“River boat casino gambling.”

Darrell smiled. “See where we can take that detour.”

“Got it.” Jeff dove into the atlas.

“See? We always make the best out of our road trips, don’t we?”

Jeff smiled. “We certainly do.”

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

Thomas Roberts was as country as country could get. Even moving to Lodi when he was in his mid-twenties didn’t take the farm boy accent from him. His glasses were a style from decades earlier. He kept his salt and pepper hair combed neatly, despite the fact that it was too short to really style. And always, without fail, he wore a dress shirt and tie to work, even if they didn’t match. Thomas was pretty tall, and prided himself on the fact that his posture was good. At sixty-two years old he stood as tall as he had when he was twenty.

Tom spoke slowly and seriously to his daughter, Dylan. “Up… sell.”

Dylan nodded and gave a thumbs up. “Upsell. Got it.”

“No, you don’t. You’re pacifying me,” Tom snapped. “Let’s review.”

“Daddy, let’s not,” Dylan complained as she stood before the video counter. She shifted her eyes toward Mick who, as usual, was leaning against the counter. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Dylan asked Mick. “Like eating donuts or something?”

“You’re killing me,” Mick said.

“Leave the law alone,” Tom told her. “Back to this.” He pointed to the display case. “The name of the game is suggestive selling. Do you realize you are my only employee who never sells anything but video rentals?”

“We rent videos.”

“What is this?” Tom asked.

“Candy and stuff.”

“Candy and stuff.” Tom rolled his eyes. “Looks to me like a bit more than videos. I put them here for a reason, Dylan. What would that reason be?”

“To sell?” Dylan asked.

“Exactly. Do you sell this stuff?”

“Nobody ever wants to buy on my shift.” She shrugged. “What can I do?”

“Up… sell,” Tom reiterated. “Suggest a candy bar, a bag of popcorn. Suggest something. I have to move this merchandise before I get the special items in for when Lars arrives. Now, Joey does real good.”

“Joey is a teenager who buys the candy himself,” Dylan said.

“Still it’s a sale on his shift. That’s why he’s my best employee.”

“I should be your best employee. I’m your daughter.”

“I don’t play favorites. Now…” Tom stepped back, “get behind the counter again, and let me see your sales technique.”

“Oh, this is really lame.” Dylan folded her arms and walked back to her ‘behind the counter’ position.

“Smile,” Tom instructed. “And practice here on Chief Owens.”

“Christ,” Dylan complained. “He’s our worst customer.”

“Hey,” Mick snapped in defense. “And I believe you shouldn’t be swearing in front of patrons. Should she, Mr. Roberts?”

“Absolutely not,” Tom said. “Especially blasphemy. Now, go on Mick. Approach the counter.”

Mick hurried to the back, snatched a movie, walked back to the counter and laid it down. He flashed a grin.

After hesitating, Dylan played along. “Video card, please.”

Mick handed it to her.

Dylan shifted her eyes at her father’s whispering, “Upsell.”

She looked back at Mick. “Care for any candy?”

“No. Just the video,” Mick said.

Dylan huffed. “Dad.”

Tom tossed up his hand. “You didn’t convince me. I wouldn’t buy from you either. Try again.”

Irritated by Mick’s snarky smile, Dylan started to get antsy, but she tried to appease her father. “You know, Chief Owens, we have your favorite chocolate covered peanuts. Mmm. How about a box?”

“Nah. Just the video.”

Grunting, Dylan grabbed the video. “Fine, that gut of yours doesn’t need candy anyhow.”

“What gut!” Mick blasted.

“Dylan,” Tom scolded, “I don’t believe insulting the customer works.”

Snidely, Mick leaned down closer to Dylan. “Tell you what…”

“Oh, boy.” She rolled her eyes.

“I will come in here,” Mick continued, “every single night you’re working…”

“You do anyhow.”

“Let me finish.” Mick held up his hand. “I’ll come in here every night, video rental or not, and buy something from you if… if you’ll…” The sound of the door opening didn’t silence Mick as much as the sight of Sam walking in did.

“Hey, Dylan.” Sam smiled. “Mr. Roberts… Mick.” Sam turned to the counter. “Just brought the boys back.”

“Thanks.” Dylan smiled. “Are they home?”

“Yep. Fed too.” Sam said, nervously. “You know, I have this car to work on, but… I can work on it tomorrow if, you know, you might be in the mood to do the family thing tonight. You, me, the boys, go to Central Park, watch the concert…”

Before Dylan could answer, Tom did. “She can’t. I’m taking the boys to the concert and she’s working until after ten. You’re out of luck.”

“Oh.” Sam nodded. “All right. I’ll come by then.”

“She might be later,” Tom added. “Not that I’ll pay her, she takes so damn long to close the store. Wouldn’t count on it.”

“Still,” Sam shrugged, “I’ll stop by. Do you mind, Dylan?”

Dylan shook her head. “No. If you want.”

“Ok.” Sam smiled. “See you later.” He walked to the door. “Mr. Roberts… Mick.”

Tom kept his eyes on the door until Sam left. “Asshole.”

“Dad!” Dylan gasped.

“Can’t help it, he is,” Tom said.

Mick smiled. “And you wonder why I like your Dad. But…” he tossed his hands up, “guess I’m out of luck. I was gonna see if you wanted to hang out and watch that concert with me.”

Again, before Dylan could respond, Tom did. “Oh, sure she can, Mick. My wife wanted to work tonight anyhow. So come on and pick her up about eight.”

“Dad!” Dylan turned to him. “I can’t afford to lose the hours.”

Mick laughed. “Two hours? Hell, I’ll pay you what you lose.”

“Isn’t that prostitution?” Dylan asked.

“Better to get paid for it, than to give it away.”

“Isn’t that a Lars line?” Mick asked.

“Could be,” Tom answered. “All the good ones are. And speaking of Lars, I have to get on the horn with that dealer. None of Lars’ favorite movies have arrived and he’ll be showing up in a little bit for his month-long visit. Everyone else in town is preparing.”

“Tell me about it,” Mick said. “Heard Jean’s Diner is ordering that Italian desert. Tara-something or other.”

“Tiramisu,” Dylan corrected. “And that’s not what she ordered. She ordered cannelloni.”

“Whatever.” Mick tossed out his hand. “So you going with me or not?”

“Not.” Dylan answered then smiled. “Sure. Why not.”

The door to the video store opened once more, and Tom turned his head. “Ah, Mr. McCaffrey,” he said.

Mick had heard the name, but hadn’t met the man. Not that he wanted to, but when Dylan’s attention quickly shifted from him, he wanted to see the guy. He blinked in surprise when Patrick’s appearance failed to match his name.

“Evening,” Patrick said holding his video case.

“Hi, Patrick.” Dylan smiled while tucking her hair behind her ears in a flirtatious manner.

“Stop that.” Mick pulled her hand down then untucked her hair.

Patrick smiled and laid the case on the counter. “Just wanted to drop this off.”

“Are you…” Dylan tilted her head, “gonna rent something else for maybe you and your wife this evening?”

“My wife?” Patrick asked.

“You know, a woman you possibly live with,” Dylan fished.

“Stop that,” Mick snapped.

Flinging her hand at him to hush him, Dylan smiled again at Patrick. “Video?”

“No. Not tonight,” Patrick answered. “I’m planning on taking in that concert.”

“Possibly with your… girlfriend?” Dylan questioned.

“Stop that,” Mick said again, louder.

“For crying out loud!” Tom’s hand slammed to the counter. “If you want to know, Dylan, just ask the man if he’s involved.”

Horrified, Dylan just wanted to duck behind the counter.

“Mr. McCaffrey” Tom faced him, “are you married?”

“No.” Patrick shook his head.

“Engaged? Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Homosexual lover?”

“Dad!”

Patrick chuckled. “No.”

“So…” Tom continued, “you are an available heterosexual man?”

“Yes.”

“Meet my daughter, Dylan. Estranged from her asshole husband, attractive woman, nice, outgoing…” Just about the point where Tom received a blushing smile from Dylan, he erased it with more rambling. “Nice girl. Good heart. She’s also deeply involved here with…” Tom held out his hand toward Mick, “the Chief of Police. Mr. McCaffrey, meet Mick Owens, our Chief.”

Dylan groaned and slumped.

Mick stood up straight for the first time and extended his hand to Patrick. “Nice to meet you.”

“Whoa.” Patrick looked up. “Remind me not to break the law in this town.”

“Or the next,” Tom added. “And speaking of breaking the law, I have to work on those trial films I want in for Lars. Excuse me.” Tom waved and walked off toward the back of the store.

“Well, I’ll see you tonight.” Just as Patrick started to leave, his eyes skimmed the return cart. “Wait.” He backtracked and pointed. “Is that the new horror flick?”

Dylan looked. “Oh, yeah, just came back.” She lifted it. “Did you want to rent it?”

“You know what?” Patrick said. “Yeah. I’ll watch it after the concert.”

“Great.” Dylan smiled. “Any candy?”

Mick moaned.

“Um… sure. Chocolate covered peanuts.” Patrick pointed.

Dylan snidely shifted her eyes to Mick then grabbed a box. “Four dollars.”

Mick’s attention was caught. “Whoa. Wait. You didn’t ask for his video card.”

“Don’t need to.” Dylan told him. “I know him.”

“You know me and I have to show my card.” Mick argued.

“You’re the worst customer we have.” Dylan returned to Patrick. “Four dollars, please.”

“This isn’t right.” Mick lifted a finger. “And, busy with Lars’ films or not…” he took a step back, “I’m telling.” Turning, Mick walked in the direction Tom had gone.

Patrick couldn’t help but laugh. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” Dylan replied.

“I’ve been in town a week,” Patrick said, “Everyone is going nuts, getting ready and making arrangements for someone named Lars. Who is this Lars guy?”

* * *

Andapa Village

Madagascar, Africa

Lars Rayburn’s shoulder-length hair was at one time considered his most attractive feature, but that was when Lars was under the age of forty. In his fifties, the long blonde hair had become stringy and grey, balding far back at the temples and crown. But Lars didn’t care. A thin man of average height, he never was vain, nor was he one to care what people thought of him. Perhaps that was what made Lars so likeable.

In the humid heat, sweat formed heavily on his chest as Lars, wearing only a pair of tattered white pants, finished his examination of the five-year old boy. He lifted the child, adding a joke in the native language just before handing out candy that could only come from the United States of America.

Pleased, the boy ran away, and the child’s mother stammered her gratitude after Lars told her the child would be just fine.

Time for a quick break.

He thought he caught a breeze through the window opening in the metal shed he generously called a clinic. Lars inhaled it, appreciating the momentary relief from the heat. More patients waited outside, as they always did. They traveled far for the free care he provided.

One thing was true about Lars, and everyone knew it. He made his money from royalty checks he received from romance novels he penned under the name of Madeline Welsh. That was no secret.

Outwardly and officially, Lars was a man, a doctor who fled the heaviness and evil of the United States to bask in the beautiful world of Madagascar. He donated his time, efforts, and knowledge to those who could not afford proper medical attention, thriving on the pleasure he received from helping others. He was nothing less than a saint to the natives and government of local communities.

That was outwardly and officially.

Unofficially, Lars was there for other reasons. An observer in Madagascar, a data, statistic and sample collector for the World Health Organization with whom he had been employed for over twenty years, he gathered the true and rarely known facts that were desperately needed, dirtying his hands in the field he not only loved but considered his specialty. Each year, without fail, he monitored and delivered the painful truth to the World Health Organization that the Bubonic Plague was alive, well, and still claiming lives at an astronomical rate in his chosen home of Madagascar.

CHAPTER FOUR

Lodi, Ohio

The question, ‘may I borrow your son,’ frightened Dylan beyond belief. She didn’t want to tell Patrick ‘yes’, but somehow when the handsome teacher came over requesting Anthony so he could get him ice cream with the other kids, all Dylan could do was nod. Watching the suave new Lodi resident left her speechless. But she knew that any schoolgirl smirk she had on her face better disappear because Mick would be back soon. She kept shifting her eyes to Patrick and the children he had with him. He got along with them well and was a natural teacher. She waited for the moment Tigger came running back because something had happened. Dylan kept waiting. Tigger only played.

She sat on a blanket in an emptier section of the park. Most people settled closer to where the band played, as if they couldn’t hear them if they were back some.

If the song ‘Come on Feel the Noise’ were being played at that instant by some band where the members barely surpassed twenty, Dylan supposed the park would be empty. However, since it was Dexter’s Rolling Rockers, there wasn’t an empty spot around the band left to dance. The group of sixty-year old men, who deliberately mocked the 1980s with tight ripped jeans and faded Quiet Riot tee shirts, blasted the tune at an appeasable level with minimal distortion, adding the smooth lounge band feel. Every couple, elderly and young, loved the band. Autographs were always asked for as if they were some sort of rock stars. Dylan had to admit she enjoyed the band, and though she really wanted to get some ice cream for herself, she knew the band’s set. Fearing that she’d miss their rendition of Duran-Duran’s ‘Hungry Like The Wolf’, Dylan stayed put.

The smile.

That was the first thing Mick saw when he arrived at Central Park. He didn’t want to be called away, but it was his job. It could have been worse; the four car minor fender bender could have Mick tied up for hours. Instead he observed the exchanging of information, hurried them along, issued citations he figured would be fought later, and moved on.

To Dylan.

Without a doubt, Mick was openly and absolutely crazy about Dylan. He had been for as long as he remembered. Since they were kids, there hadn’t been an instance that Mick didn’t seize the opportunity when Dylan and Sam broke up. Sometimes Mick and Dylan only dabbled in trying to be a couple, but nothing ever was serious or deep until the last breakup.

Mick had taken the breakup seriously, as did Dylan. Final. The end. Sam had left town, and against his own interests, Mick had located him. Sam had settled somewhere in West Texas and refused to return home.

That was fine with Mick. Dylan, on the other hand, didn’t take it as well. She went out a lot, drank too much. Mick followed her all the time, on duty or not, to make sure she was all right. A month after Sam left, Mick took yet another chance with her.

He gave her three choices that night in the bar. One, she could sit there and develop really bad posture from her habit of slouching on the barstool. Two, she could become the town’s newest lush, or three, instead of abusing alcohol, Dylan could just let Mick take away her pain.

Mick never expected her to take him up on his offer; he hoped, but he didn’t expect it. Perhaps he should have waited until she was sober before sleeping with her. But he got caught up in the moment, and he did chase her down several times the next day to make sure Dylan had no regrets. She didn’t.

That was six months earlier.

The relationship wasn’t exactly where he’d hoped it would be, but it was further than he thought it would be. And after all the years of waiting and chasing, despite what he outwardly showed Dylan, Mick was really happy with what they had.

“I’m back,” Mick announced just before he dropped down to the blanket next to Dylan. He watched her reach, lift her drink cup, wait until he was settled then she put it down. “Dylan, I wasn’t even close to knocking that over.”

“Oh, I wasn’t worried about that. See, you cause minor earthquakes when you drop that big body to the ground. I can just hear the Seismology department in Cleveland right now. ‘Oh, we have seismic activity.’ ‘Nah, that’s just Chief Owens sitting down.’”

Mick blinked at her. “Why do you have to kill me every single time?”

Dylan smiled.

Rolling onto his side, Mick leaned into Dylan and she backed up. “What? I want a kiss.”

“Right,” she scoffed. “No can do. That’s a blatant public display of affection.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, if I don’t get a greeting kiss from you, this big body, as you call it, will roll itself on that little body, and I’ll cite us both for indecent exposure and sell the story to the Review. Up to you.”

After a little smile, Dylan kissed him. “There.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She picked up her drink. “How was the accident?”

“Boring. Where are the boys?”

“Well, Tigger’s over there with…” she sighed as she pointed, “Patrick.”

“Stop that.”

Dylan giggled. “Dustin’s got himself a little girlfriend to talk to and Christian…” she pointed again, only to the stage, “he’s got his head buried in that amp.”

Mick laughed. “Oh, that is funny. But you have to admit, the band is kicking tonight.”

“Especially Dexter,” Dylan commented. “Sixty-five years old. I don’t think the man has stopped wiggling that body for over an hour. The energy that man must have.” She exhaled. “Probably has more energy than you.”

“Probably. He has a secret to that energy, you know. Brags about it all the time.”

“What? His energy?”

“Sexual energy.” Mick stole her drink.

“Oh, get out of here, he does not brag about that.” Dylan took her drink back.

“Does too. Heard him giving away his secret. Was saying at the diner, he jerks off every day after his morning piss, releasing the built up testosterone that wears him down, all while insuring longevity for whenever Lil Carter gives him a call.”

“Liar.”

“Am not lying. Can I make up lies that fast and that good off the top of my head?”

After thinking for a second, Dylan shook her head. “No. You’re too creatively impaired.”

“Geez, thank you for…” The hiss of his police radio and the call of the name ‘Chief’ made Mick cringe. “Goddamn it.” He picked up his radio. “Yeah.”

The male voice spoke, ‘Hey, Chief, got a carload of intoxicated kids out at Barrett’s farm. They hit his fence. Problem is Old Man Barrett’s got them tied down with a shotgun until the police arrive. You wanna take it or you want me to call County?”

“I’ll take it, thanks.” Mick hooked the radio back and sat up. “Duty calls.”

“No, it did not. County could have handled it. You just don’t want to miss anything.”

“You’re right.” Mick stole a quick kiss. “I shouldn’t be long, but if I am, can I stop by your house?”

“Yes.”

Mick’s mouth opened, he was preparing to argue, to ask, even beg, but he didn’t have to. “Yes? Just like that, yes?”

“Yes,” Dylan repeated.

“Aren’t we becoming the couple now?” Mick stood up. “I’ll see you in a bit.” Smiling, he walked off. He reached the end of the park thinking about the progress he and Dylan were making, turned around to wave again, and when he did, he froze. There approaching Dylan was Sam. It didn’t take Sam long to sit right down. Tucking away the progress thought before he jinxed it, Mick stuck his hand in his pocket, turned back around and kept on walking.

* * *

Before she took the long drink of cold beer, Dylan giggled and rubbed her eye as she sat on her front porch trying to catch a bit of relief from the heat. “God. How can I forget her?” Dylan said and flipped another page of the yearbook she shared while sitting with Sam.

“Ever see her?” Sam asked then took a drink of his beer.

“I did once. At a mall in Akron.” Dylan shrugged. “Has like three kids. Big as a house. Not happy.” She shrugged and flipped another page. “I can’t believe Tigger pulled these out.”

“Said he wants to show his new teacher.” Sam finished his beer. “What’s up with that, Dylan? Why regular school?”

Dylan shrugged. . “Don’t know. I want to give it a try. Why? You against it?”

“Nope. Tigger likes the kids he played with. It’s worth a shot.” Sam lifted the empty bottle. “I’m getting another.” He stood up and swayed. “Maybe not.” He sat back down.

“Drink too much?” Dylan turned a page. “I told you. You have no tolerance.”

“You’re right.”

“How are you gonna drive?” she asked.

“I’m kind of hoping…” he leaned his shoulder into her, “I don’t have to.”

Dylan lifted her eyes from the page of the yearbook and turned. Sam’s face was right there.

“Can I stay?” Sam asked. “I’ll sleep on the couch. I really had way too much. I mean I can wait until I sober up, if you…”

“No. You can stay.” Dylan returned to the yearbook.

“Well, in that case. Maybe I will have another beer. It is pretty…” Sam stopped when Dylan shrieked with laughter. “What?”

“My God.” She laughed and indicated to a picture. “Look at Mick.”

A snorted laugh escaped Sam. “I forgot how big he was. Looking back at that now, no wonder everyone called him Orca.”

“And short. Look how short Mick was.” Dylan smiled. “Who would have thought?”

“Was that the reason you never dated him back then?”

“What? His weight problem in high school?” Dylan shook her head. “No. Mick’s weight had nothing to do with it. I would have been all too happy to date Mick if, well, you know, if it wasn’t for you.”

Sam smiled. “Is it true?”

“What I’m saying?”

“No.” Sam shook his head. “Is it true about you and Mick now?”

Dylan remained silent.

“I know you two have that history, but Old Jim was saying that it’s pretty serious between you and Mick. Is it?”

Dylan’s mouth opened, but it was the nearby sound of Mick’s voice that replied.

“I’d like to hear the answer to that one too,” Mick said.

“Mick.” Dylan peered up into the darkness. “We were looking at the yearbook.” Her smile faltered when she saw the seriousness in Mick’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”

After shifting his eyes to Sam, Mick looked again at Dylan. “Sorry I took so long. Something else happened out there.”

“That’s all right,” Dylan said.

“But… I’m here now.” Mick glanced pointedly at Sam and spoke politely. “If you were holding down the fort, Sam, things are fine. You can go.”

“Mick!” Dylan gasped in shock. “Can you be any ruder?”

“Yes,” Mick answered. “Sam?”

“I’m not.” Sam stood up and grabbed his empty beer bottle. “I’m staying tonight. Beer?” He showed the bottle to Mick then walked into the house.

After watching Sam walk into the house, Dylan turned back to Mick who was walking away. “Mick.” She hurried from the porch to catch him.

“Goodnight, Dylan.”

Dylan grabbed for his arm. “Stop. He’s not staying because of anything romantic. He’s had too much to drink.”

“Let him stay somewhere else.” Mick stated. “I don’t want him here all night with you.”

“You have no right to tell me that.”

A glare. A simple glare said it all and Mick pulled his arm away from Dylan. “You’re right. You are absolutely correct. I don’t have that right; I never had that right. Nor will I. I’m finished here, Dylan. I’m not gonna play this stupid tug-of-war emotional game with you. I’m not. I thought we had a chance, a real chance this time. I was wrong.” Mick started to leave again.

“Mick… don’t do this. Come on.” Dylan followed him.

“Are you done with Sam?” Mick asked.

“Yes. Yes, I am.” Dylan nodded emphatically.

Mick slowly and heavily raised his arm and pointed at the house. . “Then you go back in there, tell him ‘sorry’, stay the night at your Dad’s, his cousin Tony’s, anywhere but here. Hell, I’ll even fork over a hotel room for him, but you go and tell him he has to leave right now.”

Dylan took in the deeply serious look on Mick’s face. “Mick… I… I can’t do that.”

“Then I… I can’t do this, Dylan. I can’t. I’m sorry.” After one more look at Dylan, Mick turned and walked away. He hoped, he really hoped as he made it from her house out to the sidewalk, that at any second Dylan would call out to him. Chase him. She didn’t. The only thing Mick received as an answer to where her priorities lay was when he heard the slam of Dylan’s door, looked back, and she was gone.

CHAPTER FIVE

Winston Research Station

16 Miles South Deadhorse, Alaska

August 26th

A pupil that didn’t respond, an iris no longer blue but gray, lifeless and dull. The light shining into the woman’s wide open eye told more than her dead, discolored face. With a heavy sigh of desperation and sadness, Paul Lafayette, in protective garb, moved the flashlight around the dark room in the research station.

Paul knew that he needn’t search for an answer as to what had happened to the sixteen people sprawled about the room. Remnants of their attempts at nourishment encircled their corpses. Particles of food were spread unfinished on paper plates about the room.

The only answers Paul needed were specifics. He hoped that the scientists had attempted to record what was happening to them, at least early on, and that one of them had documentation somewhere. He knew that, sick or not, he would have tried to leave a report.

But the emergency team that Paul arrived with was a skeleton crew. There were only four of them to sift through every detail in the station, seal it off, and collect samples. It would take days, maybe even weeks if the four of them were left to do it alone.

Paul was grateful that wasn’t the case. A second crew arrived within five hours of Paul’s dawn call, and things were quickly underway.

Having seen enough, Paul gave a nod to the photographer in the recreation room and walked out. He paused to watch another worker prepare to seal the room, while yet another worker collected air samples.

He picked up the small silver box on the floor, a box filled with tissue samples he himself took when they first arrived at the isolated location, and then Paul left the building.

The silver vehicle that Paul entered looked like a heavy duty mobile home. After disinfecting and removing his biohazard suit, he left the samples in the lab portion of the module and sought out the small desk where the paper portion of the investigation would occur.

If Paul’s messy hair was any indication of his mental state, then his mind was haywire. He plopped down into the desk chair, took a moment to relax and stared at the phone with trepidation.

He had to do it. Henry was waiting on the call. Paul dialed the direct line, the link to the main research center, and it was answered immediately.

“Paul, give me some good news,” was Henry’s greeting instead of ‘hello.’

“I wish.” Paul’s words were saddened.

“All of them?” Henry asked.

“All of them.”

“When you called this morning, you said there were deaths.”

Paul let out a slight chuckle in spite of his distress. “It was as I thought.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m going on a guess from what I visually assessed. I’m waiting to see if one of the team up here started at least some documentation. But…” he let out a sigh, “looks like the last ice storm cut all power to the station. Emergency generators ran out. No gas in them. No power, Henry, no containment, you know that. Sealed but not secure. Somehow it got out.”

“Maybe the elements—”

“No.” Paul interrupted. “No. We’ll send the pictures ASAP. I don’t even need blood tests to confirm it. You should see them. No doubt. The biggest mistake they made, and they should have known better, but I’m going with the delirium of illness… they locked themselves in the rec room, and to stay warm, they lit a fire. Burned furniture and such. The fire eventually burned out. However, you know the size of that rec room, that fireplace. Bet you it stayed a good seventy degrees while that fireplace roared.”

“Christ,” Henry said, “A virtual breeding ground.”

“Breeding ground gone mad. You know the bug multiplies. So their staying warm—”

“Sped things up.” Henry’s heavy exhalation carried over the phone.

“Had that fire not burned out, had that room not frozen over, it would have been a virtual viral time bomb the second that door was opened,” Paul stated. “We’re just lucky.”

“That we are. We thought ahead when we chose the location. The elements work in our favor, you know that, Paul,” Henry told him. “And, no one really knows they’re there.”

“True.” Paul lifted his eyes from the desk when the side door to the mobile opened and a female assistant walked in. “So in essence, we may have lost our people, but we didn’t lose the battle. With no outside contact, the bug died along with our people. Frozen over, so we’ll…” There was silence, a long silence from Paul that conveyed almost as much panic as when he gasped, “Oh my God.”

“What?” Henry asked. “What is it?”

Paul didn’t answer. His heart sunk, and he was unable to breathe as he looked down at the small, handmade Eskimo bag that his assistant laid on his desk.

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

Officer Haddock knocked just once on the open door to Mick’s office. “Busy, Chief?”

“Nah.” Mick rocked some in his chair, eyes glued to the computer. “Just reading my emails. All twenty-seven of them.”

“Twenty-seven emails. Aren’t you popular?”

“Not really. They’re all from Dylan.”

“Speaking of Dylan,” Officer Haddock said, “her Dad just filed vandalism charges. Seems someone spray-painted his front window. Not bad, but you know Mr. Roberts.”

“You’re shitting me?” Mick turned around. “Who in the hell would do something like that?”

Officer Haddock pointed back with his thumb. “Culprit caught. Sitting out front waiting to be arrested.”

Mick stood up from behind his desk. With intimidation, wanting to blast the teenager who did it, he stormed into the main area of the police station and stopped cold. “Aw, damn it.” He shook his head. “Dylan.”

Dylan stood up and held out her hands. “Arrest me, Mick. I’m a criminal.”

“What the hell is this?” he asked then looked to the snickering officer. “Did Mr. Roberts really press charges?”

“Yep,” Officer Haddock answered. “What should I do?”

Mick grunted and motioned for Dylan to follow him. He turned and went to his office.

Dylan happily followed.

Upon her entrance, Mick shut the door and walked to his desk. “Sit.”

“Fine.” Dylan sat down.

“Now, why do you want me to arrest you?” Mick asked as he settled in his chair.

“It’s the only way to get you to talk to me.”

“I talk to you,” Mick said. “I said hello this morning. Asked how you were. Did I not?”

“Mick,” Dylan almost whined. “Four days. It’s been four days since you paid attention to me other than just as the Chief of Police.”

“I am the Chief of Police,” Mick stated.

“I thought we were more,” Dylan said.

“We’re broke up.”

“You never officially said it.”

“Fine.” Mick lifted his hands. “I break up with you.”

“You can’t break up with me. You have never broken up with me.”

“There’s always a first time,” Mick stated. “Has to be this way, Dylan.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Nothing I can do?” Dylan asked.

“Nope.” Mick stood firm.

“All right.” Slowly, Dylan stood up. She started to leave and stopped. “Are you sure?”

“As much as I’d like to say ‘no’. I can’t.” Mick shook his head. “I have to stick to this decision.”

“Bet you I can entice you,” Dylan said sneakily.

“No way. I’m tough.”

“Right.” Dylan reached for the door. “I’ll go.” She sighed out. “Nothing I can do?”

After a shifting his eyes to the computer, Mick nodded. “Yeah, you can stop sending me all these goddamn emails every day. And now, look what you did today. You resorted to attaching large documents. Takes forever to download. What the hell did you send me? More forwarded jokes?”

“Pictures,” Dylan answered.

“Of?” Mick asked.

“Me.” She paused. “Naked.”

After a quick spin of his chair back to the computer, Mick maneuvered the mouse. “Oh, shit.” he said like a kid. “Oh, shit.”

“See?”

Eyes glued, Mick tilted his head with a wide grin. “Twenty-seven of them?”

“Twenty-seven. Took it with the digital camera so the guy at the photo place didn’t get an eyeful.”

“Who…” Mick quickly shook his head. “Who took these?”

“Tracy.”

“Who’s Tracy?” Mick asked.

“You know, that girl from Wadsworth that comes in every Monday for karaoke. Wild girl, pretty. I go out and drink every once in a while with her. You know.”

“Yeah, I do.” Mick’s eyes went wide. “You did these poses… in front of her?”

“Yep. For you.” Dylan opened the door. “To entice you. Thought I’d take the sexual arousal route.”

Mick cleared his throat. “Might work if I see some hot female on female action.”

“Pictures fifteen though eighteen.”

Mick quickly turned to Dylan, but he faced the closing door. Dylan had left. He half-stood to follow her, but stopped. He sat back down, looked at his computer. “Nah. She’s joking.” After reaching, he hesitated, started to stand, but stopped again. Halfway back to his chair, Mick clicked on picture fifteen. As the picture revealed itself, his eyes never leaving the screen, Mick missed the chair and toppled knees first to the floor.

* * *

Davenport, Iowa

“Go ahead. Give it to me.” Darrell exhaled as he drove. “I’m higher.”

“Can’t be,” Jeff argued.

“I’m telling you. Go on.” Nodding at Jeff, Darrell edged on. “Go on.”

“Seven forty.” Jeff counted the remaining bills in his wallet. “You?”

“Seven fifty-five.” Darrell said. “Told you I lost more.”

“We should have never come back here.”

“But we won when we came here before Kansas.”

“So does that mean we really lost?” Jeff asked. “I mean, if we won four days ago, and we lost all but fifty back, we didn’t lose.”

A bright smile hit Darrell. “My friend, I feel much better.”

“You should. Whew.” Jeff chuckled. “And here I was going to get upset.”

“Damn, we are doing good this trip.”

“We are. Still ahead.” Jeff replaced his wallet in his pocket.

“I was concerned, you know, with our next stop. But now I’m up for it. You?”

“Very much so,” Jeff said. “Doing a surveillance on that casino owner for a week isn’t a bad deal.”

“He may know about Rodriguez.”

“They do suspect him of being the banker,” Jeff added.

“Actually, our man Rodriguez, A.K.A., David Lappula, Arthur Stiller, Winston Hillchurch…” Darrell listed.

“And don’t forget Chen Yung.”

“Can’t forget that identity,” Darrell continued. “He may actually be with ‘Casino Man’.”

“And if he isn’t, I’m never one to complain about seeing Reno.”

“Me either.” Darrell let out an excited breath as he drove, just a little faster. “Man, you have to love this job.”

“I do.” Jeff smiled widely. “As long as we aren’t in Ohio.”

* * *

Andapa Village

Madagascar, Africa

Poco was the name Lars Rayburn had given the fifteen-year old boy when he had taken him under his wing three years earlier. He was abandoned by his family, labeled evil, and left to die after a botched attempt to physically exhume the demon intertwined in his gut.

The boy’s name wasn’t really Poco; what it was, Lars didn’t know. The boy never corrected him and the new name stuck.

Poco was bright, smart, and finally happy again. But he couldn’t talk, nor could he write. He had lost not only his hands, but his tongue as well when severe gangrene caused their amputation at the young age of five. Gangrene resulting from a form of Bubonic plague, a common occurrence in Madagascar.

“Ohio,” Lars spoke slowly to Poco. “Form the word with your mouth. Ohio.”

Poco did.

“Now I tell you this every year. I am going back to Ohio.” Lars smiled. “Remind me to play you that song.”

Poco tilted his head with a smile.

“Mrs. Dune will watch you. You know to monitor my animals, correct?”

Poco nodded.

“She won’t go into that back room. She says it smells. Remember that any paper the machine spits out, you hide.”

Poco gave a thumbs up.

Lars walked to his dresser and pulled out clothes. “Not taking much. I have items in Ohio. They’ll be dusty though.” He walked the clothes to his suitcase. “I tried, you know, to get clearance to take you with me, but the government wouldn’t approve it. I’ll bring you back something.”

Poco rubbed his forearm over his shirt

“Of course, I’ll bring you back a tee shirt. Ohio State.” Lars grinned and shut his suitcase. “Well… how about you and I have some food before I embark on my journey? Sound good, my silent friend?”

Smiling, Poco nodded.

“Shall we?” Laying a hand on Poco’s back, Lars led him from the bedroom. He dreaded the beginning of any trip that took him from Madagascar. Shots, quarantines, all just to go back home. But once he was en route, Lars was fine.

He enjoyed working with all the rare illnesses that seemed to float around him in Africa. But it always felt so good to take that yearly month-long trip to go home to Lodi, Ohio, where the worst illness that ever showed up was a few simple cases of the flu.

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

It was an extremely hot August day, and Mick expected Dylan to be lounging in her pool. She usually did on hot days, because Dylan was never one to be pleasant in the heat. She called it her humidity Midol.

Mick heard the splash of the water as he approached the back yard. He looked down at the sheet of paper in his hand once more with a shit-eating grin, rolled it up, placed it in his back pocket, and peeked through the trees into Dylan’s yard.

He was right.

She wore that red bathing suit he loved to see her in. Dylan lounged in her water world, head resting against one end, her feet dangling over the other, while the ten inches of water in the wading pool covered her midsection.

Sneaking quietly for a man of his size, Mick made it to the wading pool. Just when he thought he had her, his face moving closer to Dylan’s, she popped open one eye.

“Now did you honestly think you could sneak up on me?”

“Shit.” Mick stole a quick kiss.

“Hey.” She waved him away.

“You won,” Mick stated.

“Excuse me?”

“I concede. Enticed, sexually aroused. You name, I am. You won. Where are the boys?”

“Um…” Dylan’s head spun. “Dustin took them to the park.”

“Good. Let’s make up.” Mick smiled.

“Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”

“Can’t make up out here. I’d have to arrest us.” He winked.

“Mick.” She laughed his name.

“Dylan, you started it with those emails. Let’s go inside. When will the boys be back?”

“They just left.”

“Even better.” He grabbed her hand. “I’ll carry you if you’d like.”

“Mick… Mick, we can’t.”

“You think the boys will be right back?” Mick asked. “‘Cause I have to tell you, posed shots or real, after seeing pictures fifteen through eighteen, I won’t be that long.”

Dylan chuckled.

“Come on, what do you say?” he brought his lips in softly. “Huh?”

“We can’t, Mick. See…”

“Are you on your period?”

“No.” She laughed. “Look. We can’t because…”

The sound of the back porch screen door slamming shut silenced Dylan, then Sam spoke. “I tried to take as little space in the closet as I could, but I think I gained more clothes or…” He stopped talking when he saw Mick.

Mick’s jaw twitched as he looked at Dylan. “Clothes? Closet?”

Dylan sat up. “Let me explain.”

“Is he living here again?” Mick asked.

Sam answered, “Yes, Mick.” he stepped off the porch. “He is living here again.”

Mick slowly stood up. “I see.”

Dylan reached up to him. “Mick, let me explain.”

Mick pulled his hand away. “No need.”

Dylan huffed. “You don’t want me to tell you what’s going on?”

“What’s there to explain?” Mick asked.

“A lot.”

“I don’t need to hear it.”

“Then fine.” Dylan crossed her arms. “I won’t tell you.”

“Sorry I bothered you,” Mick said snidely then moved back from the pool.

Sam stepped closer. “Mick, you have to remember she is a married woman, has been for quite some time. You didn’t think I’d be away from this house for good, now did you?”

“Not at all,” Mick stated. “Expected your return.” Mick started to walk away but stopped. “However…” he said with a lifted finger, “that little marriage speech…” He reached to his back pocket and pulled out the rolled up paper. “You may want to give it to…” he handed the sheet to Sam then looked at Dylan with a smirk, “Tracy. See ya.”

Dylan shrieked. “Mick! You asshole!”

“Bye!” Mick wiggled a wave and kept moving.

“Shit.” Dylan slipped trying to get out of the pool. “Sam, don’t look at that—”

“Holy fuck,” Sam said, his eyes widening as he unrolled the paper.

“Picture.” Dylan dropped into the pool in defeat. “I’m killing him.”

A chuckle, a shake of his head, then a relief-filled ‘whew’ came from Sam. “And here I thought it was Mick.”

Frustrated, Dylan sunk into the few inches of water.

* * *

Anchorage, Alaska

The loud sneeze that carried from the living room took Isabella’s attention away from the sandwiches she prepared. “Bill?” She snickered as she grabbed a towel to wipe her mayonnaise-laced fingertips. “What the heck was…” Her eyes widened when Bill did it again.

Thunderous, almost belly ripping, the sneeze reverberated up through his chest and sloppily exploded from his mouth.

Snickering again, Isabella, Bill’s girlfriend of three years, walked into the living room. “Fall allergies acting up already?”

He sat on the floor hooking up the camera to the television and he looked up. He rubbed under his nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah. Either that or the change of temperature has taken its toll.”

“Nah, it’s almost September. You get this way every September.”

“I suppose,” Bill sniffed. “Don’t feel real clogged. But heavy, you know, like I’ll be feeling the effect tonight.”

“I have some cold medication.” She pointed back toward the bathroom with her thumb.

“Green liquid?” Bill asked.

“Pills.”

“I prefer the green…” Bill paused to release the sneeze that shook his whole body off balance. “Whoa.”

Isabella chuckled again. “Bless you.”

“Thanks.” He sniffed and rubbed his nose. “Maybe I will take those cold pills. I’ll grab some of that green stuff for tonight. I wasted so much time lost in the damn Eskimo wilderness with Trevor that I’m back on a story tomorrow.” After finishing the hook-up, Bill started to stand as he sneezed again. “Holy Jesus.” He gave his head a quick shake.

Reaching out, Isabella laid her hand on the side of Bill’s face. “You’re a little warm.”

Bill took her hand, kissed it and smiled. “But I feel fine. And hungry… I’m hungry. So how about those sandwiches and we’ll kick back and watch my footage.”

“Sounds good.” After placing a kiss on his cheek, Isabella started to walk away.

“Could you grab me an ice tea if you—” Bill’s head flung forward with another violent sneeze. “Goddamn it!”

A slight chuckle came from Isabella as she walked to the kitchen. She’d get the ice tea for Bill, but she was also getting those cold pills. Even though it amused her at first, she knew it wouldn’t be long before that sneezing started working on her nerves.

* * *

Los Angeles, CA

His words were sluggish and a little slurred when Trevor spoke after splashing his face with cold water in the men’s washroom. “Happy fuckin’ birthday to me.” He grabbed a towel and dried his face. “Fuck.” He looked at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were dark, his face pale. He looked as bad as he felt.

He tried to take a deep breath, but the passage of air didn’t seem to make it past mid-chest before a deep cough occurred. It struggled, hard and thick, as if a barrier reef existed in his bronchial tube and Trevor had to break through. The only thing was, the sledgehammer he used was his cough, and Trevor wasn’t quite in control of that cough.

It caused a sharp dagger of pain at the base of his neck down through the left side of his chest. His face flushed, heating the overly clogged sinus passages and causing them to drain down the back of his throat, choking him. He coughed over and over, out of control. His body shook, his diaphragm fighting and pushing. After what seemed to be a minute of unproductive struggling, Trevor felt a little crack occur, a break through the thick obstacle in his chest. With another cough, the cracking increased and the violent cough ended when the barricade shot from his chest like a rocket, up his throat and into his mouth.

Trevor wanted to gag when the slimy thickness of it hit his tongue and he tasted the chlorine flavor. Instinctively he spit into the sink. He wouldn’t have bothered to look at it had he not noticed how heavy it landed against the porcelain basin. Turning on the faucet, he looked at the phlegm, so thick that it didn’t even budge in the force of the water that beat against it trying to wash it down the drain. It clung there like glue for the longest time, dark eerie green with a tinge of brown.

Trevor was concerned more with getting rid of the unsightly mucus than the odd appearance of it. Feeling victorious, he watched it thin out enough to swirl around before disappearing.

Mission accomplished.

Down in the washroom, Trevor grabbed his thick folder of material and left. The editor had waited long enough. As he walked across the newsroom, he knew that he had to get out of there. Each step through the warm room caused the tickle to start again in his throat, and he fought diligently not to be a hacking fool when he walked into his boss’ office. He wanted to breeze in and shoot out unnoticed.

“Just…” Trevor let out a slight cough, “wanted to drop this off. I… I have to go.” He turned to leave.

Greg Benson looked up from behind his desk. “Whoa, wait. You can’t talk about this?” he called out.

Trevor turned back around. “I’d rather not. Can we do it tomorrow?”

“Holy shit. Look at you,” Greg commented. “Um, yeah, sure.”

“Thanks. I just want to go home and go to bed,” Trevor said. “I feel like shit.”

“You look it.”

“Thanks.” Trevor moved back to the door.

“Get better. You don’t look well. I hope it’s nothing serious,” Greg stated.

“Nah.” Trevor shook his head before leaving. “Probably just… the flu.”

* * *

Deadhorse, Alaska

Eruptile. A new word and it rightfully earned its place and definition in Webster’s Dictionary when Liza Burke invented it. She didn’t mean to, but no other word could describe the action of the massive amount of vomit when it spewed forth from her mouth. It happened without hesitation the split second she flew out of the small hut. Involuntarily and violently, the regurgitation powered forth as soon as she ripped the protective hood from her face.

The loud splash caught Paul’s attention and he spun to see Liza slightly bent over her puddle, long strands of her stomach contents dangling from her mouth.

“Son of a bitch.” Paul snapped with a point at Liza. “Quarantine her!” He shook his head in deep disgust, not from the sight of the mess, but from Liza’s behavior. She was a trained professional. He marched to the hut to see what had caused her reaction.

Paul stepped inside. He wouldn’t give a repeat performance of Liza’s actions, but the sight made his stomach turn. Moving away, he took in a deep breath of the oxygen that fed into his suit. He expected to see virus victims, but what he saw in that hut was not what he expected.

The children of the village must have been gathered together, kept away from the adults for some obscure reason. Their dead caretaker was in there as well. But the unsecured hut was not only a final resting place for the young, it was an open dinner plate for the animals left to fend for and feed themselves.

The children were gnawed upon, their small bodies desecrated by the fangs of the hungry creatures who devoured them. Limbs, some showing bone, were scattered about the floor. Paul didn’t want to, but he had to look. He had to see the faces of the children. He had to check for signs of the flu. And though they displayed outward signs of their illness, it gave Paul a sense of relief that they had died prior to the ravishing their innocent bodies had suffered from the creatures of the wild.

Deadhorse lived up to the first half of its name. The small village, population thirty, was wiped out.

Did it stop here? Would it stop here? Paul could only pray. But he knew that his prayer was futile when he saw James Littleton pull up in a jeep. James, another research assistant from Winston, had been canvassing the area.

Using the inner suit radio, Paul spoke to James. “Anything?”

James, still wearing his bio suit, stepped out of the jeep. “Take a ride with me, Paul.”

“I’ve only got a half hour of oxygen left. Let me change my tank,” Paul stated as he walked to James.

“We got some where we’re going. Get in.”

Paul did.

Was it a mystery? A big surprise? Why was James being so secretive? Paul guessed James would start talking after he started the Jeep and they drove away from Deadhorse, but there wasn’t time. The jeep stopped a mile or so down the road.

“We followed that smoke signal. Welcome to Prudhoe Bay,” James said and threw the jeep into park. “Neighboring community.”

Paul stepped down from the jeep as well. He almost asked James about the town, but he didn’t need to. The eerie sight before him gave him the answer.

Small fires burned about the small village. Every single home seemed to smolder. The closer Paul walked, the more he knew. The answer to the question, ‘who burned the village,’ came in the form of a man. One old man, bundled in furs, sat holding a stick while perched on a rock. A small fire for warmth was ablaze before him. The old man didn’t look up to Paul or James. Nor did he speak or move. He just sat there, staring out. His aged face held pain and fear, but more so than that, it projected the desolation and horror of everything he had witnessed.

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

Experimental dishes for the benefit of Lars Rayburn’s visit went to waste at Jean’s Diner because no one really wanted to try the exotic-looking food, so Jean gave it to Mick knowing that he had a cast iron stomach, and Mick was grateful. Not only was it a free meal he took home, but one that he could easily warm by popping it into the microwave.

The green wilted leaf dish looked hideous to Mick, but it didn’t smell bad. And he highly doubted, like everyone feared, that he would get sick. He may have caught every type of bug that flew through Lodi, but stomach bugs didn’t affect him. Only once did he have food poisoning and that was when he was eighteen and deliberately ate bad meat to prove to Dylan that he wouldn’t get sick.

He had.

Reminiscing about that horrid experience made Mick think about another… the dismantling of his relationship with Dylan. Not that the breakup bred violent cramping, vomiting, and diarrhea, but he felt bad just the same.

Hot dish burning his hands as he removed it from the ‘Mick-o-wave’ as he called it, Mick heard the front door opening. “Hello?” he shouted out, setting the dish on the table.

“Mick?” Dylan called his name.

“Fuck,” Mick whispered. He sat down and placed himself in the mindset. He wasn’t going to break or give in. “Goddamn it, Dylan, go home.” He picked up a fork and buried his face in his food.

“Mick,” she said as she stepped into the kitchen. “I have to talk to… what are you eating?”

“I don’t know. Jean made it. Go home.” Mick stuck his fork in.

“No, Mick.” Dylan was stern. “I really want to talk to you. I need to talk to you.”

“Is it about us?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Go home.”

“Fuck you.”

“Now why would you…” Mick dropped his fork and finally looked up at her. “You got sun burn.”

“Just a little.” Dylan lifted her tee shirt to show her stomach. “See. Not much. Anyhow…”

“Dylan.”

“Mick, shut up, all right?” She crossed her arms and noticed his meal again. “Is that any good? Smells good. Looks bad, but it smells good.”

“Not bad. Want some?”

Dylan shook her head. “Anyhow… first and most important,” she held up a finger, “I am not, will not, be back with Sam.”

“Is he living at the house?”

“Sam lost his job. He can’t afford the apartment in Wadsworth. It’s his house, Mick.”

Only grunting ‘Uh-hmm,’ Mick returned to eating.

“And I did some heavy, creative thinking. I believe my approach to you is really impressive.”

“Heavy creative thinking?” Mick asked.

“Yeah. See?” Dylan wore a pair of baggy cloth shorts. She reached into the front pocket and pulled out three playing cards. She laid them face down on the table in front of Mick. “All right.”

“What the hell is this?” Mick asked. “These are cards to a kid’s game.”

“Ignore that. It’s a metaphor. Get it?” she asked, giving a motion of her head to the cards. “Laying all my cards on the table. Get it?”

“Yeah, I get it. Are you holding back, because there’s only three cards there.”

“Three major points cover it all. Now…”

“This is silly.” Mick pushed the cards to her. “Tigger’s gonna have a fit, you stealing his game.”

“Tigger is the reason I’m doing this,” Dylan said.

“Tigger sent you over with this?”

“No, Tigger was peeing.”

A long blink and Mick he sat back. “What?”

“O.K., listen,” Dylan explained with animated hand motions. “I’m doing my hair in the bathroom, right? Stewing, Mick. Stewing over you. I’m standing there, trying to do something in this heat with this long hair and Tigger blasts his little body into the bathroom, says nothing, pulls up his step stool, drops his pants and hoses everything down.”

“And that made you think of this?”

“No, of you.”

“I am really lost,” Mick said. “How did your kid pissing all over the bathroom make you think of me?”

“Now check this out,” Dylan continued. “I thought when he did this, didn’t he notice me standing there. He just flew in, not caring and went. Then, you know, I shrugged it off. I’m his mom, He feels comfortable with me. And it was better than him peeing his pants. Then it dawned on me. It really dawned on me, right there and then, curling iron in my hand.” Dylan smiled. “Tenth Grade, Mick Owens. You got me drunk on your mother’s whiskey and you had me laughing so hard I pissed my pants in front of you. Remember?”

Mick snickered. “Yeah. And it wasn’t the last time either. You did the same thing the next time I got you drunk.”

“Exactly.” Dylan nodded. “And what about the time you decided I needed to go hiking. How about that?”

“You didn’t pee your pants, you pulled a Tigger, dropped your drawers and went. Watching you take a leak, Dylan, no matter how you do it, is old news to me. It’s no big deal.”

“Yes. Yes, it is, Mick. See? You are only the person in this world I have ever peed my pants in front of. All those years I was with Sam, never did I do that or… go to the bathroom in front of him. Contrary to what you have witnessed, I consider my bodily functions very private.”

“And your point?”

“You’re not seeing it, are you? I was never embarrassed and I never cared what I did in front of you. That tells me so much. More than I originally realized. And that is the reason for my cards on the table. Read them, Mick.” Dylan smiled. “Turn them over and read them. Left to right.”

Mick reached for the card on the left and stopped. His huge hand lay over all three cards and he slid them to Dylan. “I’m sorry, Dylan.”

“But, Mick, it’s so important. Please.”

“There’s nothing that can be said to change my mind. You’ve said it all before. Nothing’s changed. So now… it’s over. No more.”

Slow, Dylan nodded. “I see. Fine. I’m sorry.” After waiting a few seconds, Dylan turned to leave.

“What about your cards?”

She paused in the doorway of the kitchen. “You keep them. One of these days you’ll turn them over. And it’ll be too late. I’ll be gone.”

Dylan turned and left.

Glue. Mick had to imagine glue kept him in that chair because he diligently fought not to get up and follow Dylan when he heard her leave. But he didn’t fight too hard to refrain from turning over those cards.

Lifting the first card on the left, Mick let out a heavy breath when he looked at the paper with Dylan’s handwriting stuck on that card. It read, ‘I’ll do ANYTHING for you.’

Shaking his head, Mick turned over the center card. ‘I want you in my life… always.’

“Aw, Dylan.” Words she’d said before, words he had heard before, but they still moved him. Mick grabbed the third. He hesitated before turning it over, but he was glad he did. ‘I love you.’

Every ounce of his being sank when he laid eyes upon the words Dylan had never said to him. Allowing the feeling to radiate through his body, Mick stood up, snatched that card from the table and with top speed he raced from his kitchen into his living room.

He expected, fully expected Dylan to be on the porch. Perhaps that was the reason he stopped running when he opened his front door. But she wasn’t. Mick saw her. Walking up the street, Dylan was only a speck of a figure moving away.

Mick ran. He kept on running until he not only caught Dylan, but passed her as well. He made sure he got ahead of her, then catching his breath he stopped her by standing before her.

“What?” She crossed her arms.

Mick lifted the card to her eye level. “Say it.”

“You had your chance.”

“Come on, Dylan,” Mick said heavily, emotionally. “Say it.”

Dylan’s eyes shifted from the card to Mick, then she grabbed it from his hand and tore it in half.

Mick shrieked. “Uh! You ripped my card!”

“That was nothing. Try this.” Dylan ripped it once more, dropped the card then stepped on it. “Ha!”

Mick shrieked again. “What in God’s name is the matter with you?” He bent down, and lifted her foot to get the remnants.

“Me! You!” She reached to a bent over Mick and smacked him on the head. “You had your chance. I told you it would be too late. But, no. You come chasing me down.”

“Dylan.” Mick stood up holding the pieces. “You said you love me. You have never said that. Ever.”

“And I will never say it again.” She stared at him.

“Fine.” Mick threw the pieces.

“Fine.”

“I’m going home.” Mick marched by her.

“Alone!” Dylan shouted to a moving Mick.

“Like I always do!” Mick yelled back.

“I hope you choke on that green food you were eating!”

“It’ll be a hell of a lot less painful than dealing with you!” Mick screamed his final words as he stormed into his house.

Dylan warbled a frustrated scream.

“Dylan!” Tom’s strong voice, close, called her name.

Slowly Dylan turned to her right. She slouched when she saw her father standing on his front porch not far from where she was. “Sorry.”

“I have to live around these people. You want to scream and act like a fool on the street? Do it in front of your own house.” Tom opened his screen door. “And pick up that trash!”

“God!” Dylan screamed when her father’s door slammed. “He treats me like a child.” Growling her anger, she bent down to pick up the torn card. Picking up the pieces, looking at the ripped words, made Dylan stop. She clenched them in her hand. “What am I doing?”

In a matter of thirty seconds, Dylan was opening Mick’s front door. She didn’t expect him to be back at his kitchen table indulging in his green food. He was where she thought he’d be, just sitting on the couch.

She slowly walked in, shutting the front door with her back and staying there.

Mick slumped forward some on the couch, his arms resting on his knees. He only raised his eyes to her.

“Mick,” Dylan whispered, “I grabbed what’s left of the card.” She held up the parts. “I can’t put the pieces back together. Well, maybe I can, if you have some tape.” She let out an emotional chuckle. “Maybe I will and that will help piece us back together.”

“We aren’t as ripped apart as that card is. Don’t kid yourself,” Mick said gently.

“What do you need me to do, Mick, I’ll…”

“Dylan.” He held up his hand still keeping his voice soft. “Just… just say it.” He closed his eyes. “I swear I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear you tell me those words. Just say them.”

“I love you.”

Mick let out a sigh as he rose from the couch. He didn’t even give Dylan a chance to step away from the door. He moved to her, gently placed his hands on her face, and kissed her. A welcoming kiss, long, wide, and deep. He smiled, chuckling when he finished. Hands still on her face, he kept his forehead to hers. “See, it wasn’t all that difficult to say.”

“I probably would have said it sooner had you not hounded me about it.” Dylan kissed him. “Mick, I’ll say the other things on the cards, too, if you want.”

“You’ve said them before.”

“Then I’ll prove them.”

“Do you really mean that, Dylan?” Mick asked, his eyes locked on hers. “Really?”

“You tell me, Mick. You tell me how, and I’ll do it. I don’t want to lose you. And I certainly don’t want to give you up.”

After giving Dylan another kiss, Mick spoke, “Get him out of that house.”

“It’s not that simple. He has nowhere else to go.”

“Bullshit, Dylan,” Mick argued softly. “I don’t want you living with him, married to him or not. You have a divorce pending. I just don’t want you sleeping in the same house as him.”

“Then how about I sleep here,” Dylan suggested. “Panicking yet?”

“Nope. I would love for you to sleep here. Live here.”

“Then I will.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Yes, I’ll move in tomorrow.”

Mick smiled. “What about the boys?”

“Well, Dustin and Chris won’t come with me. But they’ll only be four blocks away. Tigger will. Even though I know it’s gonna be a masochistic mistake and I’ll fight with you constantly, we’ll do it. If you’ll have us.”

“Oh, I’ll have you all right.” Mick leaned into her. “When are you telling Sam?”

“Tonight,” Dylan said. “I’ll tell him all of it.”

“Now,” Mick said as they stood together, close and intimate. “Tell him now.”

“After.”

“After?”

“After.” Dylan reiterated and kissed him softly.

“OK. I can handle after.” Mick pressed his body to Dylan, flashed a sneaky grin, then slid his lips to her neck, and took Dylan up on her ‘after’ invitation, right there by the door.

* * *

Prudhoe Bay, Alaska

Paul wasn’t a huge fan of modern electronic communication. His number one preference was face-to-face, then the telephone. Clicking away at a keyboard to convey what he wanted to say was not only not his style, it was annoying.

However, for the first time he was grateful for it. It was a long day that was far from over. Paul had cleared his throat and held back gags so many times that it was actually sore. He had to keep telling himself he didn’t have the flu. And even if he had caught it, there was no way he would be symptomatic that fast. He hoped.

Almost universally known as Instant Messaging, what was loaded on Paul’s computer was named Winston Messaging. Basically, the exact premise, but because of the nature of the work, it was a more secure means of electronic communication that most Winston Employees used at and away from work. Paul only used it when needed. Henry preferred its use with his people in the field because he was able to save the conversation, print it and refer to it.

In the mobile lab, Paul stared at his computer. He wanted to log off, but there was still a lot to be said, and he had to wait for Henry, who had paused to take a phone call.

The ‘bleep’ alert sounded and drew Paul’s attention.

HBK_HENRY: Back. Where were we?

PAUL_La_STUD: Up shit creek without a paddle.

HBK_HENRY: Are you sure?

PAUL_La_STUD: Confirmed.

HBK_HENRY: Double?

PAUL_La_STUD: Triple.

HBK_HENRY: Total?

PAUL_La_STUD: 95.—-Station 16, Deadhorse, 30, Prudhoe, 46.

HBK_HENRY: Closest other village?

PAUL_La_STUD: Kaktovik. And that was clean. No sign.

HBK_HENRY: Thank God. That’s good. Can we rule it out as incubating?

PAUL_La_STUD: Yes. Our station was infected nearly two weeks ago. About a week to run its course, maybe more, maybe less. I have to review more. The old man will tell a lot.

HBK_HENRY: Has he said anything?

PAUL_La_STUD: Only that the last person died yesterday.

HBK_HENRY: Infected last week?

PAUL_La_STUD: Yep. So, if Kaktovik was hit, there would have been signs of it there or else they’d be wiped out. But we can’t get excited yet. Tomorrow is a big day.

HBK_HENRY: Barrow?

PAUL_La_STUD: Yes. Multiple city checks. Barrow and all coastal communities. If this thing spread, that’s where it’s at. And if they were infected they should be in full viral stage.

HBK_HENRY: What do you think?

Paul paused before responding. He lifted his hands from the keyboard, took a breath then returned.

PAUL_La_STUD: I think there’s more of a chance Barrow was hit than Kaktovik. Prudhoe villagers travel there. Are you going to inform Kurt?

HBK_HENRY: Centers for Disease Control doesn’t need to know yet. Not yet. I’ll tell Kurt when we can assure him this thing is secure.

PAUL_La_STUD: And if you can’t tell him that?

HBK_HENRY: Then I’m going to have to find a way to inform him that his worst nightmare is about to become a reality.

CHAPTER SIX

Lodi, Ohio

Dustin Hughes never considered himself an adult in a teenager’s body. He enjoyed being a child, acting younger than his seventeen years and using that as an excuse to not have to babysit. Not that Tigger was a tough one to watch. He slept a lot more than normal, which was to be expected.

How long did Dustin wait for its return? Weeks. And when his grandfather called and said Best of Wrestlemania was back in for rental, Dustin ran all the way into town. He didn’t want to take a chance that his grandfather might rent that out to someone else.

The night was planned. He and Christian ordered subs, they had their chips, Dylan wasn’t home, and when Tigger crashed for the night right after the sun went down, Dustin and Christian were going to watch that special.

So why did he let the sounds his recently-returned father made distract him? Because Dustin knew Sam made the noise out of frustration. If he was old enough to understand why his dad was living in the house, Dustin assumed his father understood the reason, as well. He had to wonder what in his mother’s statement, ‘This is not a reconciliation,’ confused his father.

Dustin loved his father, there was no doubt. But the older Dustin got the more he understood his father and the situation. Each breakup his parents had was like a grade level in school, learning more with each passing year; seeing things clearly and deciphering them without exactly being told the facts. But Dustin didn’t have to be an Einstein to figure out the last breakup. Even Christian in his own world saw that one for what it was.

Pap and Grandma Hughes had been killed in a car accident. Dustin watched his father not handle the deaths, and then he woke up one morning, went in to tell his mother the alarm clock was going off, and he didn’t have to watch his father anymore.

Gone. His father was gone. A simple note on the coffeepot telling Dylan he had to get his head straight, was all there was.

No money. No word. Nothing for three months. What shocked Dustin the most was Dylan. Never did his mother speak ill of his father. She actually defended him, which pissed Dustin off, but he hid his feelings. When his father finally returned, Dustin welcomed him back, but he swore he would never really see his dad the same way. And he didn’t. That didn’t keep him from wanting his father in his life and being a part of his daily activities, however, Dustin was mature enough to know he could have his father in his life without having his father be in Dylan’s life.

It was, by far, the longest span of time his parents were ever apart. And though almost every child of estranged parents fantasized seeing them reconciled, Dustin did not. He realized that when he saw what they were like apart. Or rather what his mother was like.

Dustin liked the fact that his mother rambled on, complained, and talked a lot instead of being silent, muffled by his father who spoke for her all the time. He enjoyed her recent silly antics much more than when she acted reserved and shy. He looked forward to hearing her stories about the people she met while out, and he stopped minding the stupid country love songs she blasted in the house while singing them loudly and badly. He liked that his mother wore makeup, let her hair grow long, smiled all the time, and said ‘fuck’ once too often.

He liked what his mother evolved into in the course of seven months, and he didn’t want to see his mother revert to what she had been, even if it was at the cost of his father being hurt. To Dustin it was justified. How many times had his father hurt his mother?

Christian caught the slight huff of irritation Dustin produced when the screen door slammed and his father stepped in and walked through the living room. “Rewind?” Christian asked.

“Um, yeah.” Dustin rested his face on his hand. “Please. I can’t enjoy that move.”

Christian hit rewind.

Another huff escaped Dustin when he heard his father banging around in the kitchen, the clank of a tin can in the recycle bin, and his father retrieving another beer.

“Still watching?” Sam asked as he walked into the living room.

“Dad?” Dustin looked up. “Don’t you think you’ve drunk enough?”

Sam laughed. “Listen to you.” He took a drink. “When’s your mom coming home? Where is she?”

Dustin didn’t respond, he only signaled Christian to rewind, yet again.

“I’m starting to get upset here. It’s late,” Sam said. “I thought tonight she’d be here since it’s my first night home.”

“Don’t,” Christian warned when he saw Dustin turn to face his father.

It caught Sam’s attention. “Don’t what?” He smiled. “Dustin? What doesn’t he want you to do? Is your mom planning a surprise for me?”

“Dad,” Dustin said with some sadness, “you aren’t that naïve, are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You and mom aren’t back together,” Dustin explained. “You’re only living here.”

“But that won’t be for long,” Sam told him. “Really, is it ever?”

“This time, it might be. No…” Dustin hesitated, “I know it is.”

Christian whined. “Aw. Now why’d you tell him? You shouldn’t tell him.”

Dustin snapped a disgusted look at his brother. “I didn’t tell him anything.”

“Oh.” Christian returned to the television.

Slowly Sam moved to the couch. “Now you did.” He swallowed. “What? If it’s about your mom being involved with Tracy, I know…”

“Tracy?” Dustin asked. “It’s not some girl. Geez, Dad. Mom’s not a lesbian.”

Christian looked embarrassed. “Can we not discuss lesbians?”

“Dustin,” Sam crouched down to the couch, “your mom may have been confused while I was gone. Got emotionally tied up with some woman, deepened the friendship more…”

“Ugh!” Dustin shrieked. “Stop that. My mother’s not a lesbian. I would know.”

“Please,” Christian begged, trying to block them out.

Sam ignored Christian. “No, Dustin I do know. Where do you think she is now?’

“Not with some woman named Tracy. She’s with who she’s always with. Mick.”

Sam stood to his feet. “Mick?” After a brief hesitation, Sam chuckled. “Mick’s not a concern. She uses him.”

“She loves him.” Dustin stood as well. “And… and…” Trying to sound grown up and calm, Dustin finished, “And she’s happy, Dad. Really happy.”

“Is that where’s she been? Really? With Mick this whole time?”

Dustin nodded, and before he could look up his father had flown from the living room and into the kitchen. He heard the cellar door bang open. “What’s he doing?”

“See, now.” Christian stood up. “You opened your mouth.”

“You started it.”

“No, you did,” Christian argued.

“Oh, yeah? Who’s the one…” Dustin looked up at the sound of his father’s angry steps and he panicked. “Dad!” He charged toward his father, who raged to the door holding a shotgun. “Dad! No! I was kidding.” Dustin gave a quick snicker. “Wasn’t I, Chris?”

Christian hesitated and he tried to fake a laugh as well. “Yeah. Bad joke.”

Sam looked at both of his boys. “Thanks. But I think I needed that blast of reality. And now, I need to do this.” He pulled away from Dustin and flung open the door.

“No!” Dustin screamed. “Don’t go after Mom. Don’t!”

“I’m not doing anything to your mom,” Sam spoke calm. “I’m only killing Chief Owens.” With these final words, before Dustin could stop him again, Sam was gone.

“Shit!” Dustin shrieked. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“Oh my God,” Christian panicked. “He’s gonna kill Mick.” He calmed down then looked at his brother. “Can he kill Mick?”

“I don’t know. We have to let him know though.” Hurrying, Dustin moved to the phone and picked it up. “I’ll call.” He frantically dialed. “Shit.” he hung up.

“What?” Christian asked.

“It’s busy.”

“Keep dialing.”

Dustin returned with resolve to the task.

* * *

With the modern country music playing, Mick finished pulling his hair into a neater ponytail. He glanced at his watch and turned around with a smile. “We have ten minutes, we can make it, Dylan, before Sweet Treats closes.”

Slipping on her shoes, fully dressed, Dylan stood up. “Why do you want to run down there?”

“You know it’s an idiosyncrasy of mine. I like ice cream after we make love.”

“Then you should have bought some.” She turned to the bed.

“Right.” Mick laughed. “That means I was assuming you’d sleep with me. I never make that assumption with you.”

Dylan gasped. “You are so rude.”

“I’m honest. Now hurry.”

“Why can’t you smoke afterwards like normal people?”

Mick shut off the stereo and walked to the bed. He grabbed her hand from the covers. “Don’t worry about making this. Let’s go.”

“Fine.” Dylan stopped. Stepping to leave, she backtracked. “Oh! The phone.” Reaching to the night stand she replaced the receiver. The second she did, it rang.

Mick moaned.

“Hush.” Dylan lifted it. “Hello.”

Fervently, quickly, Dustin spoke into the phone, “Mom. Oh my God, Mom, tell Mick, Dad’s coming over there to shoot him.”

“Your father’s on his way to do what?”

BOOM. The bedroom door crashed open. Sam racked a round into the chamber, lifted the shotgun, and aimed it at Mick.

“Dustin, I’ll call you back.” Blindly, Dylan hung up the phone.

Two inches was all that separated the barrel of the shotgun and Mick’s face. Mick kept his eyes steady on Sam who glared back at him. The gun didn’t waver, and that concerned Mick.

“Sam,” Mick said calmly. “What are you doing?”

“Yeah, Sam,” Dylan snapped. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Dylan,” Mick gave a calm warning.

Sam exhaled harshly. “I can’t believe you did this to me.”

“Who?” Dylan asked with edge. “Me or Mick.”

“You,” Sam told her.

“Well, then if I did this to you why the fuck are you holding the gun on Mick?”

“Dylan.” Mick grumbled her name.

“Put the goddamn gun down, Sam, you asshole!” Dylan yelled.

“No.” Sam shook his head. “I have to kill him. He took you from me.”

“Oh, he did not.”

“Did you sleep together?” Sam asked emotional. “Did you!” He looked at Mick. “Did you sleep with my wife?!”

Gun pointed at him too close for comfort, Mick answered, “No.”

Dylan edged closer. “And really that’s none of your business, now is it. Put the gun down, Sam.”

Mick inwardly cringed. “Dylan, please. The man has a shotgun pointed at my face.”

“Yes, Mick, I see that,” Dylan said. “I’m trying to help.”

“By pissing him off?”

“I am not pissing him off!” Dylan yelled. “He’s pissing me off. Sam! Put it down!”

“Dylan!” Mick snapped.

“No!” Sam shouted. “I’m shooting him.”

“No, you aren’t,” Dylan argued.

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

Mick watched Sam’s trigger finger. ‘She’s taunting him? Right now? She’s taunting him?’

“Sam.” Dylan breathed out his name with calmness, “you don’t have it in you.”

“Geez, Dylan,” Mick spoke through his clenched jaws. “Please don’t try to help.”

Dylan ignored Mick. “Sam, come on. This isn’t gonna prove anything. What? You shoot Mick. Not only will I hate you for it, you’ll be in jail. What’s that gonna solve or prove? Put down the gun, I’ll walk outside with you, and we’ll talk.”

Mick felt the anger rise in his chest. “Like hell you will, Dylan. The man has a gun. No.”

“She’s my wife!” Outraged, Sam edged the shotgun closer.

“I know she’s your wife!”

Watching both men heatedly stare at each other, Dylan saw her opportunity and gently placed her hand on the shotgun and lowered it. She stepped to Sam whispering, “Let’s go outside. Come on.”

Mick, though he didn’t show it, was losing it inside, yelling, screaming, ready to kill Dylan. ‘He has a gun to my face and she touches it? Oh, she’s gonna hear about this. She will definitely hear about this.’

“Sam?” Dylan spoke his name again.

Sam let the gun dangle in his hand at his side. “Tell me, Dylan. Just tell me the truth.”

Dylan stared at him. “It’s over this time, Sam. It’s really over. I’m with Mick.”

Sad, Sam swallowed heavily. “Do you love him?”

Mick watched. He kept his eyes on Sam who still had his finger on the trigger. How long Mick had waited to hear Dylan admit her love, not only to him, but to Sam and anyone else who asked. Never would she own up to it. Of all the times he wished she would come clean about her feelings, he had to admit, the current moment—enraged spouse with a shotgun—was not one of them.

“Yes,” Dylan replied.

Mick cringed.

Sam nodded. “I see.” He tossed the strap of the shotgun over his shoulder. “I’m sorry I did this. I’m… I’m really sorry.” He stepped back.

“Sam.” Dylan reached to him.

“No.” With partially closed eyes, Sam shook his head. “I’m going home. I’m sorry.” He looked at Mick then Dylan, and finally turned and walked away.

Dylan let out a soft ‘whew’ of relief then noticed Mick rushing to the phone. “What are you doing?”

“Calling the station for backup. He’s armed. I’m grabbing his ass before he reaches the end of the street.”

“Can you call the boys first?” Dylan asked. “Dustin seemed a bit upset.”

“Dylan!” Mick snapped. “You are failing to see the seriousness of this—”

“Dylan!” Sam was calling her name from outside.

Dylan, curious, headed to the window. She parted the curtain and peered out. “Oh, shit.”

Sam stood in the front lawn, shotgun aimed under his chin. He looked at her. “I love you.”

Bang.

The phone dropped from Mick’s hand, and in the midst of Dylan’s scream, he flew out of his bedroom and from his house.

Mick paused slightly after the screen door slammed and his foot thumped onto the porch. He hesitated when he saw Sam’s body lying in the front yard. Mick pulled his shirt off as he lunged off the porch; he had to get to him, because clearly, despite what Sam had done, he was not dead.

His throat was tight with emotion and his voice husky when Mick called out as he reached Sam. “Dylan! Call emergency services! Hurry!” Mick dropped into the damp grass saturated with Sam’s blood. He sighed, his hand still holding the shirt, “Oh, Sam…”

Sam was alive, his eyes wide open and slightly rolled back. His arms were extended, rigid. His entire body spasmed.

Mick slipped his arms under Sam’s body, lifting him up in order to do his best to stop the bleeding. Though he pressed the shirt against Sam, he knew it was useless. Mick was stopping nothing. He was merely holding back the section of face and side of Sam’s head that was still attached by only a fragment of skin.

“Goddamn it, Sam, what did you do?” he asked with passion. “Why’d ya’ go and do this?” Mick stayed focused on Sam, hearing Dylan faintly as she cried hysterically behind him. She sounded far off, as if in a tunnel, but she was close, Mick knew. His jaw tensed and his teeth ground together as he held back a combination of feelings that all fought to surface. Anger, sadness, confusion.

Sam’s eyes shifted, connected with Mick’s. Huffs, short gasps of labored breath emanated from him. His lips parted, and he stuttered barely-heard words. “Dust… Dust…”

“Dustin?” Mick asked.

“Love… love…”

“I’ll tell him.” Mick swallowed emotionally. “I’ll… I’ll tell him, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes closed.

Mick held him tighter, closing his own eyes when he heard the sirens of the approaching ambulance.

* * *

Dylan watched through the small window as they worked on Sam. The small thirty-bed clinic was not only ill-equipped to handle Sam’s injuries, but Dylan knew they were ill-experienced as well. She folded her arms tighter against her blood-covered body as her mind said silent, strong prayers, wanting desperately to turn her eyes from the awful sight but unable to pull herself from it. How long did those few minutes seem? How many times since they dropped Sam onto that emergency room cart did she wish Mick, who stood right behind her, would pull her away from looking at the tragedy she knew that she had caused?

“BP sixty over forty.” Alice, the attending ER nurse, looked at the monitor then back to the IV she was inserting.

Dr. Evans let out a short frustrated breath. He, too, looked at the monitor, heard it as he reached over Sam’s heavily bandaged head to gently and quickly reach into his mouth. “Hold on, Sam. Hold on. He’s tightening up,” Dr. Evans spoke as he held a tube. “I can’t intubate him. Damn it!”

“Forty over twenty. Pulse thirty.”

“I know.” Dr. Evans tried diligently, his eyes moving rapidly from the monitor, to Sam, to the tube. His finger forced open Sam’s mouth as he struggled to insert the breathing tube. “Come on, Sam. Let me in.”

“Dropping fast.”

“I know!” he said frustrated.

“We’re losing him, Doctor.”

“Damn it,” he snapped, “I know.” He exhaled loudly as the tube slipped through. “I’m in.”

Flatline.

The beeping of the heart monitor froze them both as it rang out in the room.

Alice moved quickly, pulling the crash cart forward. She rushed it to Dr. Evans, and yanked forth a tray. “Twenty milligrams epinephrine?” she asked.

Dr. Evans lifted his trembling hands.

“Doctor?” she questioned.

Dr. Evans peered over his shoulder. He looked at Dylan on the other side of the window, then back down at Sam, his open eyes, head bandaged and bloodied. With a long, slow blink and a shake of his head, Dr. Evans reached up and shut off the screaming monitor. Silence filled the room.

“Doctor?” Alice whispered curiously.

“Time it.” Stepping back, Dr. Evans looked back at Dylan and watched sadly as her head dropped forward and her hand slid down the glass leaving a bloody trail of defeat.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lodi, Ohio

August 27th

Scrambled eggs, sausage, potatoes. Basically anything that could be reheated without being ruined was what Mick sought. “And just toss them in separate containers.” Mick said to Cook, who stood behind the counter at Jean’s Diner in the extremely early hours of the day. “You know, eggs in one, so on. I just wanna toss it on the table.”

“Got it.” Cook nodded and said he’d get right on it, despite the fact that he was short a waitress.

“Thanks.”

Tired. Mick was tired and he lowered himself down to the stool at the counter. He looked up with a sad smile when Belinda set a cup of coffee in front of him before she darted off to her customers. Mick pulled it forward and sipped. Setting down the cup, he rubbed the corners of his eyes. And in closing them to do so, all he saw was Sam.

Mick thought it was a nightmare seeing what Sam did to himself, watching him die. But it was nothing compared to the nightmare of facing Sam’s three boys and telling them their father was gone.

Mick still felt it in his stomach, a malignant pain that gnawed at him. The night didn’t get better. Not one bit. There were tears, but not a lot; they would come in profusion when the shock wore off. The abundance of hurt in the Hughes’ home this morning was only a scratch on the surface of things to come.

Mick was all too aware of what would occur. He had been there. The look on Dylan’s face and the quiet pain she expressed, Mick had seen before on his own mother. He remembered all too well the feelings of denial and disbelief when he was a child and his own father walked out the door, never to return. Not that Mick’s father deliberately took his own life, but in a way, he did.

Angry, loud shouting preceded the tossing of the last of many empty beer cans his father produced that fatal night. He fought with Mick’s mother, and Mick, a mere thirteen, only turned up the television; he was so accustomed to it, so immune. What Mick didn’t expect was that his father would storm out, jump on his bike and crash not a mile down the road.

Thinking of his father made Mick look down at his keys that rested on the counter. He glanced at the thick plastic cloverleaf and his thumb brushed over it. Old, faded, the color almost bleached out. His father had it for years before Mick took it.

When he closed his eyes, he heard an echo of young Sam’s voice:

“Oh, man,” Sam said with the dreamy enthusiasm of a fourteen-year-old boy. “Oh, man, Mick.”

They were so young. Mick could see Sam’s face, the backward baseball cap he wore as the two of them walked to the motorcycle parked off to the side of Mick’s trailer home, a bike that was beaten, dirty, and ugly.

“My Uncle Leo gave it to me last month,” Mick said to Sam. “Don’t work.”

“That’s why I’m here.” Sam smiled and set down the tool box. “Oh, man.”

“You keep saying that,” Mick stated.

“How come you waited so long to tell me?” Sam examined the bike. “You know I could fix it.”

“Can you?” Mick asked.

“Heck, yeah,” Sam scoffed with a snicker. “Ain’t I the best?”

“Next to your dad.”

“He taught me.” Sam crouched down before the bike. “So, you didn’t answer. How come you didn’t tell me?”

“Embarrassed.” Mick shrugged as he crouched down.

“Embarrassed?” Sam asked, shocked. “What for?”

“Look at it,” Mick pointed.

“Yeah, now. But, Mick, this is gonna be awesome when we’re done. Awesome.”

“You think?”

“I know,” Sam said with certainty. “It’ll be so cool riding it around. All the kids are gonna be so jealous. But better not let Chief Callahan catch you riding. He’ll nail your ass for riding too young.”

“We’ll ride it up here then,” Mick said.

“You gonna let me ride it?”

“Hell, yeah. You gonna fix it for me?”

“You bet.”

“Then you’ll ride.” Mick nodded with a smile. “It’ll be… cool.” He smiled again, his grin meeting Sam’s.

Mick could still see it, that smile on Sam’s young face. Then that vision faded, and the keychain came back into focus when a voice calling his name pulled him from that memory.

“Chief Owens,” the male voice spoke.

Mick turned to see who it was. “Oh, hey, Mr. McCaffrey.” Mick extended his hand.

“Patrick.” He shook Mick’s hand. “Call me Patrick.”

‘What can I do for you?” Mick asked.

“Sorry to bother you. But today is the trip to the zoo, and I have the first group scheduled to go. I didn’t get a confirmation call from Dylan about Tigger. Could you tell her to let me know if I need to pick him up today?”

Mick stammered as he answered. “Um, I don’t know if today is gonna be a good day. Then again it might be. See, Sam Hughes… the boys’ father, he had an accident last night. Was killed.”

“Oh my God,” Patrick whispered in shock. “I didn’t know.”

“You would have eventually. It’s still early.”

“That’s awful. I’m sorry. Um…” Patrick fought for the right words. “Had I known I wouldn’t have bothered you with this.”

“No, no.” Mick noticed the large brown bag placed on the counter, and he stood up. “You know, thinking about it, I’ll mention it to Dylan. It might be what Tigger needs. What time?”

“Noon.”

Mick nodded. “I’ll get back to you.”

“I appreciate it,” Patrick said. “Thanks.”

Cook pushed the bag to Mick. “How’s Dylan doing?”

“She’s doing,” Mick replied. “I expect her to be better today than tomorrow. Today’s busy. Lots to do. Funeral home, church and stuff. Boys need suits. So she won’t be able to think too much about it for that long.” Mick reached into his pocket. “How much for the food?”

Cook shook his head. “On us.”

“Thank you.” Mick lifted the bag. “I’d better head over there.” He started to leave.

Cook called out to Mick before he left, “Tell Dylan we’re thinking about her.”

Mick nodded as he walked out. He too was thinking about Dylan. Dylan and the boys, they were all he could seem to think about.

* * *

Anchorage, Alaska

Garbage day.

Bill absolutely hated it. And despite the fact that he knew, rain or shine, what day of the week it fell on, Bill always forgot.

He could have let that one lone bag of garbage go. It could sit outside in the can until the following week’s pick up, but he was neurotic about it, and he was awake. Actually, being awake wasn’t a choice for Bill. He slipped into a violent coughing spell that woke him. No position—sitting, on his side, back, stomach—nothing stopped the cough. His stomach hurt from trying to break it up. Nothing was helping, and, feeling too poorly to just lay there, Bill got out of bed.

He greased himself down with VapoRub hoping that would break through the mucus factory that was thriving in his head and chest, but it didn’t. The cough medicine didn’t relieve him either. Whatever Bill had was kicking his ass, and he couldn’t recall ever feeling so badly.

There was a certain amount of dread that went along with the thought of going outside. Thinking that he didn’t want to take his chilled body outside into the cold, Bill doubted that he had the energy to accomplish the task, but he tried.

As soon as he stepped out the back door, a wave of dizziness hit him. Attributing it to the change of temperature and his poor equilibrium, Bill trudged on. Halfway through the twenty-foot journey, like a car running out of gas, Bill lost all energy.

What had happened? He barely could move. The small yard looked like a field to him. Everything felt slanted, like a bad amusement park ride. And each step he took caused everything around him to spin more.

The closer the cans came into focus, the longer it felt it took him to arrive, but he did. Why he bothered he didn’t know. Bill knew, to hell with the garbage can, that as soon as he found something to grip onto and catch his breath, he was going to turn right back around, head into the house, and collapse.

Bill never made it.

Hands reaching for the plastic of the trash container, everything went blurry then black. His trembling hands missed right as a wave of panic swept over him, and then Bill fell face forward into the cans.

* * *

Barrow, Alaska

What hit Paul the hardest wasn’t the fact that the flu was in Barrow. He expected that, it was no surprise. What hit him hard were the numbers, numbers that would eventually be the groundwork in calculations made about the devastation of the flu. Was it perfect timing? One day earlier, one simple day earlier, and Winston would have walked out of Barrow giving them a clean slate. One day. How frightening that was to Paul. Twenty-four hours seemed so minuscule in the scope of time, but when dealing with something such as this flu, it was massive.

It was a small town, but it was big enough to produce terrorizing statistics.

Barrow, Alaska: Population 4,500.

It was Wednesday when Paul stood with his team in Barrow. Three full days prior, the first person showed outward symptoms of the flu. An elderly lady, a health aide who used herbal cures, recalled one sick person on Sunday morning, and by the evening she had forty people seeking her help.

Had the next morning not dawned with even more people sick, she wouldn’t have sought out conventional experts. But she did, because on Tuesday more were knocking on her door, and the ones she had treated earlier had begun to fail faster than she had ever witnessed.

By Tuesday evening the number of flu victims was too large to ignore. Then Winston Research showed up.

Numbers had been collected. People suffering, lying in their homes awaiting treatment, some gathered in the school, they were all counted. The flu was full-blown in Barrow, and at that instant in time, that Wednesday morning, reported illnesses had reached a number of twenty-seven hundred.

It was far from over, far from running its course in Barrow, and Paul knew it, because he knew this particular version of the flu.

Paul calculated and projected using the figures he had and his knowledge of the flu, and peering at the numbers made him feel sick.

Taking into account the incubation period, the communicability rate of infection, along with the rate of death of those infected, when it was all said and done, Barrow, Alaska, Population 4500, would be… Barrow Alaska, population 105.

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

Mick worked at Tigger’s hair as if it were a highly complicated art project. Fixing it, messing it up, starting all over. Kneeling down, almost sitting before the small child in the kitchen, Mick took the comb to his hair again.

“There,” Mick said. “Got it now. Looks good.”

Over the running water, while doing dishes, Dylan spoke, “Go to work, Mick.”

“I was fixing his hair.”

“Go back to work.”

Mick stood. “You look good, Tigger. Go on, wait in the living room. Mr. McCaffrey will be here soon.”

“Okay,” Tigger smiled, “Mom? Thanks for letting me go.”

Dylan looked over her shoulder and smiled gently as Tigger darted out. She finished washing and rinsing a glass, and reaching to set it in the drainer, she noticed Mick standing right there. “What?” she asked absently.

“How are you holding up?” Mick laid his hand on her cheek.

Dylan turned her head to face her sink of dishes. “As well as to be expected. You should get back to work.”

“I know… Tigger is holding up well.”

“Tigger’s young.”

“How’s Chris.”

“Chris?” Dylan spoke with a sigh. “He’s out riding his bicycle like nothing even happened.”

Mick nodded in understanding. “Dustin?”

“Quiet.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Mick.” Dylan shut off the water. “Go to work.”

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep stopping by.”

“I need to check on you guys,” Mick said. “I’m worried.”

“Don’t be.”

“Are you… are you mad at me about something?” Mick asked.

“Yes.” Dylan faced him. “You keep on stopping by.”

“So.”

“So?” Her voice rose just a little. “Don’t you think, today, this house is the last place you should be?”

Confused, Mick looked at her. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Dylan sighed as she rubbed her forehead. “Don’t you think the boys, right now, don’t need a visual reminder of one of the reasons they don’t have their father?”

Mick’s eyes widened as he stood up straight. He took a step back and stopped. “I am not the reason he pulled that trigger, and I am not the reason for Sam’s suicide.”

Dylan gasped, “Are you implying I’m the one?”

“No,” Mick snapped. “Where in God’s name did you get that? No one is to blame.”

“Someone has to be.”

Mick moved to Dylan and leaned toward her with a whisper. “Sam is. Suicide…”

“Stop it.” Dylan turned her head from him.

“Face the word, Dylan, that’s what it was.”

Dylan’s eyes closed.

Reaching out, Mick turned her to face him. “This is hard. This is gonna be very hard on you and the boys. But if you don’t face what really happened, it’s gonna be even harder.”

Dylan turned from his embrace. “Please leave.”

Mick nodded. He placed his hand on the back of her neck and pressed his lips to her forehead. “You know where to find me.” After one more soft, quick kiss, Mick walked away. He wasn’t going to allow Dylan to push him away, but he would allow Dylan to have the time and space she obviously needed.

* * *

Los Angeles, CA

Doctor Alberton’s hand firmly patted Trevor’s leg. “What you have, son, is a good old fashioned case of pneumonia.”

In the hospital bed, propped up a little, Trevor let out a slight cough; it rattled thickly in his chest. He was pale, his neck enlarged with swollen glands. Dark circles were under his eyes. “Pneumonia?”

“Yep.” Dr. Alberton nodded. “Both lungs, lower lobes. You’re filled up pretty good.”

“Isn’t it fast?” Trevor asked weakly.

“No. Most people don’t realize, if you get an infection, and you don’t take it easy…” he waved a finger at him, “it goes right to the lungs.”

“What now?”

“We pump you full of antibiotics and insist on rest.”

“Doctor,” Trevor spoke. “I swear I have never been so sick.”

“Well, I’m not gonna lie to you,” Dr. Alberton explained, “you’re very sick. Pneumonia is a serious illness. It’s settled into both your lungs. You have a fight ahead. You are sick. But…” he winked. “You’re not gonna die on us. I promise.” After another pat to his leg, Dr. Alberton walked out.

The words ‘not gonna die’ rang through Trevor’s mind. Even though he was highly paranoid, he wouldn’t have thought that a few hours earlier when he could barely walk, breathe, or see. But since he had never experienced pneumonia before, how was Trevor to know his symptoms were normal? With relief at hearing Dr. Alberton’s diagnosis, Trevor relaxed, rested more easily, and went to sleep.

* * *

Barrow, Alaska

Those who were ill did not want to leave their homes, and the small dwellings they lived in were breeding grounds for the flu.

Paul and his team hit every home they could, collecting symptoms, numbers, and so forth, and compared what was ravishing Barrow to information they already had. It was stacking up, and then some. In Paul’s mind, the worst case scenario was happening.

There was a blanket of secrecy covering the situation, a blanket Paul wanted to see stay in place. Not that he didn’t want the news to get out; more so, he wanted the news, along with the flu, to die right out up in northern Alaska. Paul didn’t need for James Littleton and his canvassing team to return; he knew about the coastal communities. They had to be infected, especially if Barrow was.

There was hope though.

The location worked in his favor. Isolated and distant, commuting between residents was kept mainly to the neighboring Eskimo villages. And if nobody came in from anywhere else, containing the flu was not only possible but highly probable as well.

As long as no other reports came in.

For that Paul relied on hope.

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

Mick carried an aluminum foil pan when he walked into Dylan’s home. He could hear Tom yelling something just before he came down the steps.

“Mr. Roberts,” he said in greeting.

“Hey, Mick. Done for the evening?”

“For a little while,” Mick answered. “Everything all right? I hear yelling.”

“Just trying to get Chris moving and Tigger awake. I want to head them down to JC Penny’s, get them a suit. You know.”

“Yeah. What about Dustin?”

“Has an outfit from the spring dance. Didn’t outgrow it. Of course it was big on him,” Tom said then looked back up the steps. “For the love of God, boys, hurry up.”

Mick looked to the pan he carried, then to Tom. “I just want to drop this off.”

“Marian’s in the kitchen.”

Mick nodded then headed there.

Marian Roberts, Dylan’s mother, looked like the perfect counterpart to Tom. She, too, seemed a throwback from an era long since lost, never without a nice outfit on, her hair done, or an appropriate shade of lipstick. Soft-spoken most of the time, Marian was upbeat and happy, as if she lived the perfect life. In essence, she did. And she acted it. Every single day, Marian acted it. Never gloomy, always pleasant, no matter what the circumstances. Overly compassionate and warm, nothing ever seemed to faze her. It was almost like a Twilight Zone episode.

Turning from her kitchen organizing, Marian saw Mick in the doorway holding a pan. “Good heavens, Michael. More food?”

“Yep. Ham slices, I think.” Mick sniffed it.

“Who from?” Marian lifted a Post-it pad and a pen.

“The Colters.”

Writing down the name, Marian tore the sheet from the pad and laid it on the top of the pan. “Just have to find a place to put it. Dylan is bogged down with food.”

“Want me to put it in the fridge?” Mick asked.

“No, just put it on the table. I’ll make room.”

Mick set the dish down. “All right, I’ll be seeing you.”

“Michael,” Marian called to him. “I’m just about to put supper out, aren’t you staying?”

“No,” Mick answered. “I’m gonna go home. Dylan’s not wanting me around today and the last thing I want to do is upset her.”

“Oh, nonsense.” Marian flung her hand out. “She wants you here.”

“No, ma’am, she doesn’t.”

“Don’t be silly.” Marian walked to the kitchen doorway. “Dylan!”

Mick cringed. “Mrs. Roberts.”

“Hush.” She aimed her voice again. “Dylan!” Smiling pleasantly, Marian pointed. “Did you hear that?”

“What?” Mick asked.

With a fake slightly irritable huff, Marian shook her head and went back into the kitchen. “Tom snuck out with the boys. He’s gonna feed them at the mall. Does that make sense? I have a meal cooking. One would think that a good…”

“Mom, did you…” Dylan slowed down when she saw Mick, “…call me?”

“Yes.” Marian smiled. “Look, sweetheart, the Colters sent some lovely ham slices and Michael here says you don’t want him around. Tell him that’s nonsense, make him wash up, grab Dustin, and we’ll eat.” She flashed another smile and returned to the stove.

“Mom,” Dylan looked at Mick then to her mother, “I’m not telling Mick to stay.”

Offended, Marian turned around. “That would be rude.”

“That’s the way it should be,” Dylan said resolutely. “At least for a while. I mean, how would it look?”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Marian asked. “I understand that. I mean, you were married, your husband dies tragically and Michael is here. But Michael has been here, sweetheart, the whole time Sam wasn’t. Everyone knows he didn’t just pop into the picture. Now I’m one who always worries about how things will look, aren’t I?”

Dylan bobbed her head. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t I get that rash when Uncle Danny showed up while Daddy was out of town? I was scared to death the neighbors would think I was sneaking in a man. If I thought for one moment it wouldn’t look good, I would tell you. It’s fine.” She patted Dylan on the cheek. “Now be nice to Michael and I’ll finish getting dinner done.”

Dylan closed her eyes briefly, turned slightly, and looked at Mick. “You are such a goddamn tattletale, always have been.” She stormed out.

“Dylan, language,” Marian chirped from the stove.

Just as Mick stepped to follow Dylan, through the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Dustin walking across the yard and sitting on the swing. Remembering that he wanted to talk to Dustin, he left Dylan to her tantrum and he went outside.

Dustin pushed the swing slowly, his back toward Mick, head down.

Mick walked up to him, first laying a hand on Dustin’s slumped back then taking the swing next to him. “Hey, Dustin.”

“Mick.”

“How’s it…” Mick saw it. “What in God’s name are you drinking?”

Shaking his head with a slight sad smirk, Dustin held up a beer bottle. “Mom gave it to me.”

“Your mother gave you beer?”

“She said I might need a drink.”

“You’re seventeen years old,” Mick snapped.

“That’s what I told her.” Dustin shrugged. “She said you two were drinking at seventeen.”

“I wasn’t the chief of police back then.” Mick took the beer. “You don’t need this.”

Dustin looked back at the house then leaned into Mick. “I didn’t want it either, but she’s… you know. So I took it.” Slowly, in the silence, Dustin swung back a few times. “Mick? Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Did my Dad really say my name last night? Did he really want you to tell me he loved me?”

Mick closed his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, he did.”

“You aren’t telling me that to make me feel better, are you?”

“No. I wouldn’t do that. I was in your shoes at one time.” Mick looked out over the yard. “And I’ll tell ya, I wish my father would have done that. What a thing to carry with you. Knowing your father made sure you knew he loved you before he left this earth.” Mick took a drink of the beer.

“It… it would help with the guilt I feel.”

Mick quickly turned and looked at him. “I know I can sit here and tell you that you shouldn’t feel guilty. I think you know you shouldn’t feel guilty.”

“But I do. I all but sent him over there. I told him about you and Mom.”

Mick nodded. “And if you didn’t, you think he wouldn’t have done what he did?”

“No. He wouldn’t have.”

“Nope.” Mick shook his head. “Got news for you, Dustin. Your mom and I were on our way over to tell your dad that your mom was moving in with me. He was getting the news last night. And…” Mick took another drink, “do you really think he didn’t know? Sam knew. He was smarter than that. Sam knew. He’s known for a while.”

“If he knew about you and Mom, why he’d do it?” Dustin asked. “You’ve known him forever, Mick. Why’d he do it?”

“I don’t think your father really wanted to kill himself,” Mick spoke softly. “But it was the first time he couldn’t take it back.”

Dustin looked at him curiously. “You mean like with the sleeping pills after Pap and Grandma died?”

“And then some.” Mick played with the beer bottle a few seconds before he said more. “I got your mom in there feeling guilty, you out here feeling guilty. It goes way back with your dad. And it wasn’t a desire to leave this earth, ‘cause I’m gonna tell you, your Dad loved too many things, including you kids, to leave.”

“Then what was it?”

“Sam…” Mick paused. “Sam grabbed for attention with suicide attempts. A lot. The first time was when we were sixteen.”

“Sixteen?” Dustin asked shocked. “My dad tried to kill himself when he was sixteen?”

“He didn’t want to. Keep that in mind. He was on the roof of Bailey’s Drugstore. Said if Coach Hawk didn’t get down there and put him back on the football team he was gonna jump. Now, we knew Sam was pissed. He wanted to get attention, and it was only me and your mom looking up at him on that roof. We told him, it was only twenty feet, he wasn’t gonna die, he’d only break his legs and never play again. Don’t you know—”

“He jumped,” Dustin whispered. “I heard about that. He did break both his legs. That’s how he got the limp.”

Mick nodded. “We never said that he was trying to kill himself. But the second time, your mom told.”

“That was the pills, right, because he was seeing that doctor for a while.”

Mick shook his head. “Your dad joined the service, then he changed his mind. Found out he couldn’t get out of it and tried to slice his wrist. But he used a plastic butter knife, never really made it too deep into the flesh, but the stigma was there. And he got out of going.”

“This time he used a gun, and he couldn’t take it back.”

Mick finished the beer. “No… he couldn’t take it back.”

Dustin breathed out sadly as he stared down at his feet tapping the bare spot. “I’m gonna miss him.”

“Me, too. We all will. And we’ll all be affected by this. Especially you guys and your mom, who hates me right now. But your grandmother yelled at her in that Donna Reed way.”

“Bet Mom was mad.”

“Called me a tattletale.”

“You are,” Dustin said.

“True.” Mick tilted his head in acknowledgement.

“Think she’s still mad about it?”

“Maybe not.” Mick shook his head then turned it at the same time as Dustin when the back porch door slammed.

Dylan stood on the porch. Loudly, bitterly, she growled, “Dinner.” then she stormed in the house.

Mick looked back to Dustin who just stared at him. “Then again,” Mick said, “maybe she is.”

* * *

Barrow, Alaska

Paul had just finished sending the documents electronically to Henry. He awaited word on Winston Messaging for Henry’s reaction. Paul told him basically what the documents said, but somehow Henry didn’t believe him. Perhaps Henry didn’t want to believe Paul. Maybe he could find something Paul had messed up. And Paul was hoping Henry would. Something—anything—to say the findings were wrong, grossly premature. Inaccurate.

They weren’t.

There were four communities along Northern Alaska’s coast, just four. Their total population was less than that of Barrow. But four scattered communities said a lot more than one isolated northern community.

James Littleton visited each town. He assured Paul he wanted nothing more than to dismiss Paul’s findings, but he couldn’t. He went through each community with a fine toothed comb, wanting, like everyone else, for nothing to be there.

They believed the towns would be infected, and they were correct.

Though each community was a day apart in progress of the infection, they were indeed infected. Fast, too. It was spreading rapidly, like wildfire.

The information sent to Henry was simple. Basically breakdowns, the numbers of victims, the symptoms presented. Nothing Paul hadn’t conveyed over the phone. But still he awaited Henry’s thoughts, reaction, and opinion.

And with the ‘beep’ of Henry’s return, Paul got all those in the form of one, short simple message.

HBK_HENRY: Dear God, what have we started?

THE OUTBREAK

From deep within

It finds a way

Out of the darkness

Seeping in

Unknown, unseen

Taking control

Spreading

Like wildfire

Rapid in movement

Claiming territory an inch at time

Without warning

Before we know it

The enemy overtakes

CHAPTER EIGHT

Winston Research Center

Weston, Virginia

August 29th

Although the memo was everything Henry wanted to see and believe, he had as hard a time swallowing the contents as he did any cough medicine.

Classified: CONTAINED.

That was the heading of a memo to Henry issued by the Centers for Disease Control the previous day. The document that Henry had hoped would be a ‘not guilty’ verdict turned into the cause of a night’s lost sleep.

He didn’t understand the classification. How, in one day, could the CDC simply say the flu was contained based solely on the towns infected, location, and initial outbreak? Henry didn’t buy it, not for one second. Perhaps that was the reason he called the emergency meeting; for his own conscience, his own peace of mind, Henry wanted to push the CDC to investigate further. To not let it die. Not yet. He would give his best argument. He had to.

Kurt Wilson from the Centers for Disease Control was the last to arrive at Henry’s meeting, and he arrived with attitude. Irritated that he had to fly in for a meeting that he considered to be unnecessary, he took his seat with six others at the table in the conference room. He flipped through a folder of photos and statistics that he had already seen. It was his call to judge the flu contained, and he wasn’t happy that he was being second-guessed.

“Swine flu, it’ll start out of the blue.” Henry lifted his hands as he spoke to the group. “It disappears just as fast. In 1972 at a small fishing village in Italy, a version of Swine Flu began out of nowhere. Deadly, strong, it was familiar and was tagged ‘Secondo Venire’, meaning, Second Coming. It was given this name by one of the town’s doctors who recognized it all too easily. He had seen it before, or so he thought, sixty years earlier when he was a child during the Spanish Flu pandemic. Because of his discovery, health officials were called in. This doctor was correct, though it was not the Spanish flu; our researchers had it matched down to one strand of eight in the virus that differs. Immediately, health officials closed this town. Quarantined it and surrounding communities. The flu ran its course, no other towns were infected. Case closed.” Henry paused to look at the faces around the table. “Until two weeks later when the flu showed up in a small town in Madagascar, courtesy of ‘fisherman to fisherman’ transfer on a boat making a seven seas journey. What saved the world from another pandemic, deadlier than the Spanish Flu, was the fact that earlier a division of the World Health Organization had set up a lab four miles from this little village. The reason for this little lab being set up there is that Madagascar, as you all know, has been the hot spot of the world for various plagues. The buck stopped there with Secondo Venire.” Henry paced slowly. “But not before it mutated and one teenage boy was hospitalized with a version of plague when he caught this airborne swine flu. The results: Within one week, everyone in that village was dead. Dead.” Henry repeated. “The nearest community was twelve miles away, and since this teenage boy and three others were known to have the plague, travel between the communities had been cut off. Due to those measures Secondo Venire never left Madagascar except in test tubes.”

Slouched to one side, Kurt tapped his pencil on the table. He merely raised his eyes. “Not to sound like, I don’t know, an asshole, but we know this. What’s your point?”

“My point is,” Henry answered, “you have to know how deadly this thing is.”

“We do.”

“No, you don’t.” Henry shook his head. “Listen to me. Ninety-five percent of all those who catch the flu will turn septic. Septic. Their lungs start decaying the second the flu hits them. And it can’t be discovered until it’s too late.”

“Again,” Kurt insisted strongly, “we know this. What is your point?”

In a fit of pique, Henry shook his head. “You’re classifying it contained. You’re marking the episode over.”

“It is.”

“No, it isn’t, you still have—”

“What?” Kurt shifted through his papers. “Four towns displaying the virus. Four. Barrow is at ninety percent, the flu has almost run its course there. The other three are at fifty-, sixty- and seventy-five percent. You want me to keep full staff alert on this? You want me to spend funds we don’t have on warnings and search teams?”

“Yes.”

“For what!” Kurt blasted. “No other reports of this flu have come in.”

Henry laughed quietly. “And how in God’s name is some physician, say in Wisconsin, supposed to know they are dealing with Secondo Venire? How? They will look upon their patient as someone with the ordinary flu. Cold symptoms, then pneumonia, the normal routine. Until the patient, every patient, dies. If they don’t know to look for it, how the hell are they supposed to report it?”

“They won’t have cases to report,” Kurt said. “When the World Health Organization gave Winston the flu to research, they put you and others far away. Isolated. We’ve had accidents with this before and you know nothing has ever come of it. It has never breached a fifty-mile radius because of the isolation factor and where it hit. This will be no different. Sorry to say, this is out of the CDC’s hands. To us, it was nothing more than some rural areas with insufficient medical care with an outbreak of the flu.”

Henry stormed to the table. “And what will you tell the technological world when they start dropping like flies?” He ignored Kurt’s scoff. “Are you gonna tell them they all have the flu? Prepare that little speech and prepare for that scenario because this isn’t over.” He shook his head. “It’s far from over.”

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

Home.

But there had to be an error. A mix-up of some kind, Lars Rayburn figured. Not only did he smell dust when he opened the door, but the house was dark. He guessed the woman he usually hired must have forgotten the date of his arrival in Lodi, which was unusual. No one ever forgot when he came home.

For years when he came home at the end of August, the same woman would arrive the day before and prepare his house. Not that he needed it, but Lars liked the idea of returning to his house in Lodi as if he had never left it. The woman made sure of that. Dust free, drapes open, fresh fruit, a newspaper, and a refrigerator full of food. He began to think perhaps she hadn’t received the letter and check he’d sent three weeks earlier. Hoping that at least the power company had gotten his check, Lars reached for the light switch. As soon as he thought, ‘ah, power,’ the bulb burned out with a fizzle and pop.

“Swell.” Lars shook his head, set down his bag and walked into the living room. “Two down, how about the third?” He lifted the receiver on the phone. “Well, GTE certainly received my check.” Happy to hear the dial tone, Lars made his call. His face lit up when he received an answer. “Hello? Tom? Lars Rayburn. Good, good. Hey, Tom, I was wondering. Is everything all right with Dylan? She never came to prepare the house.” There was silence, then Lars sadly took in the news he hadn’t expected to hear less than ten minutes into his homecoming.

* * *

Barrow, Alaska

The older man sat up in the bed pushed into the corner of his bedroom in his one-story home. The television played, and he kept peering over Paul’s shoulder to see the bad reception, which was a task since Paul was wearing a large blue biohazard outfit.

Paul knew the old man’s attention wasn’t with him, but he continued with his task anyhow. Of all the older people Paul had seen, the old man was one of few who had given into the modern convenience of television. Everything about Barrow really surprised Paul while he was there. Hearing it was the largest Eskimo settlement, Paul had envisioned a world of igloos, not a tiny village on a small technological ride.

Paul finished what he was doing and smiled through the suit’s facial mask.

“You’ve had a big drop in temperature, so I’m going to say you are well on your way to beating this flu.” What Paul wanted to add was that the man was one of very few.

The old man looked from the television to the window. “I can see the street. I walk it every day. Today I see no one walking. No cars. No noise.”

Paul sighed heavily and began to put away his things. “People are sick with this flu.”

“Everyone?”

Paul nodded. “Pretty much.”

“And they are all healing now?” he asked.

“Pretty much.” Paul stood up. It was a far cry from the truth, but in Paul’s mind, why tell the man any differently? Though they hadn’t lost the numbers Paul had originally projected, the numbers of fatalities was frighteningly close.

“I’ll let you rest. I’ll check back tomorrow,” Paul said with a nod, noticing the old man returned to looking at the television. As he turned to leave, Paul noticed it. It hadn’t been there the day before. With an odd smile, he lifted the handheld electronic device. “This shocks me,” Paul said.

The old man, confused, looked at him.

“That you have this, I mean.” Paul explained.

“I tried to play the games, but it doesn’t work.”

Curious, Paul looked down. “It’s not a game unit. It’s called a pocket organizer. Didn’t they tell you that when you purchased it?”

“I did not buy it. It was left behind last week by a story man who was in town.”

Panic immediately hit Paul. “Last week?”

“Yes. Two of them.”

Fumbling through his gloves, Paul turned on the pocket organizer. He knew his hopes that the storyteller was from one of the coastal communities was in vain when he saw the owner’s name and information: Bill Daniels, Lighthouse Publications, Anchorage, Alaska.

“May I take this?” Paul asked.

“It is broke.”

“Yes, I know. May I?”

“Yes,” the man answered.

Having a hard time disguising his concern, Paul hurriedly excused himself and left the house. He was told by everyone he’d interviewed that no strangers had come into town. He’d banked on that and he’d lost. If some reporter from Anchorage was in Barrow one week earlier, he didn’t just return home with a story; he could have very well returned home with the flu.

Paul knew he had to immediately send someone to locate Bill Daniels. As he stepped outside, he froze. He couldn’t move. It overwhelmed him. Something he normally didn’t even think twice about threw him into a personal frenzy. A wave of fear paralyzed Paul when he stepped off the stoop and sneezed.

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

Three in a row, Dustin, Chris and Tigger, all sat on the couch, biggest to smallest. All sat the same, hands folded, and the three of them all wore black pants, a white dress shirt, and a black tie.

As if they’d practiced it, at the same time they all slowly peered over their right shoulders when the front door opened.

As Mick stepped in, the unusual sight slowed his pace. “Boys.” He closed the door.

Chris stood up and snickered. “Mick?” he asked in question of the similar outfit Mick wore. “You look… wrong.”

“Wrong?” Mick questioned then checked out his attire. His shirt matched his pants and his tie was neutral. “How do I look wrong?”

“Just not like you. That’s all,” Chris shrugged.

“Where’s your mom?” Mick asked. “Is she still getting ready?”

In sync, all three boys shrugged an answer.

Mick looked at his watch. “She knows what time we have to be at the funeral home, right?”

Again, in sync, they nodded.

“Is she upstairs?” When Mick received the same eerie nonverbal response, he went upstairs. “Dylan.”

“In here,” she answered from the bedroom.

The smell of lemon furniture polish hit Mick before he even turned into the room. “Dylan, the boys are all…” Mick stopped. “What are you doing?”

Dylan stood before her dresser. She wore a pair of jeans and a t-shirt as she wiped the surface of her dresser. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Dylan, first viewing is in twenty minutes. You know we should be there. Get dressed.”

“I have to clean.”

“What?”

“Mick, do you know how many people are gonna come through my home tomorrow after the funeral? I can’t have them thinking I keep a messy house.”

“You do. Big deal.”

Dylan closed her eyes and shook her head. “Would you mind just taking the boys for me?”

“Are you coming?” Mick asked.

“I’ll be by later,” she said nonchalantly.

“You’ll… you’ll be by later?” Mick stepped to her. “Dylan, what the fuck?”

“Mick,” she snapped.

“Get dressed.”

“No.” Dylan picked up the can of polish.

“Then fine, you’ll go like this.” Mick took hold of her arm.

“I said… no!” Dylan whipped the furniture polish from his hand and, in the same motion, threw the can at Mick’s chest.

With a subdued grunt, Mick bit his bottom lip. He lifted his hand, took a breath and calmed himself. “That hurt.”

Dylan bent over and picked up the polish. “I’m sorry, that was wrong. I’m sorry.” She set the can on the dresser and looked up at Mick. “I can’t do it. I can’t go to that funeral home today.”

“I’m not gonna ask you why.”

“Then you know?”

Mick shook his head. “Haven’t a clue why.”

“Then why aren’t you asking me?”

“Because it doesn’t matter.” Mick shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what you want, why you don’t want to go.”

“Yes, it does.”

“No.” Mick stayed firm. “It doesn’t matter what you want. You have three sons down there who just lost their father. They want you there. You’ll go.” Mick moved to the door. “Get dressed. You have five minutes.”

The moment Mick was out the door, Dylan dropped the furniture polish. She wanted to scream and growl her frustration. But she didn’t. As much as she hated to admit it, Mick was right.

* * *

Anchorage, Alaska

The sound of the air passing through his bronchial tubes sounded like a sputtering engine, but Bill Daniels swore it sounded and felt better than it did twenty-four hours earlier.

“No,” he rasped into the phone while lying in his hospital bed. “Don’t be silly, Isabella.” Bill lifted his eyes to the doctor who stood at his bedside. “I’m doing better. My temperature dropped. You go. Go. Your mother needs you. Be careful.” The doctor took the phone from Bill and hung it up. “Well?” Bill asked the doctor.

“Well,” the doctor exhaled. “Definitely we’re seeing an improvement in the pneumonia.”

“This is the worst case I have ever had,” Bill stated. “I’ve gotten it be—”

The doctor waited. He noticed that Bill’s eyes shifted to the door. “Mr. Daniels, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, shit.” Bill looked panicked.

The doctor spun around. He recognized the biohazard suits of the four-person group that entered the room. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Lexi Martin,” the small black woman spoke through her suit. “I’m from the Centers for Disease Control.” She moved to the bed. “Bill Daniels?”

Bill, eyes wide, nodded.

“Sorry to alarm you. We’re going to need to run some tests.” She looked back at Bill’s physician. “Doctor, if you will go with my team, they’ll be happy to answer any questions you have.”

Bill watched his doctor agree and walk out. “What about me?” Bill asked then coughed. “What about my questions?”

“I’ll get to them. I’ll get to them all,” Lexi said softly. “But there is something I need answered from you right now.” She lifted her clipboard. “Think, Mr. Daniels. I need names of all those you have been in direct contact with since your return from Barrow.”

CHAPTER NINE

Lodi, Ohio

What was it about Lars Rayburn? Patrick McCaffrey really wondered. He’d heard about the legendary man since his first day in Lodi; now the man himself had arrived. Patrick stood in front of what he thought was a rather cheesy flower arrangement and watched Lars. Physically, there was nothing outstanding about the man. He actually looked to Patrick like some middle aged man who didn’t realize he was no longer twenty. Lars smiled a lot, but that couldn’t be it. There was nothing familiar about Lars’ name, no famous ring to it. Yet when he walked into the packed funeral home, the waves of people parted to make room for his entrance. They flocked to the book where Lars signed his name; they made excuses to touch him as if he were the second coming of Jesus Christ.

Nothing in particular struck Patrick about Lars, and when he asked people about Lars they gasped in offense and walked away. But there was definitely some sort of affect Lars had on people, because when Patrick saw Lars head his way, he actually felt a nervous twitch as if he were about to meet some tremendously important celebrity. Patrick perked up, stood up straight when Lars walked right to him.

Lars extended his hand to Patrick. “Are you blocking my flower arrangement on purpose?”

“Huh?” Patrick looked behind him. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Kidding.” Lars smiled. “That’s not mine. I wouldn’t send something so… cheesy.”

Patrick was about to agree, but he refrained just in case it was a trick of some sorts.

“Lars Rayburn,” he introduced himself. “Are you from Lodi?”

“Yes,” Patrick answered.

“I know everyone in Lodi. I don’t know you,” Lars said.

“Patrick McCaffrey. Nice to meet you.”

“You’re joking.”

“About?” Patrick asked.

“Your name. You’re getting me back for the flower remark.”

“No, that’s my name,” Patrick said.

“You’re of…” Lars waved a finger in the air as he stared at Patrick. “Hispanic descent. Your family came from southern Mexico, at least one of them is certainly from that region. Your other parent I am going to guess, mostly Hispanic, but partly Filipino? I definitely see Filipino. I’d know for sure if I saw your areola.”

“My-my areola?” Patrick stuttered out the word.

“Yes, the color portion that surrounds your nipple,” Lars stated. “Most people don’t realize that the breast can indicate one’s nationality.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Am I correct?”

Patrick shrugged. “You’d be the expert. I wasn’t even aware of the nipple thing.”

Lars snickered. “Not the nipple thing. Your descent.”

“As a matter of fact…” Patrick smiled, “yes. My mother was half Filipino.”

“Goddamn if it isn’t my favorite pastime. Some people guess weights, I guess nationality. So what’s with the name Patrick McCaffrey?”

Patrick, with an ornery grin, leaned closer to Lars, whispering. “It’s an alias.”

“Oh,” Lars nodded, “I see. Hiding from the law?”

“Absolutely.” Patrick grinned.

“Good. Good luck. And while you’re the master of hiding, keep hiding that plant, will ya?” Lars winked. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. McCaffrey. Hope to see you in town.” Lars shook hands once more, turned around, and called out as if he were at the social event of the season. “Rose, you’re looking wonderful.”

Laughing about his brief meeting with Lars, Patrick couldn’t help but think how nice the man seemed. But unless it was the nipple-nationality thing, Patrick still didn’t have a clue what the big deal was about Lars Rayburn.

Mick handed Dylan a sweater and a tiny paper cup of water as she stood close to the coffin receiving visitors. He didn’t understand what the deal was on the shot’s worth of water. To Mick, the state regulations allowing no beverages in a funeral home was pretty stupid, especially when he and Sam would opt to have kegs set up next to the entrance.

He passed the water and sweater to Dylan with a gentle smile that conveyed if she needed him, he was there. Mick pretty much kept his distance, talking to those in the funeral home, watching the boys who tried, but couldn’t, hide the fact they felt extremely uncomfortable.

“Mick,” Dustin’s whispering voice called to him.

Thinking, ‘Thank God,’ the moment Mick heard his name, he excused himself from the conversation with Mrs. Rose, grateful he didn’t have to listen to another story about yet another one of her young relatives who had died prematurely due to bizarre, gross diseases.

Mick saw Dustin standing in the hallway just outside the arched entrance to the viewing room. Mick made his way over to him. “What’s up?”

“Can you do something about him?” Dustin griped.

“Who?” Mick asked.

Dustin pointed toward the main glass doors of the funeral home to Chris, who stood outside. “Him. Come on.”

Mick followed; he needed air anyhow. As soon as he stepped outside, he reached out to Tigger who was spinning over the railing of the porch. He set the small child upright on his feet while never taking his eyes off of Dustin. “Now, what’s going on?”

Chris turned sharply to his brother. “What? Is Mick gonna yell at me?”

“Yes,” Dustin said.

“Hold it.” Mick held up his hand then again reached over grabbing Tigger from the railing. “I’d like to know what I’m yelling about first.”

“Tell him.” Dustin pointed. “It isn’t right. And I bet it’s illegal. Is it illegal, Mick?”

Mick opened his mouth to speak, but Chris interrupted.

“It isn’t illegal,” Chris said. “Besides, I didn’t do it. So I don’t appreciate you yelling at me, Mick.”

“I didn’t—” Mick was soon cut off.

“Oh, he needs to be yelling harder at you,” Dustin said. “It isn’t right.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Stop.” Mick was firm. “What didn’t you do, Chris?”

Dustin answered. “Tell him, Mick. He’s signing bogus names in the register book. Mom’s gonna get all pissed. Tell him.”

“I didn’t.” Chris snapped in defense.

“Did too,” Dustin argued. “Mick, he wrote Stephen King in the book.”

“I did not,” Chris reiterated.

“Oh, yeah,” Dustin scoffed. “Like Stephen King was here.”

Mick jumped in. “He was.”

Both boys turned in shock to look at him.

“Yep.” Mick nodded. “Came in to pay his respects. If you two weren’t outside sneaking that cigarette you would have seen him.”

Dustin exclaimed, “Wow! Why is Stephen King visiting my dad?”

“Your dad knew him.” Mick answered. “In fact, we all went to high school together.”

A puzzled look crossed Dustin’s face. “I thought he was older than you guys.”

“Nah.” Mick shook his head. “Just looks it.”

“I don’t get it,” Chris said; confused. “If Dad knew him, why was he always busting on his books and movies?”

“Huh?” Mick asked then understood. “No. Not Stephen King the author. Steve King of King’s auto parts. Geez. And Tigger get your ass down from that railing.” Mick reached out and snatched him back. The second he did, all four of them, Mick, Tigger, Dustin and Chris, froze in place.

They heard a sound in the distance, soft, rumbling, like thunder rolling in. Louder and louder it became.

“Oh, cool.” Chris lunged for the railing.

“Wow.” Dustin stood next to him.

Lights danced toward them, a million stars headed their way, a blanket of light that paved the road, moving closer and closer, a wall of motorcycles that eventually blocked the entire street when all two hundred plus bikers stopped to pay their respects.

“For Dad?” Dustin asked Mick.

“Yep.” Mick nodded with a smile. “Your dad may have stopped hanging around with the guys a while back, but once a biker, always a biker. They all liked your dad. Gonna be one hell of a send-off tomorrow when they escort the procession.”

Proudly, Dustin gazed at the sight. “Dad would have loved it. Oh, hey, wait… Mick, is that your mom getting off that bike? Yeah, it is.” Dustin lifted his hand high in a wave. “Hey, Mrs. Owens.”

* * *

Anchorage, Alaska

Isabella could barely taste the menthol cough drop, but she thought she felt it somewhat penetrating the blockage, the stuffiness that filled her head. Moving slowly, arms folded tightly against her chilled body, she approached the gate at the airport. Turning her body to reach in the bag, Isabella felt the tightness hit her chest and the cough that emerged, thick and deep, literally sounded like a dog barking.

The ticket woman smiled politely. “Those summer colds are bad, aren’t they?”

“The worst.” Isabella coughed again and handed her the ticket.

“Can I have your attention please?” A male voice spoke over the loudspeaker system. “Will passenger Isabella Lyons please report to Passenger Services. Isabella Lyons, please report to Passenger Services.”

The clerk behind the counter gave her a peculiar look and handed the ticket holder back. “That’s you.”

“Wonder what that’s a… oh, God.” Panic hit Isabella as she took the ticket back. “I hope nothing’s wrong with my boyfriend. He’s in the hospital.”

“Good luck. Passenger Services is at the main terminal.”

“Thanks.” Isabella turned, and with little energy she began her journey back to the other end of the terminal.

Dead.

Even though Passengers Services was located at the end of the airline counters, Isabella still expected to see people. In fact, she didn’t see a soul walking about the main terminal. No passengers, ticket clerks, sky caps, no one. It was so quiet that she actually wondered if she’d stepped into some weird dream sequence, which wouldn’t be farfetched considering how much cold medication she had taken.

She could see the offices of her destination, with the light on inside. Slowly, apprehensively, she walked toward the far wall.

If the emptiness of the terminal didn’t frighten her enough, the sight of the people in the office did.

Three people in what looked to her like yellow radiation suits stood before her, and the moment she stepped in, the door closed behind her. She looked around to see yet another yellow suit. They all looked the same size, and through the tinted face masks she had a hard time determining their gender.

If her head wasn’t stuffed and fogged enough, confusion added to it.

“What… what’s going on?” she asked.

The big brown eyes peered at her through the faceplate of the suit before he spoke. “Are you Isabella Lyons?”

“Yes,” Isabella answered.

“You’ve been in close contact with William Daniels?”

“He’s my boyfriend, yes. What… what is…” Isabella held up her hand, covered her mouth and coughed. She coughed again, deep and rattling.

The man’s eyes widened even more, and he spun with a vengeance and pointed to his coworker behind him. “Confirmed. Get them back on the phone, inform them we have an affirmative and tell them to seal it up,” he said, his voice authoritative. “Seal it up and shut the entire airport down… now.”

* * *

Reston, Virginia

After hanging up the telephone, Kurt made his way to the coffee pot and poured the last of the contents into his cup.

“Well?” Henry asked.

“Shut down,” Kurt answered. “No one gets out. Hospital, too. They have twelve flights on the runway, seven scheduled to return, and six that will be quarantined upon landing.”

Henry closed his eyes. “You realize that this is a wild goose chase.”

“No, it’s a possibility,” Kurt said. “Bill Daniels flew home on a corporate jet. The pilot is not ill. That is good. The girlfriend and Bill both confirmed he got into his car, went straight home and didn’t leave until she brought him to the emergency room.” Kurt took a sip of his coffee. “We’re just waiting for federal approval from FEMA to—”

“Don’t say it.” Henry chuckled in disbelief. “Quarantine Anchorage?”

“Yes.”

Henry laughed again. “Why not the state?”

“If we have to.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“No!” Kurt finally showed emotion. “You were the one not twelve hours earlier trying to get across how deadly this is, how we shouldn’t tag it contained, and now listen to you.”

“I think we should be looking at other options,” Henry stated.

It was Kurt’s turn to scoff. “What other options? You were right. It’s not over. So what other options do we have? How many years, Henry? How many years have eighteen research institutes been trying to beat this virus? How long? And nothing…” Kurt’s hand shot through the air. “Not a whisper of a vaccine has been heard of. Nothing. So we do what we can to contain it. One city, two, a state? Doesn’t matter; if we have to shut down one half of the world to save the other half from dying…” He paused when the phone rang. “Then we will. We have a shot. We really have a shot of keeping this thing under control.”

Henry picked up the phone. “Yeah,” he answered and his eyes lifted, then he rubbed them with a heavy hand. “All right. Get back to me.” He hung up. He stared down at the phone as he talked. “What were you saying about having this under control?”

“That we have a shot.” After realizing that Henry wasn’t asking for a repeat of his earlier comments, Kurt grew concerned. “What? What happened?”

“They found the second reporter.”

“Excellent.” Kurt smiled.

“You think?” Henry said with sarcasm. “He’s not in Anchorage.”

“Then where?” Kurt asked.

Henry hesitated and swallowed before answering. “LA.”

* * *

Los Angeles, CA

The agonizing pain that Trevor felt generated loud, horrid cries of the damned in the final moments of his life. He wasn’t even conscious enough to realize and pinpoint where the pain came from, but it consumed him. His hospital bed was soaked with the black blood that seeped from every bodily orifice.

Dr. Benjamin Anthony from the CDC knew the end was at hand for Trevor, but he couldn’t help but want to fight for him. Fighting for Trevor meant fighting for anyone else who had to go through it.

Caroline Sanders, another doctor from the CDC, held a different opinion. She, Ben and two others diligently toiled over the patient they had just been introduced to an hour earlier. Trevor convulsed as the team watched, marked the occurrences, and photographed it all as the ‘beginning’ in their minds. Registering every second of the event, it was literally a new history in the making, one that generations to come would not soon forget.

“He’s bleeding from somewhere,” Ben stated, eyes glued to the racing heart monitor. “Maybe if we can slow down the—”

“Somewhere?” Caroline ridiculed. “His goddamn organs have melted; they’re just finding their way out.”

Trevor threw his arms out and his neck and back arched as he yelped, a bizarre sound no one had ever heard before. In the midst of the scream, Trevor violently coughed and projected thick dark blood onto Ben’s protective facial shield.

“This has to end.” Caroline shook her head. “Three CCs of morphine.” She held out her hand toward an assistant.

After dropping the end of the blanket he used to smear the blood on his mask, Ben saw the assistant hand the syringe to Caroline. “What are you doing?”

“Ending this.” Caroline lifted the syringe.

“That’s inhumane.” Ben grabbed her hand stopping her.

“No,” Caroline argued passionately and pulled away her hand. She looked at Trevor who still screamed in agony. “What is happening to this man is inhumane.” On her final word, she brought down the syringe and silence came, not only to the room but to Trevor as well.

CHAPTER TEN

Lodi, Ohio

August 30th

Flinging his head, Mick threw the wet strands of his long hair from his face and reached for the brush, a brush that took him forever to find in Dylan’s dark bedroom. He’d brought nothing to her home the night before because had no intentions of staying, but the long day had caught up with him and he ended up passing out on the couch somewhere in the middle of watching a cable movie. He only wished that Dylan would have woken him, or at the least made him stretch out. Falling asleep partially sitting killed his back.

Running the brush through his thick hair with thoughts of the day before him racing through his mind, Mick jumped a little, set down the brush and flew out of the bathroom when he heard the alarm clock radio blare. He thought he had silenced it when it went off prior to stepping into the shower, but he supposed he had only hit the snooze button. He couldn’t figure out why Dylan had the thing set so early anyhow.

Holding the towel to his body, Mick flew into the bedroom. Dylan hadn’t budged at all in the midst of the blaring newscast.

“Ok, how do I shut this damn thing off?” Mick muttered to himself. He picked up the clock and turned it upside down and around searching for the button.

“And Ohio Governor Theodore Higgins is insisting the plane be removed from the Cleveland Airport runway where it is remains in quarantine,” the woman newscaster spoke. “A spokesperson with the Centers for Disease Control assured Governor Higgins…”

Mick turned the volume down, low enough to hear, but his attention was caught.

“…that everything would be fine, and the quarantine will be lifted once the passengers show no signs of the flu that has proceeded, before midnight, to shut down not only the entire state of Alaska, but nine counties in California as well…”

“What?” Mick exhaled, as he backed up and sat down.

“Governors of both Alaska and California are expressing deep concern over citizen reaction when they wake to find they are imprisoned in their own home states. The National Guard has been brought in for precautionary measures in more heavily populated areas where tension could cause rioting. In an early morning statement, President Ross is urging people not to be too concerned…”

Mick looked over his shoulder when he felt the hand touch his back. Dylan slowly sat up, the expression on her face indicating that she had been listening.

“Mick?” she whispered.

Mick held up his hand to keep her quiet.

“…president also stated that the military presence should not be confused with strong arm tactics. The Federal Emergency Management Agency stresses that the quarantine is more of a voluntary basis. However, the mandatory closing of schools, state offices, major interstates and businesses contradicts that statement.”

Dylan’s hand reached around Mick, and she clenched his wrist. “Oh my God, Mick. What is happening?”

Silently Mick shook his head. He didn’t know. Like Dylan, he could only learn by listening.

* * *

Reston, Virginia

“We are at war,” Kurt said as he walked around the large conference table passing out information. His eyes were dark from lack of sleep. He wore the same clothes from the day before. “Front lines have been drawn. To sound overly dramatic, it’s man versus the flu.” He finished passing out information. “Henry and I have put a lot of hours into this. We’ll take any feedback you can give us. Each of you ten will be in charge of different sectors of the country, so know your facts. And one of the facts is, if we don’t fight with everything we have to keep the front lines contained, chances are, every single one of us will come down with this flu.”

One gentleman at the table lifted his hand. “The news has already been broken to the public.”

Henry interjected. “Good. That’s what we want. We want the media to inform the public. The CDC is giving them ample information about viruses and so forth, communicability rates, past and present plagues, you name it. We want to scare the American public into not leaving their homes. Let them be afraid to breathe their neighbors’ air, because the only way we can help this thing run its course without infecting too many people is to scare the public.”

“But,” Kurt added, “we don’t want them scared to the point that they think they’re going to die. We don’t want rioting; we don’t need more loss of life. The information fed to the public regarding our flu will be sugar coated. It’s the flu, plain and simple, a virulent flu whose symptoms are debilitating during the span of the illness.”

“Not deadly?” another man asked. “Don’t you think people are smarter than that? I mean, when their neighbors start dropping off, they are going to know we lied.”

“Hopefully we’ll contain it. Stop it,” Kurt said. “It’s a long shot, I know. But what works in our favor is the flu will lose its virulence as time moves on. That’s what stopped the Spanish flu. It took too long to hit everywhere. In 1918 it took three months for the Spanish flu to circle the globe. Unfortunately, now we have intercontinental air travel. My guess is that the flu has already crossed the Pacific and Atlantic oceans. To stop any more chance of spreading infection, all intercontinental flights were suspended three hours ago.” His voice grew serious. “This bug is strong. If you get it, you most likely will die. It will affect the younger with a vengeance; the older you are, the less your chances of getting it.” Kurt gave a shrug. “Built up immunities and so forth. The longer we can keep it from leaping boundaries, the better chance we have of it turning into the ordinary flu. Right now, cases are being reported in Anchorage, but we don’t know if it’s our flu. We have to run tests to confirm.”

“My guess…” Henry spoke, “it is. We want to keep tabs now, because we won’t be able to if the projections hold up. Outside of Alaska and California, we have no reports of the flu.”

“And when they show up outside of these areas?” a man at the table asked.

Kurt answered, “The area infected gets quarantined. We’re looking for the flu to run its course within a month. Each city it hits will be done with their cases of the flu in less than two weeks.”

“And what happens if too many areas get infected? Can we quarantine everyone?” another person asked.

“We’ll give it our best shot,” Kurt said. “We have full government support on this. FEMA is pulling inventory, stockpiling supplies and so forth, and they are preparing for the worst case scenario.”

A woman at the table raised her hand. “The whole tone I’m getting from you is very optimistic.”

Kurt slowly nodded and, after a look at Henry, glanced back to the silent table. “To be honest, I’m not. I’m just preparing for a fight. But like FEMA, I’m not only preparing for a worst case scenario, I’m expecting it. This thing will hit. Here, there. You name it, it’ll leave its mark.”

The same woman nodded. “I see. So why, if you’re planning worst case, are we just planning food, shelter, medical, and quarantines?”

Kurt lifted his hands. “What else is there?”

“I hate to sound gloomy…” She tilted her head as her hand ruffled pages of the document before her, “But at a ninety-five percent mortality rate, we should be planning for something else. Cholera, safe body disposal.”

Kurt shook his head. “That type of planning will not be necessary. It’s not important.”

She chuckled. “Why not? It’s realistic”

“No, it’s not,” Kurt said with seriousness. “Mass graves. Body disposal. You want reality, I’ll give you reality. Burials and disposals are not priority planning because if the worst case scenario hits, there won’t be enough people left to bury the dead.”

* * *

Barrow, Alaska

Septic.

Paul didn’t need a blood test for confirmation. He knew his version of the flu was septic. His own confirmation came when he broke up his cough enough to view the sputum laced with the blood from his lungs.

It was the single-most frightening sight Paul had ever witnessed. His knowledge helped feed his fear. He knew the blood meant early signs of the decay of his internal organs. But just the night before, his knowledge had given him hope. At the age of nearly fifty, Paul knew his chances of getting the flu were slim. And those who were older seldom died from septicemia; they succumbed to the symptoms and pneumonia.

Paul, who had never hit the lottery, had nailed the jackpot. The odds were in his favor, but somehow his body didn’t know that.

He was his own best source of information. He took the best of notes, keeping track of his illness’ progression, pinpointing what was happening where in his body. It was through his personal accounting that he finally understood this flu. He wished he had had that understanding sooner. If so, he would have been better prepared for how sick, how desperately sick, he had become.

* * *

Los Angeles, CA

Agent Jeff Bloom carried a box when he entered his hotel room, and he also carried something else. A surgical mask dangled around his neck. “I’m back,” he announced to Darrell Harding, who lounged on the bed watching television.

“About time. What took so long?”

“Stores are packed.” Jeff set the box on the other bed. “And check this out.” He tossed a blue mask to Darrell. “Mandatory. I was stopped on the street. At first, you know, I thought it was because I had my tee shirt tied around my face. But the guy who stopped me told me I had to wear one while out. So I picked up one for you too.”

“Thanks.” Darrell quickly tried it on, then after removing it looked back at the television. He chuckled.

“What are you watching?”

“Cartoons,” Darrell answered.

“Not the news?”

“Nah. It’s all the same stuff. A bunch of experts saying this, saying that. After I talked to the Captain, I figured why bother watching the news? The only thing entertaining is the stupid intros they do after each commercial break.”

“True. So… what did the Captain say?” Jeff asked.

“We’re stuck. CDC told him that for three weeks Los Angeles is closed. I don’t mind hanging out for three weeks.”

“Me either.” Jeff pointed to the box. “We got supplies and we really don’t have to go out and take a chance of getting this thing.”

“Hibernation and little exposure is best.”

“Things could get sticky though.” Jeff sat on the bottom of the bed. “I mean, if everyone is trapped in Los Angeles for weeks, who knows what will happen? People will go nuts.”

“Not if they’re too sick, they won’t.”

“True,” Jeff agreed.

“I did hear there’s rioting in East LA.”

“There’s always rioting in East LA.”

Curiously, Darrell peered at Jeff. “Really?”

Jeff shrugged. “I don’t know. But wasn’t that a good comeback?”

“Yeah, it was.”

Jeff reached into the box and pulled out a couple of packages of Ho-Hos. He tossed one to Darrell as he plopped back on the bed. “Treat.”

“Thanks.” Darrell started to unwrap his cake. “You know, thinking about this, food, television, a nice hotel room. This might not be too bad.”

“Even with a deadly flu raging outside?” Jeff asked.

“Hey, even though it was our strongest lead for Rodriguez, where were we supposed to go today? Huh?” Darrell nodded. “Ohio. And any delay, flu or no flu, is better than going back to Ohio.”

“True.” Jeff indulged in his cake. “Anything is better than that.”

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

It felt to Dylan as if it was ten o’clock at night, but the clock had barely struck noon. It had been a long day. She couldn’t recall ever reflecting so much upon her life as she did in those few quiet moments alone in her bedroom.

Pantyhose off, dress hung back up, Dylan slipped into a pair of shorts despite her mother’s warning that she had to stay dressed up. She couldn’t figure out why. Sam was one that wore jeans wherever he went. Sam would have told Dylan, “Don’t pay attention to your mom. Wear what’s comfortable.” And Dylan did. She had a lot of people to talk to, visit with. Even though she didn’t feel up to it, it was her obligation.

Many people had showed up for Sam’s funeral. Including the biker escort, there were too many to count. Dylan was grateful the weather stayed nice and the neighbors didn’t mind the fact that a simple wake had turned into a block party because there was nowhere else to put the people.

It was a party. A quiet party, but still a party nonetheless, a release of tension. But the tension didn’t leave, not for Dylan, at least. She was worse. Sam was gone, the man who was not only her husband, the father to her children, but also a part of her life for as long as she could remember. She was handing his death just a little better than she anticipated, but Dylan expected it to pummel her the moment things quieted down.

Death was not something, at any time, that Dylan took well. It bothered her, caused nightmares. She had such a tremendous fear of dying that anytime someone close to her age passed on, she swore she was suffering from the same ailment.

And though Sam took his own life, Dylan worried about an accident of some kind taking her own.

Enough ‘alone’ time had been stolen, and Dylan knew it was time to go back downstairs before everyone wondered where she had disappeared to.

She expected to be bombarded, expected the rising and falling sound of voices in conversation. What she didn’t expect was the silence.

Not a sound except the television was heard in a living room so packed with people that she could barely make her way through. Everyone stood there watching, listening to the broadcast that Dylan didn’t want to hear.

Spotting her mother as one of those watching the news, Dylan figured someone had better tend to the food and she preferred that someone be herself. Unnoticed, or so she thought, Dylan moved through the crowd and into her kitchen.

Mick spotted her. He, too, had been watching the news but to him, at that moment, other things were important. Following the sound of pots being removed from a cabinet, he went to the kitchen.

“Hey,” he spoke when he stepped in. “You need help?”

Dylan turned around. “You’re not watching.”

Mick shook his head.

“You can put the ham on the table. Uncover it first,” Dylan said. “So… what are they saying?”

“Who?”

“The news.”

Mick moved to the table. His hands moved slowly as he removed the foil. “Same thing as this morning. California and Alaska.”

“Do they know what it is?” Dylan grabbed a bag of buns and began taking them out.

“They’re calling it the Barrow Flu.”

Dylan looked over her shoulder at Mick. His back was to her. “Never heard of it,” she said.

“That’s just what they’re calling it. They’re saying it’s… it’s the flu. Only, how did they put it…” Mick paused to think; his voice was low-key and didn’t convey what he was feeling. “They said it transmits very easily. And the ailments are severe. Severe enough that people won’t be able to really function for a few days. But they’re also saying it’s nothing to worry about. It’s not deadly.”

“Mick?” Dylan walked to him. “Why do I get the feeling you aren’t buying it?”

“I am.” Mick took a breath then looked at her. “I am.”

“You seem worried.”

“Who, me?” Mick smiled. “Now when do I worry?”

“When something scares you. Is this scaring you, Mick?” Dylan locked eyes with him.

“Nah.” With his mouth closed, Mick shook his head. Then, like a switch, his whole face changed and his false positive demeanor dropped along with his voice. “Yeah. Yeah it is. A little.”

“Then you don’t buy what they’re saying?”

“No.” Mick shook his head. “Who in their right mind would? I mean, think about it, Dylan. If this thing’s not so bad, if this thing’s not deadly… then why in God’s name are they shutting down states?”

“It’s just… it’s just two states.”

“Just two states?” Mick softly chuckled. “Dylan, when in your entire life have you ever known for the government to quarantine two states? It’s scary.” A slow breath escaped Mick as he lowered his face to hers with concern. “Thirty million people are locked in with something that no one wants out.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Anchorage, Alaska

It was the first time in days he had been taken from his hospital room. Bill thought perhaps the noise level had increased, but never did he expect the reasons for it. The biohazard suits the CDC workers wore were like dancing blue specks amongst the massive amount of people in the halls. As he was pushed down the corridor in a wheelchair, Bill watched all that was happening. Carts with patients on them were wheeled in and out of rooms. Furniture was moved about, as if they were making room. The one simple flu bug that he had been exposed to, in Bill’s mind, couldn’t be the cause for all of this activity. And at that moment Bill started to feel guilty. If that many people were sick, how much of that was he directly responsible for? The bug wouldn’t be in Anchorage had he not brought it home.

“Stop.” Bill held up his hand as they approached a room. He took a moment to cough. It was loose, more productive. “Is this her room?”

“Yes,” the nurse who pushed him, answered through her mask.

“I’ll walk in,” Bill said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. If she needs to see this thing won’t beat her, she needs to see me standing.”

The nurse didn’t respond, she simply locked the brakes on the wheelchair and, with gloved hands, assisted Bill to his feet. She didn’t go in the room. She wasn’t permitted.

Alone, Bill approached the door. He lifted his hand and knocked once.

He recognized the dark skin and Lexi Martin’s face, even through her face shield.

“Mr. Daniels,” Lexi said, “come in.”

Bill nodded and stepped inside. He could see Isabella across the room in a bed surrounded by equipment. Actually, with all the test tubes, to Bill it looked as if her bed were positioned in a lab more so than in a hospital room.

“She awake?”

“Yes.” Lexi motioned with her hand and led Bill to the bed.

Bill rested his hand on Isabella’s. “Hey, you,” he said softly.

Isabella’s head turned to him and her feverish eyes slowly opened.

Bill called upon his inner strength at that second when he saw how sick Isabella looked. Her eyes were dark, her face was pale, and her lips had dried and cracked. Black splotches formed under her chin on a grossly-enlarged portion of her neck.

“Look what you’ve gone and gotten yourself into,” he joked. “I told you not to kiss me.” He turned his head and released a small cough.

Isabella tried to speak, but her jaw would barely open due to the swollen glands.

“Got yourself a private room, I see.” Bill winked. “You don’t know how lucky you are. Everyone else is jammed in. You’re special.”

Lexi added, “She is. She gets the royal treatment. Actually, we’ve a lot to learn from her, since we know she definitely has the flu. She’s going to be a big help.”

“Hear that?” Bill asked Isabella. “You’re gonna help others. Isn’t that just like you?”

Again, Isabella tried to talk, but as she inhaled to do so, she was shaken by a violent cough, deep and resonating. She wheezed hard and coughed again, her face turning purple and red; she struggled to breathe, just as repugnant brown mucus slid from the corner of her mouth.

As if it was nothing, Lexi casually stepped in front of Bill. Almost too carefully, she removed the seeping sputum with a tissue, smiled at Isabella, then with an ‘excuse me’ moved away from the bed and walked over to what looked like a lab counter.

Bill watched Lexi place the tissue in a plastic dish, for testing he supposed. He glanced back down at Isabella who looked up at him as she tried with everything she had, to focus on his face.

Lexi returned. “Maybe we should let her rest, Mr. Daniels. And you, too.”

Bill understood; the brief visit had taken its toll on him. “Want to rest, Isabella?”

The slight tilt forward that Isabella’s head moved could have been considered a nod.

“I’ll let you rest then.” Hand on hers, Bill leaned closer to her. “I think I’ll nap, too.” He kissed her gently on the forehead.

She managed to moisten her lips some, then with thick mucus gurgling in her throat, Isabella croaked, “Are you better?”

“Me?” Bill asked. “Absolutely. Still not a hundred percent, strength is getting better. Fever broke for good this morning. But I still get…” he dramatically smacked his tongue in a clicking sound around his mouth as his face scrunched up, “I get this nasty taste in my mouth when I cough.” He chuckled, which irritated a little cough from him. After hitting himself once in the chest, Bill cringed. “See? There it is.”

Isabella’s eyes closed in agreement.

“You get some rest.” Bill kissed her again. “And get better.”

Slowly, Isabella looked at him. “Will I?”

“Hell yeah.” Bill smiled. “Aren’t I standing proof? If you don’t believe me, ask Dr. Lexi here. She’ll tell you.” Bill pointed to Lexi.

However, eyes too focused on Isabella, Bill didn’t see the telltale way that Lexi glanced away from him.

* * *

Reston, Virginia

Henry stared for a moment at the computer screen then slowly turned his chair to look at Kurt.

“Worse?” Kurt asked.

“The whole team is ill. All septic.” Henry tapped his hand on the arm of the chair and stood up. “I think I’m more than ready for bed.”

“Me, too,” Kurt agreed, a cup of coffee in his hand. “I haven’t slept in two days.”

“Me either.” Henry walked, hoping the movement would revitalize him. “I just hope I wake up tomorrow.”

“Kind of a wrong thing to say, don’t you think, in light of this flu thing.”

“I guess.” Henry picked up the coffee pot and inhaled the aroma of the freshly-brewed coffee. “What are we doing, Kurt?”

“Fighting.”

After a breath, Henry took a sip. “Do you know what tomorrow will bring? Do you? It’s already started.”

“Every hospital in every city will think they have the flu,” Kurt spoke in an almost dreamlike way. “People will flock to them. But hopefully,” he sighed, “sensible health facilities will be able to determine ‘real’ from psychosomatic. But you know it’s probably only going to be a matter of another day or two that every hospital in every city will have the flu. The World Health Organization…” His head turned at the sound of the office door opening. “Speaking of the WHO.”

Stepping into the office was Joshua Lincoln, a stern, tall older gentlemen from the World Health Organization. He set down his briefcase as soon as he walked in, flashed a greeting smile and began to take off his jacket. “Your relief is now here. Go get some rest, gentlemen. I’ll hold down this end.”

With sleep in sight, Henry’s eyes felt even heavier, if that were possible. “Thank, God,” he said. “I don’t think my poor body can handle any more.”

Kurt set down his cup. “Yes, but with all that’s on our minds, will we be able to rest?”

Henry swayed as he threw a look Kurt’s way. “Yes.”

Joshua chuckled. “Have you two left this office at all? Get some air. It’s not bad out there. I expected the worst. You know, a lot of panic and such. It’s calm. Eerie.”

“Like before the storm,” Kurt said.

“True,” Joshua concurred. “Airports are dead. I was one of four people on the plane. People are taking this very seriously on this side of the country.”

“As well they should,” Kurt commented. “Our reports differ from the west.”

“It’s out west.” Joshua nodded. “And as much as I love Hollywood… let’s keep it there. I talked to FEMA. They are positioning tight border patrols in Utah. Just in case. They’re getting things together. If, God forbid, this thing strikes this side of the country, we’ll be a bit better prepared.”

“We should have been prepared,” Henry interjected. “The government has had a council for this kind of thing since 1970.”

Kurt looked at Henry. “They’re doing the best they can. And let’s you and me get some rest so we can face what is gonna happen tomorrow.”

“I’m with you.” Henry walked to the door. “Night, Josh.”

Getting ready to leave, Kurt paused. “Oh, Josh, one thing. Any optimistic predictions from the WHO experts?”

Josh shook his head. “The WHO experts are pretty much along the same lines as you. Well, we haven’t talked to Lars Rayburn, he’s our top man. He was on the sites of the two previous outbreaks of this flu. I’ll get a hold of him tonight. He’s on holiday for a month.”

“Nice long vacation,” Kurt said. “Bet you hate to interrupt it.”

“Not really,” Joshua replied. “He’s in Ohio.”

Kurt blinked. “Ohio? He’s on a month holiday in Ohio?” He glanced curiously at Henry. “Who the hell goes on holiday to Ohio?”

Joshua smiled. “The one and only Lars Rayburn.”

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

Totally irritated, Lars chalked up his cue stick at the local tavern and aimed not only his eyes but also his voice at the bartender.

“Hey, Bart!”

Bart turned around to look at Lars, who was one of six patrons. “Yeah?”

“Put MTV on, or something,” Lars instructed.

“MTV?” Bart questioned. “What in Christ’s name for? This is the news. It’s important.”

“It’s depressing,” Lars said. “People do not visit your fine establishment to be depressed. They come here to take their minds off of things. Turn off the news. If people want to watch it, they can go home and watch it.”

Bart shrugged. “Okay.” He switched the channel.

Patrick was waiting patiently for Lars to take his turn. He shook his head with a smile. “I take it you don’t care much for this big news.”

“Not at all.” Lars found his shot, leaned over the table, took it and missed. “Especially not today. Today was depressing enough.”

“Mr. Hughes?” Patrick asked.

“Sam,” Lars spoke with a sigh. “Three children.”

“And a wife.”

“Well…” Lars tilted his head. “I do feel for Dylan. She’s known Sam since grade school.”

Looking for a shot to take, Patrick walked around the pool table. “How long have you known Dylan and Sam?”

“Since before they were born, if that makes sense.”

“So, you grew up here?” Patrick took a shot.

“Nope.” Lars looked at the table. “I only take my holiday here. Have done so forever. Of course, taking the holiday was much easier once I bought my house ten years ago. They have one boarding house in Lodi, which is a terrible place. And, any decent hotel one was too far away for my holiday to be considered in Lodi. I have to stay in Lodi.”

“So, if you have to stay here, why did you wait so long to buy a house?”

“I would have purchased one sooner,” Lars replied. “But I was waiting for that particular home.”

“So you liked it?”

Smiling after his successful shot, Lars looked up. “Very much so.”

“Can I ask you more?”

“Certainly. I’m an open book,” Lars answered.

“If you didn’t grow up here, why do you take a month off to stay here?”

“I take it you haven’t been to the Lodi fall festival?”

Patrick shook his head. “No, is it that great?”

“No. Not really,” Lars chuckled. “Just thought I’d say that.” Stopping in his ‘shot check,’ Lars stood upright. “Lodi. The reason I come to Lodi is pathetic. But I’ll tell you, because you’re new, you don’t know the people yet. In college I met a girl. You know the story. I fell in love with her. She lived in Lodi. I came here once back then and loved it.”

“I take it you didn’t marry this girl?”

“No,” Lars replied. “She married someone else. But my love for the town and my eternal desire to see her, keeps me coming back.”

Patrick choked on a laugh. “She still lives here?”

“Yes. A beautiful woman.”

“Who?’

Lars shook his head. “Can’t tell.”

“Okay.” Patrick leaned a little on his cue stick. “Can you tell me this? You’re this legend around here, yet every time I am almost ready to find out who you are, what you do, and why you’re a legend, something interrupts. I have some guesses, but, can you finally fill me in? Who is Lars Rayburn?”

With a grin, Lars prepared to answer, but turned his head when his name was called.

“Mr. Rayburn.” Officer Haddock stepped into the bar and took off his hat. “Hate to interrupt your social time, sir. But the WHO has been looking for you all over town. They called the station after they tried your home. I said I’d track ya. Didn’t think you’d mind, it had to be important.”

Lars nodded. “Thank you, Chester. I’ll go home and call right away. Well, my new young friend,” he said, handing Patrick his cue stick, “I must depart. We’ll finish this conversation later. The WHO calls.”

Patrick took hold of the stick, staring in awe as Lars hurriedly grabbed his things and left. Then Patrick snapped his fingers and nodded. “I knew it,” he said to himself. “I knew he was some sort of throwback from the sixties rock era.” He nodded knowingly. “The Who.”

* * *

The pattering of Tigger’s running footsteps were overshadowed by the loud thumping ones of Mick. Still moving, Mick swooped down one arm and lifted the small child. “Bed,” he ordered as he opened the bedroom door right in front of them.

“But I’m not tired,” Tigger complained.

“It’s almost midnight. You will be.” Mick carried the tiny child over his shoulder. He pulled down the covers on the bed and dropped him onto it. “Did you take your pills?’

“Yes. And they take twenty-seven minutes to work.”

“Quick,” Mick snapped his fingers, “best guess—how much longer until they kick in?

Tigger looked down to his little watch. “Sixteen more minutes.”

“You can last sixteen minutes.” Mick covered him up. “Night.” He leaned down and kissed him then walked to the door.

“Can you leave the light on? Mommy does.”

“Sure.” Mick pulled his hand away from the light switch. “Night.” Closing the door a little, Mick walked down the hall to Dylan’s room. He prepared to knock once on the slightly opened door, but stopped when he caught a glimpse of her.

Dylan stood by the mirror looking closely at her face, pulling down the skin under her eyes.

Chuckling, Mick opened the door, crossed his arms and leaned on the archway. “What are you doing?”

Dylan jumped and spun around. “Mick,” she grabbed her chest, “do my eyes look dark to you?”

“They always look dark.” He walked to her.

“But they look darker than usual, don’t they.”

“Dylan, you cried a lot today.”

“But I am not feeling all that—”

“Dylan.” Mick laid his hand over her mouth. “You don’t have the flu.”

Dylan cleared her throat. “I think I do, Mick, I’m scared I do.”

“It’s all the way over on the other side of the country. You don’t have the flu.”

“My throat’s sore, Mick.” She rubbed her neck. “And right now, it’s over there. It could be here, and no one knows. These things spread. I’ve read The Stand.”

Laying his hands on her shoulders, Mick gently lowered her to the bed. “You’re right. It could be here. However, you never finished reading The Stand.”

“That’s because it scared me,” Dylan said. “But you read it.”

“Yes, I did. And this isn’t the same thing. It isn’t The Stand. It isn’t the bubonic plague.”

“Gee, Mick, thanks. I wasn’t thinking of that.”

Mick rolled his eyes. “Dylan, you had a long day. You don’t have the flu. What you do have is two boys downstairs waiting on you. Let’s go.” He grabbed her hand. “Let’s sit down there for awhile before I leave.”

“Wait,” she slowed as she left the bedroom. “You’re leaving?”

“Going home.”

“Mick, stay.”

“Dylan, no. I have no clothes here, I—”

“Go get them.”

Mick stopped at the door. “I’ll think about it…”

They continued down the hall and to the stairs. The sound of the television carried to them as they descended.

Mick knew what the boys were watching. As soon as he stepped into the living room, he felt Dylan squeeze his hand tighter. They didn’t need to hear what the news was saying, the media provided a visual that was frightening enough. Displayed on the screen of the television was a map of the United States. Little red dots, signifying infected sites, danced sporadically here and there across the states like measles.

Chris stared at the screen, eyes glued, hands folded.

Hearing Mick and his mother enter the room, Dustin turned around from his seat on the couch. “It spread,” his voice cracked. “Washington State, Nevada, Utah. They shut those states down. Know that plane that was quarantined in Cleveland?”

Mick slowly nodded.

“People are sick on there, Mick,” Dustin spoke with desperation. “It’s in Ohio. Are they gonna close us down, too?”

“I don’t know,” Mick spoke slowly. “I don’t know what to tell you. Would you feel better if I went down to the station to see what the State Police have heard?”

Hurriedly, Chris spun around. “I would.”

“Me, too,” Dustin agreed.

Mick looked at Dylan. “You?”

“Yes,” Dylan answered in a whisper. “I would, too.”

“I’ll be back.” Mick kissed Dylan softly then stepped away.

“Mick?” She grabbed his hand. “Will you stay now? Will you stay tonight?”

“Dylan…”

“Mick. I’m scared.” Dylan’s eyes glanced at the television. “I’m scared of this.”

“Sweetheart, I understand. But you have to understand…” Mick laid his hand on her cheek, “as much as I want to be your hero, I can’t protect you from this. Not this.” He glanced at the map on the television and his voice dropped to a barely-heard whisper. “I don’t think anyone can.”

ABATED HOPE

No matter how dark

There is always a chance

A guiding light

May emerge

A tunnel with an end

A guidance

An answer to a prayer

CHAPTER TWELVE

Lodi, Ohio

September 2nd

The cooking bacon hissed loudly as it sprayed grease at Mick when he turned away from the pan for a split second.

“Oh, son of a bitch. Shit.” He turned off the burner, banged the pan onto the counter and shook his slightly-burned arm. “Goddamn electric stoves. I want my gas range.” Mick shut off the radio as he returned to the stove.

A unison ‘Hey!’ came from Dustin, Chris, and Tigger, who sat at the kitchen table.

“Oh, I get blistered and you don’t care. I shut off the radio and you yell. You don’t need to hear that.” Mick opened a cabinet and pulled out plates. “You need to eat.”

Listening to Mick’s grumbling, Dustin played with the edge of his napkin as. “You’re gonna have to get used to the stove if you’re living here.”

“I’m not living here.” Mick continued to put the breakfast food on plates.

“You haven’t left,” Dustin said. “In a while…”

“I know. I know,” Mick said.

“So you don’t want to live here?” Dustin asked.

“I do, but the upstanding moral side of me won’t allow it.” Mick flashed a quick grin and set two plates down and returned to the stove for the other two.

“Why’d you wake us up so early?” Chris asked. “We don’t have school.”

Tigger pouted. “I wanted to go to school. I was going to real school, too.”

Chris looked up at Mick. “Didn’t you know we don’t have school?”

Mick started to speak.

Dustin answered, “Of course he knew we didn’t have school, you idiot. He’s the chief of police. If he knows Ohio is shut down, he knows we didn’t have school.” After shaking his head he looked at Mick who joined them at the table. “Did you?”

Mick grumbled, “Yeah, I knew. But you can’t sleep all day. If I don’t feed you before I leave, you may not eat. So, eat. Now.” Just as Mick started to eat, he finally noticed Tigger. Tigger’s little nose barely reached the edge of the table. “Where’s your booster seat?”

“I don’t want a booster seat. I’m not a baby.” Tigger started to adjust himself. “Look, I’ll just kneel.”

“Don’t kneel,” Mick told him. “You’ll…” he cringed at the crash, “…fall. Christ.” He reached down and picked up Tigger. “You okay?’

“Fine,” Tigger grumbled as he walked across the kitchen and picked up his booster.

His mind seemingly far off, Dustin ran his fork through his eggs. “Mick, are you not letting us listen to the news because you don’t want us to know the truth?”

Mick stared for a second. “Dustin, I don’t want you to listen to the news because we’re having a meal. We talk over a meal. And… I give you all the truth about it. I don’t hold anything back from you boys.”

Dustin shrugged. “I guess.”

“What do you mean, you guess?” Mick asked. “Didn’t you know Ohio was being shut down way before the whole town did? I tell you so you’re informed; not telling you isn’t gonna help. You just don’t need to start your day out by listening to the updated list of affected areas and horror tales of rioting.”

“I don’t like the pictures of the rioting.” Chris shook his head. “Did you see it on the news? Did you see what happened in Cleveland? We could see the smoke, Mick. We could see the smoke from Diggins’ Drugstore roof.”

“What the hell were you doing on the roof?” Mick snapped. “And… I know. I saw it, too.”

“Is it gonna happen here?” Chris asked. “The rioting?”

Dustin interjected, “What are you, a moron? That’s insulting to Mick. Of course it isn’t gonna happen here with Mick being the chief.” He looked at Mick. “Is it?”

“No,” Mick said almost offended. “And Tigger, what the hell is taking you so long with that booster?”

“It’s too heavy. I can’t lift it.”

Mick stood up to retrieve it.

“Mick,” Dustin said, “be honest, all right? Is another reason you don’t want us to know about the flu is because you don’t want us to put the truth together about Mom?”

Seat under one arm, Tigger under the other, Mick seemed dumbfounded as he walked to the table. “What truth about your mother?”

“Why she’s still in bed,” Dustin said.

Adjusting Tigger and strapping him down, Mick responded, “Your mother is still in bed because she was up until four-thirty this morning watching the news and biting her nails to the point that they bled.”

“She doesn’t have the flu?” Dustin asked.

“No!”

Chris spoke up, “We think she does. She thinks she does. Mick… she was coughing last night.”

“Boys,” Mick looked at each of their faces before continuing. “She was coughing because she’s neurotic. She doesn’t have the flu. Just like she didn’t have the chicken pox for the tenth time. Just like she didn’t have the shingles, or the measles, or the yellow fever. You boys listen all the time. What are the first symptoms?”

Dustin answered. “Coughing, sneezing, fever…”

Mick snapped his finger. “That’s the one. Fever. Raging fever if I heard right. Your mom doesn’t have even a hint of a temperature.”

“Are you sure?” Chris asked. “She has that thermometer in her mouth all the time.”

“And it reads ninety-eight point six. Trust me.” Tired of the topic, Mick reached about the table, physically directing each of the boys’ forks to their food. “Eat. And can we please talk about something else aside from this flu?” He waited for a response. “Please?”

The boys all nodded and bobbed their heads in a debatable response.

“Good.” Mick tried to eat again. “Dustin. Talk about something. Anything, as long as it’s not the flu. You start the meal conversation.”

“Okay.” Dustin thought for a second, his fork tapping his food as he did. “Got it.” He sat up. “When’s the military dropping off those respirator masks we’re supposed to be wearing when we’re out?”

Looking up from his food that he thought he was going to enjoy, Mick raised his eyes and just stared at Dustin.

* * *

Reston, Virginia

Somehow, in spite of the nightmare that he faced, in his wildest imagination, never did Henry ever expect his little office in Winston Research to be the country’s viral headquarters.

It didn’t start out that way.

The Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta had handled it until the director took ill two days earlier and forwarded all questions and data Kurt’s way until a replacement was found.

Kurt ended up being the replacement, and Henry his only assistant.

There were no large teams, no multitudes of people running about. Kurt and Henry did it all. They had the help of Joshua until he had to head back to New York because his wife had come down with the flu.

The two men pulled day shifts together during high traffic times, off and on, short naps in between. They had become data collectors and trackers, and they were expected to be great predictors. They said they weren’t, but every one of Henry and Kurt’s predictions eerily held true. Henry claimed it wasn’t a great psychic ability, or an abundance of scientific knowledge that gave them the keen foresight as to what would happen. He merely believed it was the historians in them. It was a repeat of history and a long overdue purging of nature.

The Winston Research office would be considered an archaic set up with no high-tech monitoring boards or abundance of computers. Henry and Kurt were overwhelmed that they were being so heavily relied upon. Requests bombarded them: ‘We need info on this’, ‘Can you send supplies out here’, ‘Can you get through to FEMA, this is important’. Their heads spun, but they both handled it as best as they could, truly believing that at any second the phone would ring and a voice on the end would inform them, “Thanks, gentlemen, good job, we’ll take over from here.”

That phone call never came. They wanted to blame it on the breakdown of the phone systems in the western half of the country. But cellular phones were still operational so out went that theory.

Any thoughts that Henry had that they’d be relieved of command were put to rest after he spoke to the President of the United States.

Possibly it wasn’t the most appropriate response or the most professional, but Henry couldn’t help it when it slipped from his mouth.

“Wow.”

On top of a long table, crouching before a huge paper map of the United States, Kurt finished coloring in the rest of the state of Missouri. “Another news conference?” He capped his permanent black marker and hopped from the table.

“Um, yeah. Last one I’m guessing. For him.” Henry squinted as he moved toward the map. “You finished Missouri. That’s not right.”

“Yes, it is. Last unaffected town reported the flu.”

“Shit.”

“Yep. Now, back to what you were saying…” Kurt pulled out a chair and sat down. “Last news conference?”

“Yeah. He sounds bad,” Henry answered heavily as he too, took a seat. “He’s really sick.” Glancing back at their map, Henry shook his head at the mostly black left half. “You realize we’re hitting the mark.”

“Yes I do,” Kurt nodded sadly. “Every country, every state in the union has reported and confirmed the flu. God, so fast. One day flu-free, the next…” he indicated the map.

“Not really, if you think about it. This thing has been in circulation for two and a half weeks. The two reporters are the only ones that we know of that carried this thing out of Barrow.”

“But this mark has a bright aspect, you have to agree. Three weeks this thing will have run its course. It’ll be done.”

Henry flipped through the papers. “What experts we have left say LA is now at sixty percent. The first week, most of the people who are susceptible will get it. After that, it trickles on until it runs its course.”

“How’s the life versus death figures holding up?”

“Impressively well. I’m gonna predict sixty percent.”

“Never thought I’d see the day when a sixty percent overall fatality rate is considered acceptable.”

“It is when you’re dealing with ninety-five percent in bigger towns. Hopefully the rural areas will offset the high death rate when it’s all said and done.”

Kurt sighed out, “If we bean counters are around to calculate.”

“Someone has to be around to record this for the history books.”

“You think that will be us?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Henry played with a pencil as he talked. “I don’t think I want to. I hope I can see this thing through. And if, God willing, my health holds up, I’ll stay until the last town and the last person has seen the last of this flu.”

Swiveling his chair, Kurt looked at the map. He focused on the white that remained instead of the black areas filled in. “Maybe there’s still hope.”

“Speaking of hope. You have to get a hold of Lars. It’s going in. Get him ready.”

After a nod, Kurt stood up. “Do you think he’ll do this? Josh didn’t tell us if Lars said yes or no.”

“No, Josh didn’t. But he did tell us about this Lars person. And from what I got from Josh, Lars will do it,” Henry said with certainty. “Because Lars Rayburn hasn’t just been waiting for this outbreak to occur. He’s been expecting it.”

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

Lars was a relaxed, ‘go with the flow’ type of person, yet now he felt that every ounce of his reserve patience was gone.

He didn’t leave his house, nor did he even go for his morning walk. He couldn’t. He had to wait. He could take his cell phone with him, but he didn’t want to chance losing the connection.

It was funny to Lars. He never used that cell phone. He flat out didn’t believe in them. The only reason that he owned it was because the cute young woman behind the sales counter had an enticing smile. So, he paid his monthly bill, rarely charged the phone, and didn’t give out the number. He knew so little about that cell phone that not only did he have to look in his secret compartment of his wallet for the number to give to the WHO, he had to call the phone company to find out how to charge the battery.

It was charged. And it wasn’t ringing. He’d set it up so that the phone would be the main link to the command center for the newest viral outbreak.

How many times did he look at the phone to make sure it was on? How many times did he run a test of the ringer, positive that he hadn’t followed the directions correctly? He’d pick it up, put it down, pace, and head back to that phone.

Even though he expected the call he still felt a jolt of surprise when it rang. “About goddamn time.” He pressed a button. “Hello?” The phone still rang. “Shit.” He tried another. “Hello?” Lars breathed out. “Yes. Who is this?” He nodded as he listened. “Where’s Dr. Lincoln?” Lars’ face dropped. “I’m sorry to hear that. Well, sir, what do you have to tell me?” Lars blinked in surprise then grabbed at a notepad. “I see.” He scribbled something down. “Yes. Yes. You have my word, I’ll do my best. Thank you.” He knew the call was over, yet it took a moment of staring at the tiny handheld device to figure out what button it was that he had to push to disconnect the call. After some fumbling around, Lars figured it out. He looked down at the notes he’d taken and focused on his handwriting and the other problem he had to figure out as well.

* * *

If each question asked of him were a step he took to the station, then Mick felt he walked a million miles. He wanted nothing more than to give the people of Lodi the answers they sought, but Mick told them what he knew, which wasn’t very much. And like he told the residents of Lodi, it wasn’t as if Mick was ill-informed, it was that nobody running it was really well-informed.

That didn’t help.

Mick preached calm. It worked… for two days before the Ohio border patrols were set up. The people of Lodi stayed calm, but that was short lived. It had been four days since the television bombarded them with news of the flu, and it only seemed to be getting worse every day. The station was swamped with phone calls and people stopped him on the street. Mick had to admit, as he approached the station, he was not surprised at the small group who gathered outside.

“Where’s your mask, Chief?” a male voice called from the crowd.

“Oh. Um…” Mick reached into his back pocket and pulled out the small blue surgical mask. He held it up then stuck it back in his pocket. “Call me a gambler.” Reaching for the door, Mick stopped when the small crowd rushed him. “Hold it,” he said calmly. “Is there something all of you want?” He stared at them, every one of them wearing the masks the Army had dropped off not long before. Like diligent little soldiers they wore them.

The same man spoke up. “We know you’re doing your job, Mick. But any word yet on when this order is lifted?”

“Which one?” Mick asked. “I can’t keep track of the orders that have flown into the station from the US government in the last twenty-four hours. I can’t tell you about the recently instituted curfew and restraint orders, but it seems the standard border quarantines for states are three weeks.”

“Why three weeks?” the man asked.

“I know as much as you do, and the news says it takes about three weeks for an entire state to be flu free… now if you’ll excuse me, I…”

“Mick,” a woman spoke up. “Come on. They shut everything down. We have to wear these masks. We can’t walk the streets unless we have them on. We’re prisoners.”

“Prisoners?” Mick chuckled. “You’re standing here now, hardly prisoners. And Gina…” Mick rubbed his eyes, “think about why they have these rules, okay? I don’t like them any more than the rest of you, but they are for protection. Yours and mine. The less contact people have with each other, the less chance of this flu spreading about. This thing has to be serious and life-threatening if it’s shutting down the world. Minimal contact makes perfect sense. For example, if one of you has the flu, as close as you are all standing to each other, do you really think those little masks are gonna make a bit of difference?”

There was a wave of silence then the crowd quickly dispersed.

“Thought so,” Mick said, then went into the station.

The two deputies across the office both turned around when Mick walked in.

“Afternoon.” Mick lifted a hand as he sought the sanctity of his office.

“Chief?”

“Shit.” Mick skidded to a stop. He was almost there. He just wanted to steal a moment of quiet. “Yes?” Calling on his last mite of patience, Mick turned and faced him.

Officer Haddock walked to him. “This just came in for you.”

“Ah, damn it.” Mick wanted it all to stop. “It’s not another goddamn order from the health department to do some inane fucked up precautionary procedure that will make my life a miserable hell, is it?”

“Um…” Officer Haddock looked down at the paper to double check. “No. From the FBI. Looks like Harv Holly was playing post office PI bingo again, as you call it. Only this time…” he gave Mick the sheet, “he hit the jackpot.” Haddock raised his eyebrows.

After a snort of disbelief, Mick glanced down. “Great,” he groaned. “The world’s falling apart and I need this to worry about.”

“Want me to take care of that now?” Officer Haddock asked.

Mick shook his head, “Things are pretty hectic out there. This really isn’t going anywhere. Not today. I’ll take care of it. Keep a lid on it for now, all right?”

Officer Haddock agreed.

“Did you make a copy of this?” Mick asked.

“Yes, I did,” Officer Haddock answered.

“I’ll hold on to this one. Thanks.” Looking at the sheet of paper and reading it again with disgust, Mick walked into his office and partly shut the door for some privacy.

Moving to his desk and not wanting to deal with anything for a few moments, especially orders from the FBI, Mick folded the sheet of paper and put it in his front tee shirt pocket. His chair looked even more comfortable than usual and Mick sank into it. But only for a second, then he felt a pinch on his backside and he jumped back up. Grumbling, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the smashed blue surgical mask, tossed it on his desk, then sank into his chair again.

He looked at the mask with a chuckle then lifted it by its rubber band. The military, CDC, health department, whoever, was handing out the masks as safeguards. But to Mick it was more of a palliative tactic, a mollifying move for the public to believe that all was being done to help protect them. Mick knew the masks well, and to him the surgical masks were pretty much next to useless.

After dropping the item, Mick reclined his chair with a squeak of its old springs and an exhalation of relief. His head dropped back and he closed his eyes.

Quiet.

Not for long.

Dylan spoke his name. “Mick.” But there was something odd about the sound of her voice. It was muffled, as if it came through a cup. “Mick.”

Had he fallen asleep? Dylan certainly sounded odd. After hearing her call one more time, he opened his eyes. When he did, he jolted awake with a yelp when he saw her. “Dylan. What the hell are you doing?” He slowly stood up looking at Dylan as she stood before Mick’s desk holding Tigger’s hand. She and Tigger weren’t wearing the little surgical masks; they were wearing huge black military gas masks. “Who the hell did you fuck to get those?”

“You,” she answered.

“Huh?” Mick was confused as he walked to Tigger. “And why is this kid wearing a…”

“I took them from your Navy Seal box. I remembered you had them after the one time, we… you know, kind of played with them.”

“Christ, Dylan, you went through my stuff?” He bent down to Tigger. “And this has to come off of this kid. He can’t use it properly, it’s too big. He’s suffocating.” Mick undid the rubber strap.

“He is not.”

“He is, too. Watch.” Mick lifted off the mask.

Tigger, face red, wheezed when the air hit him.

“See,” Mick said, “Tigger, you all right?”

With more dramatics than he needed to display, Tigger weakly walked to Mick’s desk, reached up to grab the edge, bent over some and nodded. “I will be.”

Shaking his head after watching him, Mick turned back to Dylan. “Now, Dylan, what did—can you take that damn mask off? I can’t talk to you like this.”

“I can’t, I’ll get the flu. And you just put my child at risk.”

“I just saved your child from asphyxiating. Now take off the mask.” He reached for it and lifted it from her head.

Dylan screamed.

Mick cringed then looked down at the mask and the few strands of hair wrapped around the rubber strap. “Sorry.” He shrugged and handed it back.

“Asshole.” Dylan shook her head. “You’ve exposed us.”

“To what? To me? The flu? Darling, this,” he kissed her, “is exposed. Now what’s up?”

“Can you watch Tigger?”

“Watch Tigger? Now?” Mick asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m working.”

“I know, but I need you to watch him. Just for a couple hours. Let him hang here. It’s safe.”

“His home is safe,” Mick told her. “Why can’t Chris and Dustin watch him?” Mick’s eyes widened. “Son of a bitch. Dylan, you aren’t letting those boys run around, are you?”

“No.” Dylan shook her head then rambled on, “They can’t watch him. Chris is in his room. Dylan is in his. I’m trying to keep them separated. You know, if Chris has it he won’t give it to Dustin. If Dustin has it he won’t give it to Chris. I want both of them away from Tigger, because Tigger is so small, you know he’s susceptible to—”

“Stop.” Mick held up his hand. Then after staring at Dylan for a moment, ran his hand over the bridge of his nose. “Quit this. Now.” He held up his hand stopping her again. “Where are you going that you need him watched?”

“Work.”

“Work?” Mick asked. “The video store?”

“Yes. My father thinks me working will help take my mind off of things.”

“Please tell me your father doesn’t have the store open.”

“Okay. My father doesn’t have the store open.” Dylan paused. “But he does.”

“Aw!” Mick whined. “Why does he have to go and put me in this position? Son of a bitch.” Mick went back to his desk and started rummaging. “Where’s that order? I’ll show him myself. The Army rolls in here, sees he’s violating the ordinance, they’ll arrest him… found it.” Mick held up the paper then slammed the drawer. “Take Tigger home. I’ll be there by dinner.” After running his hand over the top of Tigger’s head, Mick walked to the door.

“Wait.” Sounding concerned, Dylan stopped him. “Are you shutting down my Dad’s store?”

Mick hesitated in answering. He felt uncomfortable telling her, but it wasn’t his choice. “Dylan. Just… just understand, okay? It’s not personal. It’s my job.”

“Are you shutting down his store, Mick?”

Slowly, regretfully, Mick nodded.

“Thank you.” Dylan smiled. “Whew. I thought I had to work. Let’s go, Tigger.” She grabbed his hand. “Hold your shirt over your face and we’ll run real fast all the way home.” She walked with him from the office. “See ya later, Mick.”

Mick stood dumbfounded for a second as he watched Dylan sweep up Tigger and dash from the station faster than he had ever seen her move. Dylan wasn’t upset. Mick could only hope Tom would be as understanding in light of all that was going on.

Tom leaned on the other side of the counter and read the order that Mick gave him. He raised his fatherly eyes above his half glasses and tapped his hand on the paper.

“So, you understand that?” Mick asked.

“Yep.” Tom nodded then inhaled. The breath was heavy and deep; it carried loud as Tom stood upright. “Mick, you know me as a God-fearing Christian man, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Mick said.

“Don’t like to hurt anyone, don’t like to break the law…”

“Not you.” Confidence and calm permeated Mick’s voice.

“And never do I disrespect those in authority. Or use vile language. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“So forgive me right now, Mick. But fuck you, I am not closing my store.” Tom slid the order to Mick.

At that moment, Mick really wanted to respond. But he was shocked, totally shocked. His lips parted as he stared at Tom.

“So you just take that order,” Tom said, “fold it back up, stick it in your pocket, and go on.”

Mick cleared his throat as he recovered. “Mr. Roberts, I don’t think you quite understand.”

“No, Mick, you don’t understand. What aren’t you getting? I am not closing my store.”

“There are no if, ands or buts about it. You have to close the store,” Mick said more firmly.

“No, I don’t. And I won’t.”

“Goddamn it, why are you—”

“Language.”

Mick grumbled. His voice dropped to a growling whisper as he leaned over toward Tom. “Don’t force my hand. Don’t you do that to me. Now, listen up…”

“Michael Owens. Stop right there.” Tom’s voice deepened and he spoke slowly with authority. “Don’t you dare talk down to me. Hear that?”

“Mr. Roberts, I am not talking down to you. You are forgetting who I am. I have never before thrown my status at you.”

“Don’t start now!” Tom said strongly as he walked around the counter. “This is my store, Mick. My store!”

“And this…” Mick held up the order, “is the law! Shut down the store!”

“No! I don’t give a rat’s ass about that law, or ordinance, whatever you wanna call it. I care about the people of this town!” Tom argued.

“And you think the people of this town need videos at this moment!”

“It’s not the videos, it’s the message.” Tom’s hand slammed loudly on the counter. “If I close my doors, shut out my lights and pull my blinds, I am sending the message that I’m scared. Well, I’m not scared, Mick. And I don’t want the people of this town to be scared! If they walk down the streets of Lodi and see a ghost town then they will not see hope. You have a flu bug raging. It’s closing down cities, states, countries. And despite what the sugar coated media tells us, it’s shutting down the human race.” Tom’s voice calmed down. “And if my people, in my town, can walk down the street and see one light, even if it is in a tiny, no name video store, they’ll be able to see that not everything normal in their lives is gone. Not yet.”

Frustrated, Mick closed his eyes as he groaned and wracked his brain for the right argument. He nodded once, then took a step toward Tom, speaking as calmly as he possibly could. “More than you realize, I understand what you’re saying. You and Marian… I love you guys. I don’t want to shut you down. I don’t. But if I don’t insist upon it, and Federal Emergency Management rolls through here, they’ll shut you down. They won’t be as nice. They’ll pull you out, arrest your ass, close your doors and board you up. I don’t want that. I don’t. Please, Tom… please.” Mick’s voice dropped. “Close the store… please.” Taking a moment to stare silently at Tom, trying to convey his desperation in a look, Mick quietly walked out.

It said a lot.

More than any reports from the media, more than new ordinances left and right from FEMA, or even the blue masks that people ran around in, the reality of the flu struck Mick in the moment after his confrontation with Tom.

Mick stood on the sidewalk for a long time, in thought, feeling really bad. He didn’t want to move. And if Mick felt guilty before, he felt even worse when he heard the ‘ding’ of Tom’s entrance bell. He turned around to see the ‘closed’ sign and Tom locking up. His voice cracked. “Tom.”

Tom said nothing. From under his arm he pulled out a piece of cardboard and placed it over the door’s glass. The ‘rip’ of packing tape sounded loudly as Tom secured the homemade sign on the door. He looked once at Mick, then, tape in hand, walked away.

Mick read it. Written in big black magic marker, the sign declared, ‘I did not give up hope.’ Mick turned his head and shut his eyes as another wave of remorse washed over him.

The shocked, “Oh my God”, snapped Mick from his moment of shame.

Patrick McCaffrey pointed at the sign, a video case in his hand. “Mick, the store is closed?”

Mick nodded. “Yeah… yeah it is.” He cleared his throat. “Where’s your mask?”

“It messes up my hair.” Patrick smiled then sighed. “I can’t believe the store is closed.”

“Yep. So I guess you get the movie for another night.”

“Nah.” Patrick walked to the door. “That wouldn’t be right.” He slipped the movie in the overnight return slot. “I’d feel like I’d be stealing if I did that.”

“It’s a video rental.”

“It’s Tom.”

“Must be pretty honest,” Mick commented.

“I try to be.” Patrick placed his hands in his pockets. “See ya, Mick.”

Mick gave Patrick a nod before he let out a soft chuckle of disbelief as Patrick moved on. Mick reached into the pocket of his tee shirt and pulled out the piece of paper he had received from the FBI. Just as he was about to read it, he stopped. Mick noticed it. The silence. It went along with the sign on Tom’s door.

Complete silence.

Not a sound rang out in Lodi. No cars, no sounds of trucks in the distance, no children playing at the nearby park. Nothing.

Mick took one more look at Tom’s sign, then without reading it, put the FBI letter in his pocket. It didn’t matter to him, not right then. And as Mick gazed around, listening to the sounds of silence, all that mattered to him was what was happening to his perfect small town world.

* * *

Anchorage, Alaska

Lexi had heard the scream so many times that she knew she would replay it in her head for the rest of her life, that one final cry that every single flu victim made in the last few minutes of their life. When they turned septic, their entire body was overwhelmed with such horrendous pain that all they could do was scream, a horrendous sound that never lost its impact.

They all did the same thing. There were no exceptions. Whether or not they were aware of the pain, their bodies reacted, their senses kicked in, and with the expulsion of bodily fluids, they screamed.

It lasted a few minutes, and that few minutes seemed like an eternity.

Paul knew that noise. Over and over, he himself had heard it in Barrow as he watched that town die. In the end, he knew he’d do the same as the others, and in his final note he expressed his fear of that last indignity.

Lexi read his notes, took his words to heart, and did her best to save a colleague from something that she too feared.

Paul didn’t stay long in the Anchorage hospital he was transferred to. Not even a day. The moment Lexi saw him moving into the final stage of the flu, Lexi deliberately gave him an overdose of morphine.

Paul did not quiver or convulse, nor did he scream. He closed his eyes and went to sleep. For good.

Lexi watched him until it was over. She stayed with Paul, at his side, hoping that, should she become infected with the flu, someone would do the same for her. But Lexi couldn’t stay for long. Too many called for her. And after a simple prayer of forgiveness for taking it into her own hands to end his suffering, Lexi covered Paul with a sheet and moved on.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lodi, Ohio

September 3rd

Mick felt comfortable lying next to Dylan, feeling her bare back against his chest. He wanted to stay like that all night. But he couldn’t. He just didn’t feel right about Tigger, or even Chris, waking up and seeing them asleep together, even innocently, in bed.

Restlessness also played a part in Mick’s deciding to leave the comfort of Dylan in his arms. He needed to walk, and also prepare what was becoming his new bed—the couch—for the night.

Quietly, carefully, so as not to disturb Dylan, Mick scooted backward and slid from bed. His foot touched the floorboard, made a creak, and Mick looked up. Dylan didn’t move. Smiling at that, he sought out his clothes.

“You know,” Dylan said softly from her motionless position, “there’s no way you can get out of bed without me noticing. There’s a weight factor, like a seesaw effect. I almost eject to the roof.”

Mick laughed. “You’re not funny.”

Dylan reached to the lamp, turned it on, and faced Mick. “Where are you going?”

Mick slipped on his shirt. “I’m going out.”

“Out?” Dylan sat up. “The ice cream store is closed, Mick.”

“I know. I’m not going for ice cream. Just for air… and a walk.”

“Are you mad at me?” Dylan asked.

Snickering, Mick walked back to the bed. “Okay. How many times have you asked me that question in our lifetime?”

“Lots.”

“Have you ever cared if I were mad?”

“Always.”

“Yeah, right.” Mick leaned down and kissed her, keeping his face close. “No. I’m not mad. I have so much on my mind with all that is going on. I just want to walk and check on everything in town.”

“Be careful.”

Mick winked. “You know it. Go back to sleep.”

“No.” Dylan exhaled and grabbed the remote. “I’m up. I’ll watch the news.”

Mick stopped at the door. “I did hear that around midnight, they’re supposed to interview some guy who survived the flu.”

“No way,” Dylan said, excited now. “What channel?”

“Forty.”

“You don’t want to watch it?” Dylan asked, flipping through the channels.

“No, you enjoy. Fill me in. I won’t be long.”

“Yes, you will.” Dylan found her channel. “You go out to check on things, you won’t be back until dawn.”

Mick was going to argue, but he didn’t. He merely caught a quick smile from Dylan, returned one, and walked out. She was wrong. Normally, if he were checking on things, yes, he’d be out until dawn. But nothing was happening in Lodi. Nothing. And that was one of the reasons everything was so heavy on Mick’s mind.

* * *

Los Angeles, CA

Agent Jeff Bloom prided himself on being a strong man. Darrell Harding did, as well. But the world was crumbling around them: Rioting in the streets, gunfire and explosions ringing out loudly, carrying into their hotel room at a steady rate. Neither one of them ever thought for a second that they would succumb to what pulled down the rest of the world: Fear.

It made them think. It made them reevaluate their destinies. Hours upon hours were spent reexamining their lives through conversation. Things they did; hadn’t done; loved ones gone; chances missed.

There was a first time for everything, and Jeff and Darrell had arrived at that moment. They were facing the fact that in a mere few days, they could be facing their deaths.

Though it was something Jeff had occasionally thought about, it wasn’t a position he ever expected himself to be in, but these were extenuating circumstances. Distraction was what he needed right then. Perhaps these circumstances were the reason that Jeff didn’t mind the position at all. In fact, against everything he had ever believed, he actually enjoyed it.

The warm sensation of his own heavy breaths washed over his face, which was pressed into the mattress. His knees dug into the semi-soft surface. His chest was close to the bed, his back angled upward. His left arm grabbed the sheet at the edge of the bed while his right hand delivered self-satisfying pulls that matched the rhythm of the thrusts powered into him by Darrell.

Jeff justified to himself that it was the thought of death that allowed him to enjoy it so much. And with that justification, he let himself go.

Each successive dig of Darrell’s fingers into his hips sent Jeff further and further over the edge. His legs felt tense. He tried to hold back by releasing his own grip, but he found his hand returning to its task, wanting to achieve that moment with a frenzied desire that he had never felt before.

The frantic slap of Darrell’s body against his told Jeff that Darrell was close as well. Each thrust created tremors that shot through Jeff. And that tiny, pre-orgasmic moan that Darrell released was all it took. Jeff was gone.

A chain reaction ensued.

Darrell was pushed over the edge too when he felt Jeff tremble violently and shout out his release. With a sharply arched back, he slammed into Jeff, and with a powerful groan achieved the liberation of his ecstasy as well.

In what Jeff believed to be the single most erotic moment of his life, his body shuddered one more time, and, slowly pulling away from Darrell, he fell to the bed.

Four deep gasps escaped Darrell as he dropped from his knees to a sitting position. His shoulders lifted and fell with the exertion and a trickle of sweat ran down the bridge of his nose. He caught the bead of moisture with a downward swipe of his hand as he looked at Jeff laying stomach down, naked rear end fully exposed.

There was total silence, too much silence for Darrell’s comfort. So, to avoid any awkward, embarrassing moments after the experience they’d just shared, Darrell stood up and opted for a shower.

Three things were produced by the shower Darrell took. A total body cleansing, a second release of pent-up sexual urges he thought he had completely purged, and the realization that they really had to open a window for fresh air.

He enjoyed the crisp, fresh scent of soap that stayed with him until he stepped back into the room and the aroma of their hibernation slapped him in the face. The room reeked of food gone bad. He couldn’t determine if that cheesy smell was the open bag of Doritos or all the dirty socks lying around. There was a hint of beer in the air, although Darrell supposed it would be more predominant had Jeff not been farting constantly.

Wrinkling his nose, Darrell shook his head. “Man, it stinks in here.”

“Tell me about it.” Jeff lay on the bed fully dressed as if he had somewhere to go.

“Should I open the balcony doors?” Darrell asked, moving to that side of the room.

“No way. I don’t want any of that air from outside in here.”

“But don’t you think fresh air might help?” Darrell asked.

“Are we sick?”

“No,” Darrell said.

“Is everyone else sick?”

Darrell nodded. “Pretty much.”

“Then that’s why. We aren’t breathing their air. And after seeing that military truck with all those bodies, no. No way. Not me. We’ll bide our time until the quarantine is lifted.”

“Maybe it is.” Darrell parted the drapes to look out into the darkness. “It’s kind of quieted down out there. Oh, hey, did you see? They burned the bank across the street.”

“Where you been? Happened yesterday.” Jeff lifted the remote and aimed it at the television. “And the quarantine isn’t lifted yet. It hasn’t been three weeks.”

“How are we gonna know?”

Jeff shrugged. “I’m sure we’ll know. That’s if the TV doesn’t go. We’re down to three stations now, all news.”

“So, you didn’t tell me. We got… distracted,” Darrell said, clearing his throat. “What did the captain say?”

“That Rodriguez is being detained and they are waiting for us. Something like that. Cell phone died. Oh!” Excitedly, Jeff sat up and turned up the volume. “Check this out. This is the guy who started the whole mess. Brought the flu to Anchorage.”

“Oh, shit. That asshole,” Darrell said, totally offended. “I hope they arrest him. Look, he’s alive.”

“I think that’s the point of this whole thing. He didn’t die,” Jeff said. “This is to show us the flu isn’t deadly.” There was a brief moment of silence and then Jeff burst into laughter.

“Yeah, right,” Darrell scoffed. “They ought to come to LA and watch the daily body parade.”

“You know what though? It’s gonna end up being something we’re glad we saw. We can talk about it for years to come.” Jeff reached into the night stand. “Beer?”

“Um… yeah.” Eyes focused on the television, Darrell reached blindly behind him for the can as he sat down on the bottom of the bed to watch Bill Daniels.

* * *

Anchorage, Alaska

“Horrible,” Bill responded to the question asked of him. He sat in a chair, alone in a small hospital room, facing a camera, an earpiece in his ear to allow him to hear the questions asked of him. “If I could chose only one word to sum it all up, horrible would be the one. It was the sickest I have been in my entire life, to be honest.”

On the other side of the country, the male anchorman spoke with dramatic seriousness. “There are rumors, Mr. Daniels, that people are dropping left and right from this flu. They have to bring in special trucks to remove the bodies. You’re out there right now, in the thick of it; tell us what it’s like.”

“There’s a lot of sickness, Dan. Hospitals are full. But the health officials forewarned us of this. I know from being a reporter myself that sometimes people overreact to what they hear and read. They don’t mean to, they just exaggerate.”

“So you’re saying they are exaggerating about the deaths? People aren’t dying of the flu?”

“Yes, some are dying of the flu, although no more than from the ordinary flu. Are they dropping left and right? No.” Bill shook his head. “Are they carting people out in trucks? Absolutely not. Not from what I see. Can people beat this flu?” Bill tilted his head and lifted his hand. “I’m sitting here, aren’t I? That should be proof enough.”

Bill nodded when he heard the anchorman’s “thank you” and the wrap-up of the segment. He smiled, watched the red indicator light on the camera go out, and then Bill removed the earpiece and stood up.

He had to unravel and take off the wires that were wrapped around him for the broadcast interview, wires that he himself knew how to set up. Finished with that, he stepped from that small room where they had him set up.

Moving into the hall, there was a lot of confusion and a lot fewer health care workers to deal with it as well. Bill knew without question where he had to go. The interview had already taken up too much of his time.

He walked down the corridor, moving aside for those who rushed past him. At the end of the hall, his destination, he watched one CDC worker emerge from the room, then another go in. Bill picked up his pace to get there.

Arriving at the room at the end of the corridor, Isabella’s room, Bill stood before the glass window that revealed Isabella in the bed and the single health care worker, Lexi, in that room. He was grateful he wasn’t too late. He knew that by taking the time to do the interview, he stood a chance of not being there when it happened. But it was a chance he had to take. Isabella was the type of person, who, if she weren’t so sick, would have insisted that he send his message of hope to the American people. Tell them they weren’t going under, they weren’t going to die.

And as Bill stared through the glass of the window, remembering his recently delivered message, he watched Isabella do just that… die.

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

Mick had a hard time believing it was a Friday night. Not that Lodi was a party town or the kick-ass place to be on a Friday, but generally there were people and noise. Tonight there were no teenagers hanging out past the curfew that Mick cursed the mayor for having to enforce. No cars. No Jeremy hogging karaoke and his badly-sung Barry Manilow songs carrying into the street. Nothing. Only darkness and silence.

His jingling of his keys was the only sound he heard during his walk, until Mick heard footsteps, slow steps that mimicked his not too far behind him. Mick stopped, turned around, and waited.

Patrick McCaffrey was gradually illuminated by the street light as he turned the corner.

Mick waited and stared.

“Hello, Mick.” Patrick walked a little faster to reach him. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Well…” Mick exhaled and looked around. “Not much used to being in bed this early on a Friday night.”

“Used to enforcing law and order on the weekend?” Patrick asked.

“No. Getting drunk.” Mick smiled. “What about you?”

“Walking. I was okay at home until the cable went out.”

“The cable went out? When?”

“About five minutes ago,” Patrick said.

“Great. Dylan will have a fit.” Mick shook his head. He stopped and looked at the park bench next to the sidewalk. He pointed at it with his head. “Sit?”

“Sure.” Patrick shrugged and followed Mick.

As if he had been walking all night, Mick sat down on the bench with an outward sigh of relief. “You know, I don’t think I ever asked you. How do you like Lodi?”

“Oh, this place is great.” Patrick leaned back, putting one arm on the back of the bench and relaxed. “It defines small town charm.”

“That it does.” Mick reached into his tee shirt pocket. He regarded the pack of cigarettes in there along with the folded piece of paper and pulled out his pack. “Smoke?”

Patrick shook his head. “I didn’t know you did.”

“Dylan hates it…” Mick hit the pack on his hand ejecting a single cigarette. “So I only smoke when I’m not around her.” Cigarette clenched in his lips, Mick lit it as he continued to talk. “Hard to believe she was the one who got me started.” With a smile he blew out the smoke. “So you like small towns?”

“Yes.”

“Have you lived in one before?”

“No,” Patrick answered. “You can say Lodi popped my small town cherry.” He chuckled. “I’m a city boy. Born and bred.”

“Oh, yeah? Where from?” Mick asked. “You don’t mind me asking, do you? I’m just making conversation.”

“No, I don’t mind,” Patrick answered. “Tucson.”

“A city boy from Tucson? Kind of sounds like an oxymoron.” Mick laughed. “What brought you to Lodi?”

“The job.”

“Wow. Lodi Elementary must pay well.”

That brought a hearty laugh from Patrick. “No. Actually my uncle lives in Wadsworth. He told me about the opening.”

“Your uncle? What’s his name? I know a lot of people in Wadsworth.”

“You probably know him, then. Roger Picket.”

“Roger Picket,” Mick said with surprise. “No way. What a small world. I know Roger well.” Mick tilted his head and paused. “He’s a black man.”

“Yep.”

Mick nodded. “I see the family resemblance,” he joked. “Roger’s a really nice guy. Big family.” He took a huge hit of his cigarette, “You’re a welcome addition to Lodi, Patrick.”

“Thanks.”

“Nice guy, too.” Mick bobbed his head. “Dylan likes you.”

“Dylan’s great.”

“That she is. So…” Mick put his cigarette in his mouth, leaned forward, and rested one arm across his leg as he reached into his tee shirt pocket. “Tell me…” he pulled out the paper, “who’d you embezzle the hundred mil from, Mister,” Mick opened the paper. “Rodriguez, is it?”

He handed the sheet to Patrick.

At first Patrick didn’t take it. His eyes locked onto Mick’s for what felt like hours. Then reaching out, never losing eye contact, Patrick took the paper.

With his mouth closed, Mick smiled slightly.

Patrick didn’t read it. He didn’t need to. “Why…” He cleared the nervousness from his throat. “Why don’t I get this overwhelming desire to run?”

Lifting his eyebrows, Mick shrugged and raised his hands. “Know you’re had, perhaps? Don’t know,” Mick said. “Maybe you think I’ll shoot you.”

“Would you?”

Mick only hit his cigarette. “No. Feel like running now?”

“No.” Patrick still looked at Mick, the paper he had yet to look at still in his hand.

“Unofficially, off the record, who’d you steal the money from?” Mick asked.

“The United States government. Mostly from various “save this, save that” accounts. A few Senators. The, um, the President’s pocket change account.”

Mick snickered. “No shit.”

“No shit,” Patrick stated. “I pulled from the Vice President’s pocket change account, as well. But no one noticed. I’m not sure he even knows he has one. In fact, most of the places I shaved funds from I didn’t think anyone knew existed.”

“How did you?” Mick questioned.

“A lot of research. This was basically planned since I was about twenty.”

Mick whistled. “Wasn’t foolproof. Did you think maybe it would have been?”

“Oh, yeah.” Patrick nodded. “How else did it take so long to catch it? And it was the one account that I thought no one would ever notice that attracted attention.”

“Really? Which one?”

“The United States government RS-276-lib. Research funds for the revamping of the Dewey Decimal system.”

“So tell me…” Mick tossed the finished cigarette. “That’s a lot of money. Where is it?”

“Clean. Laundered. I don’t have it.”

“Not a case of Robin Hood, I suppose?” Mick stated. “Take from the rich, give to the poor?”

“Hardly.” Patrick laughed. “Take from the government, give to the rich. The Mob. They covered my ass. How do you think I stayed hidden for three years?” He exhaled silently and handed the sheet back to Mick. “What are you gonna do?”

“Well,” Mick folded the paper and put it back in his pocket, “the FBI wants me to take you in. Detain you here in Lodi until ordinances and quarantines are lifted, things are back to normal, and they can come for you. But… that’s a long time. And between you and me, I don’t feel like housing, feeding and taking care of you in my two-cell private establishment. Nope.” Mick shook his head. “And I also don’t think things will be quite back to normal. Ever.” He looked at Patrick. “You tell me. What should I do?”

“You could lose that arrest warrant.”

“I could… but I won’t. I’m the Chief of Police in a small town that’s a mere dot on the map of a fucked up world right now. No…” Mick slowly stood . “You could run. But where you gonna go? Things are a mess, Patrick. I don’t think even your people can set something up for you right now.”

“Probably not,” Patrick concurred.

“So…” Mick exhaled heavily, “I’m gonna arrest you.”

Not that he wasn’t expecting it, but Patrick was just a little taken aback. He could run, but Mick would catch him. Even if he made it outside of Lodi, Mick was right. Where would he go? Patrick nodded slowly.

“You’re under arrest, Patrick.” Mick pulled out another cigarette and lit it. “Go home. I’ll deal with this when and if things calm down.”

If he was shocked before, Patrick was now stunned. “Go… go home?”

“Yeah, to your little house on Semper.”

“Mick… you’re just gonna trust me?”

“What choice do I have?” Mick asked. “There’s too much shit going on right now.”

“What if I disappear on you?”

Mick shrugged. “Then I fucked up. I’ll have to answer for it, now, won’t I?”

“Thank you.”

Mick hit his cigarette. “You do know, if we do actually get you into custody, you stand a good chance of becoming another legend around here like Lars.”

“Lars,” Patrick chuckled. “Mick, was he a rock star?”

“Lars?” Mick laughed. “No.”

“I was wondering. If he wasn’t… why exactly is Lars Rayburn a legend around here?”

“You don’t know?” Mick watched Patrick shake his head, “Well,” he said, “it started about…” Mick’s head turned to the sound at the same time as Patrick. It as distant at first, but it drew closer. Thunderous. Loud, heavy trucks. Curiously, Mick turned his eyes back to Patrick. Just as he did, a convoy of military trucks rolled down the main street toward them.

“Holy shit,” Mick said.

“What are they doing here?” Patrick asked.

“I haven’t a clue.” Mick watched the trucks all slowly come around the corner. The sound of squealing air brakes rang out. “But let’s go find out.” Tossing his cigarette, Mick took off with Patrick right behind him.

* * *

Anchorage, Alaska

With all the commotion that was taking place inside, Lexi couldn’t believe the silence that hit her the second she stepped out of the hospital for air. She paused just outside of the automatic doors and took it in.

Quiet.

But really, it wasn’t. Sirens blared in the distance; there were constant motor noises. Occasional gunfire popped off. But even that noise was soothing against the noises of death and pain that inundated her inside the hospital.

Holding a can of soda and a paper cup, Lexi’s eyes searched from left to right. She knew he had to be out there. Something told her that he hadn’t left for good. Then she spotted him off to the side, in the designated smoking section. Bill was just sitting there.

She walked over to him, saying nothing . She took the seat beside him and opened the can of soda. She poured some into the paper cup and handed it to Bill.

Bill shook his head as he stared as his folded hands.

“Take it,” she insisted. “You have to keep your fluids up. You’re still recovering.”

Bill took the cup. “Thanks.”

“I’m very… I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“So am I.” Bill exhaled. “But thank you for that. I suppose you’ve seen so much it doesn’t faze you.”

Lexi released a long, emotion-filled chuckle. “It bothers me. Every person that passes on in there, it bothers me. I just can’t let it affect me. That’s all.”

“You know, if I wasn’t immune now to this flu, the last place I’d be is out here without that protective suit you wear.”

Lexi smiled. “I don’t think I’m gonna get this flu.”

“Confident.”

“Pretty much,” Lexi stated. “I ran a test when I had a moment. Looks like I reject it when it enters my blood stream.”

“You can tell?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“So if you’re immune why do you wear that suit?”

“It makes others feel comfortable thinking I’m not giving them something.” She drank some of her soda. “So what now? Are you heading home?”

“Taking a moment. I looked around in there. I thought I’d lend a hand.”

At that, Lexi smiled. “I’d turn you down but we need the help. I saw your interview, part of it. That… that was brave of you.”

“Brave?” Bill laughed. “How?”

“To go on national television knowing all eyes would be upon you. To tell about this flu.”

“Even though it wasn’t the truth?” Bill asked.

“Can I ask if someone told you to do that?”

“Lie?” Bill shook his head. “No. I did that on my own.”

“Why?”

“There wasn’t another choice. I thought about it.” Bill sat up and leaned back. “What good would it do to go and tell everyone that it looks like Anchorage is pretty much, excuse the pun, sunk. They don’t need to hear that. That’ll scare people. People don’t need to be scared, they need to feel hope. They get their information from the media, and I, as the media, am not going to be the one who frightens them. We may be out of options, but who’s to say, someone else may have options?” Bill softened his voice. “Who’s to say, out there, somewhere, there isn’t still hope?”

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

Six military trucks were parked in what appeared to be a blockade around the Lodi Elementary gymnasium when Mick and Patrick arrived.

“Cots?” Patrick questioned Mick when he saw the soldiers, wearing gas masks, unloading one truck.

“Looks that way,” Mick stated and moved toward the open gym door.

“Hey, Mick, maybe they’re making this an official medical place. What do you think?”

“I don’t know. But I’m about to find—”

“Hold it,” a soldier approached Mick, stopping him with his rifle. “No one gets in there.”

Mick rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. Move.”

“Sir, I’m not joking.”

“Neither am I. I’m the Chief of Police in this town, now let me in my school.” Mick pointed to his waist and the badge he wore attached to his belt. “Now can I get in there?”

“Hold on,” the soldier stepped aside.

Mick waved his hand at the soldier and walked into the gym with Patrick. As soon as he did, his questions were partially answered when he heard Lars’ voice barking out orders.

“I’ll need those over there,” Lars pointed across the gym for the benefit of one soldier.

“Lars.” Mick approached him.

“Evening, Mick,” Lars stated. “Patrick.”

“What the hell is going on?” Mick asked.

“I tried to get you earlier, but you weren’t home,” Lars said.

“Did you think to call the station?”

“Yes.” Lars nodded. “I figured I’d wait until I was finished.”

“Finished with…?”

Lars gestured with his hand, “Over here where we can talk.” He walked to where a large table was set up, nothing on it but a brief case. “You are standing in what we are preparing to call the Lodi Medical Aid Station.”

With Patrick listening at his side, Mick waited for Lars to continue. He figured Lars had stopped to think, but no more words came from him. He then wondered if Lars thought the simple one-sentence explanation he gave was going to be enough. If that was the case then Lars had thought wrong. Mick grew impatient.

“Lars, did something happen in Lodi? In Seville, maybe?” Mick questioned. “Why did the government send all these people here?”

“The government didn’t, not really. It was initiated by the CDC.”

“So the CDC sent in the military.”

“Yes… I thought it was best to have an escort while initiating the plan.”

“The plan?” Mick asked.

“Yes, my plan. Actually…” Lars reached for the briefcase and popped it open, “it has been a plan, or rather a theoretical procedure I’ve had in mind for… God… I don’t want to say how many years.”

“So… you brought this in. You’re responsible?” Mick looked around.

“Yes.”

Mick snorted in irritation. “Everyone is nuts enough, Lars. The whole damn town is shut down. People are scared. This isn’t going to help.”

“This,” Lars emphasized, “is going to help. And if it is implemented correctly, followed through precisely, it might be the only thing that can save this town from what’s wiping out the rest of the world.” Calming a bit, Lars looked at a confused Mick and Patrick. “Let me give you some cold hard facts about this flu, Mick.”

Mick nodded. “Go on. I heard on the news—”

“Forget the news,” Lars interrupted. “I know this flu that they’re calling the Barrow Flu. Its technical designation is Pascal 435, strain C. It’s strong, and it’s lethal. It has extinction level potential. The news, the CDC, they’ll give you an overall percentage rate. Sixty-five percent chance of catching it, and so forth.” Lars shook his head. “If you are under the age of fourteen I can guarantee you have a ninety-nine plus percent chance of catching this flu. The older you get, your chances decrease. And if you catch it, no matter how old, young, healthy, strong, weak… more likely than not, people will die. For years health officials have been working on ways to beat this flu. It can’t be beat. Not completely.”

Patrick looked even more confused than Mick. “How do you know about this?”

“It’s what I do. I work on plagues and viruses. I monitor them in the world’s deadliest plague region. I watch for anything that can become pandemic. Because if something is going to start it will start in the region in which I work. But no one expected it to begin in some igloo-intensive community in Alaska, that’s for sure… but it did.” Lars took a breath and leaned against the table. “By the time it was discovered, it had crossed the boundaries into populated areas. It broke free. If you think this is the first time this flu has surfaced, think again. This is the fourth outbreak. Only difference is, all four previous outbreaks took place in very isolated locations and were contained and stopped.”

“So you know this flu well?” Mick asked.

“I should,” Lars answered. “Not only was I on site for the last two outbreaks, I… I had this flu. And if you’re curious as to why I didn’t die… I should have. I didn’t because I implemented a theory I came up with during my studies of the second outbreak. It’s that theory, it’s my survival, that brings all this here.”

After looking around the gym that increasingly became packed with equipment, Patrick had to question, “If your theory is so good, if your plan is so foolproof, why isn’t the rest of the world trying it?”

“It’s too late, too big,” Lars shrugged. “It’s very tricky, the plan. And it’s not a method easily executed, so don’t kid yourself. It’s not a matter of just giving an antiserum; there are steps. And it’s the steps that have to be taken that make it impossible to deliver it to large regions.”

“Hence Lodi,” Mick said. “Population thirty-five-forty.”

“Exactly,” Lars nodded. “The town is small enough to try it on. And the proper supplies can be brought in for a population this small. So we’re going to try it. The CDC wants to see if it will work. Not that it will make much of a difference for the rest of the world, but there’s hope for at least one town.”

“Lodi.” Mick breathed out. “What will you do?”

“As I said, there’s a protocol,” Lars explained. “First, every single person will be given a flu vaccine. This is a special vaccine, designed for various strains of swine flu, because that is what this flu is primarily based upon. This will shave the communicability rate from ninety-five percent down to seventy-five percent. Next, everyone must be informed about every detail about this flu, including symptoms and so forth. That is extremely vital. See, if you get it, in almost all cases, your blood turns to poison. Once that poison stars affecting your organs, there is no turning back. But… like with me, I was able to stop that poison. It can be stopped. Only,” Lars exhaled, “only if caught within five to ten hours of the first symptoms.”

Patrick smiled at the news. “So if the person gets to you early with the flu, you can save them.”

“From turning septic, yes, blasting them immediately with high doses of antibiotics,” Lars answered. “They still stand a risk of succumbing to the pneumonia. But it’s not as high as succumbing to septicemia.”

Raising a clenched fist in excitement, Patrick nodded. “I feel better already.”

“Don’t,” Lars stated. “That’s not a big time frame. The smaller you are the faster septicemia claims its victims. Mick, here, if he caught the flu, he could push the ten hours post first symptom. You, Patrick, better see me within seven. Seven hours is not a lot of time.”

Mick understood. “But, Lars, with this plan, he still has more of a chance than anyone else, right?”

“I’m hoping,” Lars responded. “That’s why I’m doing this. Right now Lodi doesn’t really see what this flu is doing. How can they? The biggest worry today was why did the video store close, yet thirty miles away in Cleveland a mother holds her child in her arms, and her worry is, what will she do the next day when her child dies?” Lars’ voice was laced with sadness. “I want to keep the video store worry going. I don’t want some mother in Lodi feeling what that mother in Cleveland is feeling. If I can stop it, I will.” Lars stood. “But we have to move fast on this, extremely fast. Finish setting up and hopefully tomorrow morning start injections. We have a window of opportunity, and I don’t want it to shut on us.”

Mick’s head shook slightly in confusion. “I don’t understand. What window?”

“Window meaning before it gets ahead of us,” Lars said. “I want to get prepared before the flu strikes here.”

“It has already,” Mick told him. “Mr. Carlson has—”

“No.” Lars stopped him. “Mr. Carlson has allergies. I checked him. There isn’t a single case of flu in Lodi.”

Patrick blinked in surprise. “Not a single case?”

“Nope. Why do you think we’re doing this? We’d pull in Seville and some other Medina towns, but they have the flu.”

Slowly Mick’s hand raised as he stared at Lars. “Are you telling me, four miles away they have the flu, but we don’t?” Lars nodded. “Is there any way of stopping us from getting it at all?”

“The flu has to run its course,” Lars explained. “It will lose potency, but it still has to die out.”

“But… is there any way to stop it from running its course through Lodi, sparing us?” Mick asked again.

Lars chuckled. “Mick, you’d have to keep anyone, and I mean anyone, from coming in. And short of putting up an iron wall around Lodi, there’s no way to do that.” His smile faded as Mick walked away. “Mick, where are you going?”

Mick turned around, walking backwards quickly as he spoke. “That flu is not getting in here, Lars. Not in Lodi. Because I’m putting up that iron wall.”

* * *

If Diggins’ Drugstore didn’t have apartments on top of it, it wouldn’t have been the highest point in town. It wasn’t that high, but it was high enough for Mick to see what he waited for.

Arms crossed, staring east, Mick listened for the sounds of it first. A familiar sound, faint and rolling in louder. And then he saw them. The sight reminded him so much of that first night at the funeral home for Sam’s viewing, the dancing lights. But this time they moved straight, right down the highway, four wide, hundreds deep. Mick watched them approach Lodi and spread out. East. West. North and South. A few would ride in to access the riverbanks.

A small town needed the protection only a strong iron fist could deliver. The call for help was made, and with a vengeance it arrived.

* * *

Mayor Connally waddled some as he walked, but it wasn’t a bad back or legs, his age, or his weight problem. He wrestled with his blue robe tying it to cover those smiley face boxers he wore as he made it down his steps.

Rudely awakened, Mayor Brad Connally called it. Finally asleep after dealing with his wife’s obsession over the news and paranoia over the virus, rest was welcome; he didn’t even mind that odd Hell’s Angels dream he had for some obscure reason. He did mind the single hard knock on his front door that stirred him, and the loud, deep resonating call of his name that snapped him awake.

“Mayor Connally?” Mick yelled out.

“I told you to shut the hell up. The sedative is working nicely on Elise.” With the final tug of his robe’s belt, and a huff of irritation, Brad Connally straightened his gray hair and emerged from the staircase. “Michael Owens, I swear to God, this better be important, Chief of Police of not.”

“It is,” Mick stated. “I have to fax these to the Governor. I need you to sign them.” Mick laid two documents and a pen on the sofa table.

“What the hell are these?” Brad asked.

“The first is an order approving two hundred and sixteen temporary deputies as border patrols. You have to sign this to give them the immediate authority to maintain law and order. Then,” Mick slid the next paper to him, “you have to sign this proclamation stating that we are in a state of national emergency and by the authority vested in you, you are declaring your own martial law.”

“I’m what?” Brad was taken aback. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing, yet, sir. And that’s the way I want it.”

“I’m not understanding, Mick.”

“We don’t have the flu,” Mick stated seriously.

“Who? You and me?”

“No. The whole goddamn town of Lodi. We don’t have the flu. And that’s the way I want to keep it. If we can keep it out, Lars says for four weeks, we will have beaten this bug and not lost a single life to it. The world is dying…” Mick’s voice dropped. “Let’s not let Lodi.”

“So you want me to shut us down.”

“No, sir, we’re opening back up. I want to override the ordinance, live our own existence, open shops, let people roam around their hometown… safely. And I can only do this by locking us down and keeping everyone else out.”

Brad’s head spun. “So we’re quarantining Lodi from the world?”

“No, sir.” Mick shook his head. “We’re quarantining the world from Lodi.” He lifted the pen and handed it to Brad. “Sign the orders.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Reston, Virginia

September 4th

Henry flicked his finger in a steady slow rhythm against the side of the thick plastic cup. He stared across the table at Kurt who slept in a chair, his feet extended onto another. A blanket covered Kurt up to his chin, and his head was uncomfortably tilted to one side.

Henry needed someone to talk to, but he didn’t want to wake Kurt. And even if he did, he wasn’t quite sure if Kurt would feel like listening. The strong antibiotics were being delivered into Kurt at an incredible rate through an intravenous line Henry had set up. There was no one else to do it, no other doctor around who could oversee the Rayburn therapy.

Kurt had the flu. He would be, aside from Lars himself, the first person to test the therapy. Henry had confidence it would work. He held high hopes and he could project no less. After all, it was he and Kurt who pushed to test Lars’ therapy. How would it look if he doubted it when it took a lot of work to put into motion?

Henry’s job, as far as Lodi was concerned, was finished, with the exception of getting reports from Lars. Henry could have turned the Lodi experiment over to Lars and wished him good luck, but he felt that he owed Lars. The map on the wall grew blacker by the hour, and the world outside of his Winston Research office slipped further from his mind as Lodi, Ohio moved right in.

Another situation arose overnight in Lodi, one that immediately caught Henry’s attention. It was brilliant, and hard for Henry to believe that it was conceived by a man with little education beyond high school.

Though what was happening in Lodi was completely out of Henry and Kurt’s jurisdiction, out of their hands and not of their concern, Henry wanted to make it his concern. Henry wanted to have the therapy experiment under his wing, because this was an experiment that could possibly be successful and help many other people.

As he sat in the darkness, staring at his ailing friend, Henry contemplated ways that he could help ensure that the experiment would not fail.

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

Dylan’s dream was partially cogent, but she wouldn’t allow herself to slip completely into the lucid state. She didn’t want to. Her nighttime drama was just what she needed. Her mind was escaping the horrors of all that she heard on the news, while her body reveled in every sensation felt within her dream. She supposed that the video that the boys were watching earlier had everything to do with the fact that wrestling legend, Nature Boy Rick Flair slipped into her bed with her in her fantasy. And Dylan reminded herself, during a lucid moment, to thank those boys. Rick’s youthful incarnation swayed his body to his Space Odyssey theme music, across Dylan’s bedroom, lending truth to his nickname ‘Nature Boy’.

How indisputably beautiful his body was; firm, hard, with a handsome face to match. He moved gracefully, fluidly, unlike any “ordinary” man, as he crawled onto the bed to join her. From the kisses he delivered to her neck, to the placement of his hands in just the right spots, and the slow movements of his body as he pleasured her, every motion was perfectly timed.

It was a passionate moment, almost too romantic for someone as rough as Rick. But Dylan didn’t quibble with her conscious thoughts as she tried to let her subconscious dominate so she could totally enjoy the arousal she felt as her dream lover moved against her.

Maybe if she could stay in her dream state and ignore reality, she’d be able to block out her conscience, but she was unable to keep that part of her brain unengaged. Unbidden, unwanted, it floated to the surface and forced her to speak. “Rick,” she whispered, “what about your wife?”

“She doesn’t mind,” Rick spoke in her ear.

“Well, what about Mick?”

“I could take Mick.”

Dylan giggled, still in her dream, as she wrapped her arms more tightly around the man sharing her bed. “Yeah, you could kick Mick’s ass.”

“Who?!” The word blasted into her ear and snapped Dylan from her erotic dream and into a totally conscious state, finding herself in her semi-dark bedroom with someone other than Nature Boy in her arms.

Dylan blinked and focused. “Mick.” She sat up in bed. “Damn it. You woke me from a really good dream.”

Mick stared for a second then lifted his hand as he sat on the edge of the bed. “You were talking in your sleep about someone beating me up. That’s a good dream?”

“Well…”

“Who can kick my ass?”

“Rick Flair.”

“Oh, he cannot,” Mick scoffed.

“Yeah, he could,” Dylan snapped and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “But it doesn’t matter; it was just a dream. Which you ruined. And I was having a real good time having sex with him.”

“Uh!” Mick grunted in shock. “You dreamt you were having sex with Rick Flair. Dylan, he’s… he’s old.”

“Not in my dream.” Dylan sniffed haughtily. “Rick was in his prime.”

Mick slightly tilted his head. “Well, okay, that makes sense.” He stood up. “And why are you having sex dreams? We just… you know.” Mick began to take off his shirt.

“Mick, if you had done… let’s say your job…”

The tee shirt stopped just above Mick’s head and he delivered an outraged look at her. “I cannot believe you just said that to me.”

Dylan smiled and patted the bed. “I’m kidding,” her eyes shifted to the window, “and it’s dawn. I told you that you wouldn’t be back until dawn.”

“I know. I know,” Mick grumbled as he fell into bed and closed his eyes.

“You’re tired.”

“Very. But I can’t sleep for too long.” He opened one eye. “Wake me in two hours?”

“Two hours? That’s all?”

“That’s all I can afford, sweetheart.” Quickly he lifted his head, kissed her on the cheek, and rolled onto his stomach. He groaned his exhaustion. “I have to be awake and ready for when all hell breaks loose around here.”

As if she weren’t fully paying attention, Dylan nodded her understanding. Then the meaning of his words hit her. “Wait.” Her eyes widened. “Mick? What hell is gonna break loose?” She didn’t get an answer. “Mick?” She tapped his shoulder.

His response was a heavy exhalation. His head buried deeply into the pillow, Mick was sound asleep.

* * *

While the other Lodi residents probably would have basked in it, Patrick found not one second of pleasure in seeing two of Lars Rayburn. His eyes were heavy, they started to burn, and the bright fluorescent gymnasium lights didn’t help his situation.

“Lars,” Patrick whined wearily. “I have to stop. Can I?” he asked as he capped a filled syringe and set it in a box with others.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Lars stated. “We can get a few hours’ rest and finish up before we deliver the serums.”

“What’s the count?”

“Including what you just did…” Lars did a visual count of the box then looked at the other boxes. “We need five hundred and twenty-three more.”

“Wow. We did almost three thousand.”

“Hard to believe. Long night.”

Patrick looked at his watch. “What time do you want me back here?”

“How about eight-thirty? We’ll finish up and be ready to distribute these by noon.”

“Sounds good.” After he stood up, Patrick extended his arms, arched his back and stretched. As he relaxed, he felt Lars grab his arm. “What’s wrong?”

Holding up a syringe, Lars smiled. “We hit Mick before he went. Your turn. Don’t want you getting lost in the shuffle.” He grabbed a prepackaged alcohol wipe and opened it. “Now be a big boy.” Lars wiped off a small area of Patrick’s arm. “Just a pinch.”

“Do I get a sucker?”

Lars snickered and plunged the syringe into Patrick’s flesh.

“It burns,” Patrick complained.

“Does not.” Lars tossed the used needle into the biohazard sharps container. “Shall we go home for some rest before the crowd gathers?”

“Absolutely.” Patrick rubbed his arm.

“I appreciate your help.”

“You say that now.”

“You’ll be my star pupil. Wait until you start learning venipuncture.”

“What’s that?” Patrick asked.

“Taking people’s blood.”

“There is a bright side.” Patrick smiled as they walked across the gym.

“Let’s hope the residents are as congenial as you and Mick about the vaccines.”

“I don’t see why not. They’ll listen to you, you are Lars Rayburn.” Patrick stopped walking. “You’re like this legend around here.”

Almost with a blush, Lars nodded.

“Why?” Patrick questioned.

“It’s really ridiculous.”

“It can’t be that ridiculous if they made the summer festival into the fall festival just so they could have you here.”

Lars snickered. “That was an honor.”

“So why? Why are you a legend to these people?”

“Well, you see, about…” Lars stopped talking and held up his hand when his cell phone rang. “Have to get this. Only Henry and Kurt have this number.” Lifting the cell phone, Lars played with it until he got it to stop ringing. “Hello?”

Patrick watched Lars’ face as Lars listened and nodded.

“Just a moment, Henry.” Lars covered the phone and looked to Patrick. “You go on and rest. Find me if I’m not back here in a few hours. I must take this call.”

Patrick nodded as Lars walked off, speaking into the phone about some papers that could help. Patrick didn’t have a clue what Lars was talking about, but he realized that, with his luck, he stood a better chance of finding out what that phone call was about than he ever did of finding out why Lars Rayburn was such a legend.

* * *

Reston, Virginia

“My father would be proud of me right now,” Henry said as he removed the rubber tourniquet from Kurt’s arm. “Very proud.” He watched the tube fill with blood. “You should have heard him complain when I gave up my practice.” Henry removed the full tube and placed a piece of cotton on Kurt’s arm. “Can you hold that?”

Kurt lifted his other arm slowly and rested his fingers on the cotton.

“Thanks.” Henry looked at the tube of blood. “Better get well, or at least well enough to do the same for me.” Henry saw the worried look on Kurt’s face. “No, not yet. I’m not sick. But just in case.” He walked across the lab with the tube. “So, as I was saying, I started a practice many years ago. A patient, Mr. Winston,” Henry smiled, “spoke to me about working here as director. At the time, the pay was good, the hours short. Malpractice insurance wasn’t making me broke, and… I didn’t have to deal with sick people.” He snickered. “Look at me now. I’ve been working for days, washing up in the men’s room, and dealing with an entire world that’s sick.” He found the pot of coffee and poured a cup.

“Plan?” Kurt asked weakly.

“Oh, yes.” Henry took his cup back over to his seat. “I came up with a plan. Lars loved it. We’re just waiting now for approval. What it is,” Henry settled into his chair, “is a way to help Chief Michael Owens of Lodi, a back-up of sorts.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” Henry lifted a hand. “Imagine that the earth is a battleground. Which it actually is right now, beaten, burned. If we can just preserve one spot, leave one speck untouched, then we’ve won.” His head turned quickly as the phone rang. “That’s either Utah with their stats or the call I’ve been waiting for.” Hurriedly, Henry hurriedly reached for the phone. “Yes.” He listened and nodded. “Thank you.” The phone did not leave his hand; he merely disconnected the call and began to dial.

Kurt watched this. “Who are you calling?”

“Approval’s come through. If Chief Owens can hold out for three days, this little plan of his might work. But there’s no reason why he can’t initiate things on his end.” Henry lifted a finger to Kurt when the call was connected. “Um… yes, this is Dr. Henry Davis from the Barrow flu dispatch center. I need to speak to Chief Owens, please.”

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

Mick was filled with satisfaction as he carried the cardboard sign up the sidewalk to Tom and Marian’s house. It looked peaceful and quiet, but that perception was disrupted when the front door opened and Tom emerged with two suitcases.

Tom set them on the porch, looked at Mick, and went back inside.

“Tom,” Mick called out and picked up his pace. He didn’t stop to knock; he just walked in. “Tom.”

“Morning, Michael.” Marian smiled then patted him on the cheek and set down a flowered duffle bag.

“What the hell’s going on?” Mick looked at the luggage. “Marian?”

Marian only smiled before exhaling. Saying nothing, she turned and headed to the stairs.

“OK,” Mick spoke to himself. “No one is speaking to me.” He spotted Tom in the kitchen. “Tom.” Mick marched that way. He froze when he saw Tom placing food in a box. “Tom, what is going on?”

“What’s it look like?”

“You’re packing.”

“Aren’t you an Einstein?” Tom quipped. “Had to be that quick wit that got you the chief job, lord knows the size of your balls didn’t land it for you.”

“Ex… excuse me?” Mick was confused. “My balls?”

“You haven’t got any,” Tom snapped. “None. And I ain’t talking about what’s dangling between—”

“Okay, all right.” Mick cringed as he held up his hand. “Why are you packing?”

Tom stopped. He locked eyes with Mick for a moment then shook his head. “Have you heard the news? There’s a strong flu bug running around.”

“I know that.”

“But you don’t know the truth if you’re just listening to the news. Go on the internet.”

“The internet is still running?” Mick asked surprised.

“We have phones, don’t we?” Tom asked. “Some sites are down. Some aren’t. I went on the Minute Man Militia site last night. You have to see the pictures they have snuck out of LA. Bodies, Mick. Bodies in dump trucks, bodies burning. These aren’t the pictures that they’re showing on the news. This flu is bad. This flu is really bad.”

“I know this, Tom.”

“It may have shut down the country. It may have shut down Lodi, but I’ll be goddamned if I’m gonna let it shut down my life or the lives of my family.”

“So you’re leaving?”

“Absolutely,” Tom said strongly. “We’re going to Uncle Herb’s cabin down in West Virginia. Wait it out there. Figured out a non-quarantined route, packing up Marian, Dylan and the boys…”

“Whoa!” Mick stepped to him. “You are not taking Dylan and the boys. No. They stay right here.”

“They go with me.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Fine then… where’s my shotgun?” Tom turned around as if to search.

“Tom, this is ridiculous. I need you in Lodi.”

“There’s nothing left in Lodi. It’s a shell like the rest of the world.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it.” Mick’s voice dropped. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I didn’t have the balls. I do now.” On the counter next to Tom, Mick laid the sign that was on the video store’s door.

Tom looked at his sign. “You certainly do have balls taking down my sign.”

Mick had to chuckle. “No, Tom. I’m not talking about taking your sign down. I’m talking about taking down the ordinance.”

“Explain,” Tom said snidely, as if he didn’t believe Mick.

“The ordinance to shut down all businesses. Well, I’m ignoring that. I took down your sign because I want you to open the store back up. Start it, Tom. Get every business to do the same. Open back up. Things are gonna start happening. There’s a plan…” Mick dropped his hand onto the sign. “The world around us may be dying, but we’re keeping Lodi alive.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Lodi, Ohio

Why me? thought Patrick, syringe with vaccine in one hand and a small arm in the other. Eight doctors in addition to Lars had gathered to administer the shots, and Patrick was the lucky one who had to vaccinate Tigger. The child’s tiny arm was lost in Patrick’s hand, and he just stared at it.

“It’s just a shot,” Tigger said.

“I know.”

“Are you afraid?”

“No. Yes.” Patrick looked around the gymnasium for help from someone, anyone, and then Lars approached.

“Trouble?” Lars asked.

“Yes.” Patrick stated in relief. “Can you give Tigger the shot? His arm is so small I’m afraid I’ll hit the bone.”

“You won’t hit the bone.” Lars assured.

“I’m afraid I’ll hit the bone.”

After watching what seemed a ping pong match of words, Tigger interjected. “Can one of you give the shot? People are waiting.”

Lars, shaking his head, took the syringe. “Baby.” Holding Tigger’s arm in the palm of his hand, Lars pinched the flesh and prepared to give the injection.

“Hi, Mick,” Tigger said brightly when Mick approached.

“Hey, you.” Mick rubbed Tigger’s head then looked at Lars. “You’re gonna hit the bone.”

Patrick tossed up his hand. “I told him that.”

With seldom seen irritability, Lars enunciated slowly, “I am not going to hit the bone. Watch.” He injected the syringe.

Tigger let out a high-pitched screech. “You hit the bone.” After he saw all concerned eyes were upon him, he smiled. “Kidding.”

Laughing, Mick lifted Tigger from the table and set him down. “Good job. And Lars is tough. See?” Mick lifted his tee shirt sleeve. “I’m bruising.”

Lars watched the pair walk off, Tigger barely topping Mick’s knees. He looked crossly at Patrick. “Hit the bone,” Lars scoffed in disgust, then, shaking his head, he too walked off.

The next person stepped forward and Patrick’s eyes went from Lars to the woman. “I still say, he could have hit the bone. Don’t you?”

Mick figured that once word got out that vaccines were available, the people of Lodi would come to the school gym for their injections. He just didn’t figure it would work that well and that quickly.

The small gym was packed, and he was grateful that his height allowed him to be able to see his destination. So many people waited inside, and more waited on the other side of the doors. They lined up by the tables and moved around as if it were a social event. Most of the people waited for the tiny cup of juice Marian Roberts handed out at her little table she had set up as if she were a Red Cross volunteer.

Mick squeezed through, trying to make it across to the other side of the gymnasium. He held onto Tigger’s tiny hand for dear life, then, fearing he’d break the little fingers, Mick gave up. “Tigger,” he reached down and picked him up, “I know you hate to be carried, but humor me.”

“I hate this,” Tigger complained as he perched upon Mick’s hip like a two year old. “Kids I was supposed to go to school with will see me. They’ll think I’m a baby.”

“They’ll think you’re cool.” After adjusting Tigger, Mick realized that he’d lost his bearings, so before moving any farther in the wrong direction, Mick peered easily over the top of the crowd.

“Mick.” Dustin tapped on his arm.

“Ah.” Mick heaved a sigh of relief as he turned to Dustin. “Tell me you got your shot.”

“I did,” Dustin answered.

Tigger seized the ‘big brother’ opportunity before him. “Dustin, tell Mick to stop carrying me like a baby.”

“He has to carry you like a baby, you’re-pint sized, people will trample you. You think he’s carrying you like that ‘cause he wants to?” Dustin lectured. “He doesn’t… or do you, Mick?”

“No.” Mick continued to look around.

“Mick, you need to do something about Chris,” Dustin said.

Quickly, Mick looked at him. “Bingo. That’s who I’m searching for, do you know which table?”

“Fourth. Dr. Lyons,” Dustin answered.

“Good let’s…” Mick moved forward but was stopped when a woman approached him.

“Chief,” she said, “I hear there’s gonna be an assembly of sorts to explain all that’s going on.”

“Yes, Lil.” Mick, holding Tigger, his hand on Dustin’s shoulder, tried to get by her.

Again, she stopped him. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“Now if I did that, then I wouldn’t have to have an assembly. If I don’t have an assembly, I’m gonna be having to tell everyone what I told you. Understand?”

Confused, Lil looked at him.

“Good.” Mick smiled. He hurriedly led the boys away.

Nearing table four, Mick spotted the problem. Chris. He wanted to make it there before Chris did it again, and Mick was close to missing his opportunity. Handing Tigger to Dustin, eyes focused, Mick moved closer to table four.

He had watched Chris do it three times prior, but Mick was too busy to stop it. He wasn’t at that moment, and Mick was determined there wouldn’t be a fourth time.

Mick watched Chris prepare his escape. He bounced nervously as he moved closer to the doctor, stepped up a place in line, looked around, then as he nearly reached the front of the line, Chris again darted from the line and headed all the way to the back. He smirked, thinking that he was home free, but just then a huge hand dropped onto the back of his neck.

“No, you don’t.” Mick held on tightly, turning Chris around and guiding him back to the front of the line. “Not again.”

“But, Mick,” Chris argued, his feet dragging rather than moving on their own, “I don’t want to get the shot.”

“You’re getting the shot,” Mick insisted, planting him firmly in front of Dr. Lyons. “Hit him.”

“What?” Chris gasped.

“With the shot,” Mick stated.

Chris’ eyes widened as he watched the needle approach him. “No. No.” He backed up “I don’t trust him, Mick. I don’t know him.”

Mick nodded. “I see, so that’s the problem?” he asked with patient understanding. “You don’t know the doctor.”

“Yeah,” Chris replied nervously.

“Not a problem.” After a hidden wink to the doctor, Mick held out his hand. “Doc.” He gripped the syringe given to him.

Chris let out a jittery chuckle. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope, not at all.” Mick checked out the syringe. “So, Doctor, I just stick this in his arm and push the little plunger here?”

“Yep,” Dr. Lyons answered. “Make sure all the vaccine goes in.”

“Got it.” Mick grabbed Chris’ arm and revved the syringe back as far and high as he could reach.

“Wait!” Chris shouted in horror while hunching over, protecting his arm. “Just let the doctor do it.”

Still holding on to Chris, Mick handed the doctor the syringe. He held tight until the doctor was finished.

Chris whined sarcastically, “Thanks.” With a pout, he stepped from the line.

“All that pissing around and this could have been done with a while ago,” Mick scolded. “See, it wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“Yeah, well…” Chris rubbed his arm, “if it isn’t that bad how come you don’t make Mom get hers?”

Mick smiled smugly. “Mom got hers.”

“No she didn’t. Look,” Chris pointed.

As he turned, Mick saw Dylan. She sat in a chair in a corner of the gym, nearly hidden behind Marian. “Hook up with your brothers and go on outside, it’s too crowded in here,” Mick instructed.

“You gonna yell at Mom?” Chris asked, following closely.

“Yep. She’s gonna get that shot.” With determination evident in his demeanor, Mick walked straight through the crowd to Dylan. “Hey.”

Dylan’s eyes widened. “Mick? I thought you were busy being traffic director in here.”

“No. Right now I’m playing shot director for the people I love.”

Dylan snickered. “That’s nice of you.” She folded her arms and watched her mother.

“Did you get your shot?” Mick asked.

Dylan looked at him then quickly looked away.

“Dylan.”

“No,” she answered.

“Get your shot, Dylan.”

“Later.” She shooed him away.

“Now,” Mick insisted.

“Mick, hush. Later.”

“Fine.” Wanting no more arguments, and wanting to make sure Dylan got her shot, Mick leaned down, lifted Dylan, tossed her over his shoulder and carried her to the nearest line

“Hey!” She smacked his back. “Put me…” she felt herself being eased to the floor, “down.” She tried to make her escape.

“Nope.” Mick held out his arm and looked to the doctor. “Give this woman the vaccine right now, before she—”

“Chief,” Officer Haddock said, hurrying over to him. “Glad I found you.”

Mick looked around then back to Haddock. “I can understand if I was Dylan. Or even you. But how did you miss me?”

Officer Haddock shrugged. “Don’t know. But… we need you down at Main. We’ve got a problem at the checkpoint.”

“Bad?” Mick asked.

Again, Haddock shrugged. “Could be, but not in a violent way. Your call, but it should be handled now.”

“Okay, let’s go.” Mick started to leave but stopped. He looked back at Dylan, who stood before the doctor. “Get that shot, Dylan. No excuses.”

Dylan rolled her eyes, folded her arms and nodded her head, then she happily watched Mick leave the gymnasium.

* * *

Even though Haddock had labeled the situation non-violent, he still told Mick it was bad. And Mick didn’t know what ‘bad’ entailed. Haddock was vague, as he always was, so instead of beating his head against the wall in frustration trying to get the facts from him, Mick just rode his bike to the main road that led into town, the checkpoint that Mick knew was likely to get the most action.

Mick expected to have to deal with disruptions; he knew things could rapidly deteriorate. But this was the first test of their roadblock, so as Mick made his way through the quiet streets, he wondered what would be the best way to handle the situation. Should he be forceful? Polite? Would he have to pull his weapon? He was experienced with crowd control, and he had dealt with irritated people, but as Mick pulled up to the checkpoint, he realized he was about to face what would end up being his most difficult task to date.

Lyle and Jessica Turner were one of the oldest couples in Lodi. Both of them in their late eighties, both had been Lodi residents their entire lives. Mick had always looked at the couple, happily married for sixty-plus years, as he and Dylan in the future. So happy, so content, still in love.

The Turners were more self-sufficient and active than most Lodi residents half their age, always on the go, traveling here and there. Mick didn’t know why it surprised him that they were standing in front of their Chevy at the checkpoint.

Stopping his bike a good ten feet from where six men in gas masks blocked the car, Mick dismounted and grabbed a surgical mask. He pulled it on and walked to the checkpoint.

“Chief,” Lyle spoke up, “we can’t get in. These men won’t let us in.”

Mick had to swallow before answering. “I’m sorry, Lyle. Lodi’s been shut down.”

“We don’t care about the flu bug, Chief,” Lyle stated. “We just want to go home.”

“We’re not shut down because we have the flu. We’re… we’re shut down because we don’t,” Mick explained.

Lyle smiled slightly. “Then that’s better. See,” he pointed to the car. “I have my great-granddaughter. She’s seven, Mick. Her mother, my granddaughter, died yesterday of the flu.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mick said sincerely. “Really I am.”

“Let us in, Mick.” Lyle spoke calm. “You know me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Mick nodded. “And Lyle, I can’t. I’m sorry. I have to protect the community. Lars has trailer homes set up right over there.” Mick indicated the line of four small trailers. “There’s food in there, water, necessities. You can come in… after you’ve waited out the three-day incubation period in a quarantine trailer.”

“Quarantine?” Lyle looked shocked then glanced at his wife who turned her head away in sadness. “Mick, we aren’t sick.”

“And I pray to God you stay that way. But, come on, this has to be done. If Lars gives you an all-clear after three days, you can get back in.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then that means you’re sick and…” Mick took a breath, “and I’m sorry. As much as this bothers me, Mr. Turner, you’re gonna have to wait it out. I can’t… I can’t let you in. Sorry.” After one more look at his old friends, Mick turned away.

“Michael Owens,” Lyle spoke up, not in anger but in desperation, “I’ve known you since you were an infant.”

Mick kept walking.

“Don’t do this. Not to us. Michael… Michael, don’t do this. This is our home. This… this is our home.”

Mick had to stop. He had to remember what he needed to accomplish. Trying to block out Lyle’s anguished words and the pain they caused, Mick closed his eyes briefly, then continued to his bike without looking back. He couldn’t.

* * *

Los Angeles, California

Darrell peered out of the parted draperies, something he did quite often and for long periods of time. His voice reflected his thoughts, his search for visionary answers. From the fifth floor of the hotel, he called Los Angeles ‘Rome’. He was watching it fall day by day.

“It’s quiet out there now.”

“Get away from the window,” Jeff instructed from his usual position on the bed.

“The fire burned itself out. I figured it would,” Darrell spoke dazedly. “I haven’t seen a body truck lately. Well, since yesterday.”

“Get away from the window.”

“Do you think it’s over?” Darrell asked.

“No,” Jeff answered. “And get away from that window. If you watched the local news when it’s on, you’d know. What did I tell you that health official said yesterday? Most people will get sick right away, after that, they’ll get sick in waves.”

“Is that why it’s quiet?”

“This flu is bad. Would you want to be rioting out there while you’re coughing, sneezing, and feeling bad?”

“No.” Darrell shook his head. “So do you think we’ve seen the end of the body trucks?”

Jeff’s mouth opened in disgust. “How many of those bodies do you think are flu victims?”

“All?”

“No,” Jeff stated. “Use some common sense. Be informed. I am. It takes three to six days for the flu to kill you, if it’s going to kill you. Those bodies weren’t the result of people’s illnesses, they were the result of people’s madness.”

“That… that’s an impressive theory.”

“Thank you.” Jeff smiled.

“So you think we will see more body trucks.”

Grunting loudly, Jeff stood up, pulled Darrell away from the curtain, then returned to his spot on his bed. “No. People are dying. Who’s gonna drive the trucks?”

“Maybe we should get out of LA.”

“We’ll get shot. Watch the news.” Jeff fixed his eyes on the set again. “Border patrols are still up. And until someone knocks on this door and says, quarantine is over, I’m going by the initial estimate of three weeks. We have enough food. We went out early and got it. We’re good. I’m not taking a chance. In three weeks, we’ll leave. We’ll finish up our job, and go get Rodriguez in Lodi…” Jeff’s eyes grew wide and his voice became enthusiastic. “Oh my God! Lodi!”

Shocked, Darrell looked at him. “You’re excited about Lodi?”

“No. Yes. Look!” Like an excited child, Jeff rolled his body over and crawled on his hands and knees to the bottom of the bed to get a better look at the television. He turned the volume up. “Check this shit out. Lodi.”

“Reception’s bad.”

“Cable’s out.”

“Oh, shit.” Darrell saw what Jeff did. An aerial view of Lodi shot from a helicopter. It looked like there was a thick black circle around the town. Sparkles of light were woven into the black line. But it wasn’t really a line, and the sparkles of light were the sun’s reflection off the chrome and mirrors of the hundreds of motorcycles that encircled Lodi.

“All equipped with government-issued gas masks…” the raspy, sick voice came from a female reporter. “The men and women were officially deputized by Mayor Connally. What we are witnessing is the aerial view of this occurrence…”

Jeff slowly shook his head from side to side. “This is amazing. I knew I should have watched this channel from the get-go.”

The television picture switched to a female reporter who sported a blue surgical mask. Behind her in the distance, the line of motorcycles was faint but could be seen.

“In what neighboring communities are calling a feeble move by the world’s biggest egomaniac, officials at the Barrow Flu Center are playing ‘Hail to the Chief’. Boasting that the move was one of genius, the Center and government officials are assisting Lodi Chief of Police, Michael Owens in his attempt to keep Lodi flu-free. Just a little under fourteen hours ago, Chief Owens shut down Lodi, Ohio in an effort not to keep the flu bug in, but rather to keep it out. His strong arm support comes in the form of two hundred plus men and women from a local biker association, who state they are happy to help out.”

“This is cool.” Jeff nodded at the set.

“Tell me about it,” Darrell agreed.

“Director Henry Davis of the Barrow Flu Center said the bikers will be relieved of their twenty-four/seven coverage when the Federal Emergency Management Agency moves in a border patrol not susceptible to the flu. To ensure the success of Lodi’s protection, the special border patrol will consist of men and woman in the armed forces who have previously survived the flu or showed immunity to it. Authorities from the World Health Organization say it will be about three weeks before this flu has circled the globe and stricken all those who are susceptible to it. However, it will be another week after that before the epidemic can be declared officially over and this historic flu loses its raging potency. Four weeks, Lodi.” The reporter paused. “Four weeks. Your clock starts ticking… now.”

“Four weeks.” Jeff’s eyes met Darrell’s with satisfaction. “And we’re gonna be there in three.”

* * *

Reston, Virginia

Tin foil was something Henry used to wrap his leftovers in, not to build monumental contraptions in order to get a semi-decent picture from the television. He snickered some in amusement as he twisted and tightened the piece that came off of the antenna, all part of an intricate system he had put together that flowed from the rabbit ears out the window by way of a wire hanger.

“Got it.” He stepped back. “Can you make it out?”

“Impressive,” Kurt said with a drowsy tone.

“Funny. Who would have thought I would have remembered this?”

Kurt nodded. “I had to build something like that in college. Who could afford cable?”

“Me.” Henry smiled. “I was such a nerd. I worked and studied. Had money but no one to spend it on.” He backed up. “I’m glad we got channel seven. They seem to be the only ones who are doing hourly reports.”

“Hard to believe. A few days ago, you couldn’t get a break from news reports.”

Henry nodded in agreement. “Now you watch snow until they come on. I thought programming was on autopilot or something.” He took a seat next to Kurt. “So how are you feeling?”

“The antibiotics have me tired. Not that sick with this flu. Then again, at this point, most people thought they just had a minor cold. Until they turned septic.”

“According to Lars, you shouldn’t get there. Unless… well, unless…”

“We missed the time frame,” Kurt finished the sentence. “I don’t think we did. What do you think?”

“Last blood test I took still showed the microorganism in the bloodstream. It will be the twenty-four hour batch that tells. I think we’ll see no increase.”

Kurt smiled and leaned back. “Let’s hope. That way, by tomorrow, if Lars is correct, I should start feeling well enough to help you out around here.”

“At least to do the math. You know what amazes me?” Henry asked. “You have LA, San Francisco, right? These places are really struck. Yet, every twelve hours, on the nose, you get someone, last check in was an orderly, someone who cares enough to call in statistics. How many new, how many still sick, how many… died.”

“Did you think it would stop?”

“The enthusiasm over it, yes. Of course, like the Spanish flu, we can only base our data on what we get. It’s not accurate. Not by a long shot. I mean, how many people are dying in their homes? More are than are not.”

Kurt noticed a timer on the television, the signature countdown that a broadcast was about to begin. “So, tell me, what are we gonna watch that is so important?”

“Something refreshing. For the past week, we have been bombarded with reports of death. Tonight there’s a change of pace, and I think it’s a breath of fresh air for anyone who is still watching the news. This evening we’re going to watch life in a small town named Lodi.”

Kurt’s chuckle caused a slight cough. “Is it the new Andy Griffith Show in a reality show format? I have Owens sort of pictured like him.”

“Pictured like Andy Griffith? Perhaps.” Henry laughed. “Then again, it’s a lot better than him looking like Barney Fife.”

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

Central Park. It was located in the center of the main business district of Lodi, the streets around it often used for the overflow of people for the fairs, concerts, festivals and so forth. But the reason for this gathering wasn’t a celebration, it was for information. Every resident of Lodi congregated in Central Park and the surrounding streets to hear what was going on.

Everything was ready. People grew antsy waiting for the start of the assembly that was already ten minutes late.

“Guys,” Mick said, walking up to Dustin and his friend Jerry, who were setting up a video camera. “What the hell? I have to start this.”

“Almost done, Mick.” Dustin worked the camera. “This is a professional camera and I only completed Intro to Television one.”

“Why… why are we doing this?” Mick asked.

“Because when I called the news—”

“You called the news?” Mick questioned.

“They need an inside man, Mick,” Dustin stated. “I’m it. I pass this to Russ at the check point. Russ gives it to the reporter, I get fifty bucks in a plastic bag.”

Mick blinked. “Fifty bucks… why in a plastic bag?”

“Lars said it had to be delivered that way. And he’ll sterilize it or something like that to fry off any germs. Hey, Mick, do you suppose I can use this on a future resume?”

Mick fought to find the right words. His mind was elsewhere. “Dustin, I don’t know. Yes. Yes, but only if you hurry it along.”

“We’re ready,” Dustin said. “I think. Jerry, we ready?”

Jerry, behind the camera, gave a thumbs up.

“We’re ready,” Dustin nodded.

Jerry peered up. “Hey, if Chief Owens is gonna be on national news shouldn’t he be wearing a Chief of Police uniform and hat?”

“What, are you nuts?” Dustin scoffed. “That isn’t Mick. He doesn’t need to be wearing any stupid police uniform for people to take him seriously.”

Mick grumbled and pointed backwards. “I’m going to the gazebo. We’re starting.”

“All set up,” Patrick stated as he walked past Lars, who stood to the left of the gazebo.

“Oh, great.” Lars patted Patrick’s back. “I’m awful with new technology.”

Patrick snickered. “It’s a slide projector.”

“It’s a gadget.”

“What exactly are you showing?” Patrick asked.

“Part of my flu demonstration,” Lars answered. “Mick feels we might get some flak from people about the lockout. He wants me to give them a frightening dose of reality.”

“How hard a reality are you giving them?”

Lars shook his head. “Mild. These are common people, Patrick, they’re intelligent. They don’t need anything too traumatic to give them reality.”

“Nothing nightmarish?”

Lars chuckled. “Please. And damage my legendary reputation? No, nothing nightmarish.”

“Speaking of legendary reputations…”

“Shh,” Lars said then pointed to the gazebo.

The slight squeal of feedback silenced the gathering crowd and caused Mick to cringe. But the cringe paled in comparison to the aggravated look on his face when he stepped back from the podium and whacked his head on the dangling projection screen.

“Christ.” Mick rubbed the back of his head then went back to the microphone. “Evening…”

A mumbling of return “evenings” came from the crowd.

“I’m not real good with public speaking. I wanted Mayor Connally to do this, but he says I should be the one.” Mick leaned down to the podium. “There are a lot of rumors floating around. I could have spoken to a lot of you today. But I figured, give you the facts straight out, all together. No debates between you as to what is true and what is not. I’m gonna guarantee a lot of what you’ve heard is true. I’ve got… I’ve got a ton to tell you, including why the Ohio State Riders Association is gathered around Lodi. There are new rules, regulations, and temporary laws I have to lay out. You may not like them. So in order to put a stop to any rumors, I figured I’d tell you why it’s being done. And the best way to do that, the best way to put you in the right frame of mind is for our man Lars Rayburn to explain… Lars?” Mick held out his hand and moved back.

Patrick wasn’t sure whether he was witnessing a mere doctor or an Elvis Presley equivalent approaching the podium at the gazebo. The crowd cheering and screaming was so long and loud that Patrick held his ears. He watched as Lars, arm held high, waving, stood before the podium. The exuberance of the crowd produced an instant electricity Patrick had only felt once before in his life, and that was when he saw Hulk Hogan wrestle in Detroit, Michigan.

Lars flashed a grin, leaned into the microphone and spoke, “Good evening.” The crowd responded with more enthusiasm than that with which they had greeted Mick.

Patrick had to wonder what was going on, especially when one lone male voice far in the back of the crowd shouted out, “We love you, Lars!” Patrick turned with an odd look, searching for the man.

Lars smiled again. “Ah, thank you. And you people wonder why I call Lodi my true home.” He paused for the applause then spoke like a politician trying to win votes. “I love it here. You know that. That is one reason everything in Lodi is happening. You’re confused. Understandable. Between Mick and me, we hope to ease that confusion. Why are we here?” Lars looked around the faces. “The flu. It has become a nasty word, one that all people fear. But let’s face it. Let’s… let’s say it. Let me hear you… the flu.” Lars waited and heard some mumbling. “No, you can do better than that. Everyone…”

Patrick’s eyelids fluttered when the residents shouted out, “The flu!”

“Good. Very good. Now that we’ve said it, let’s get to know it, shall we?” Lars said. “As all of you know, I am a doctor. A research doctor, and I have worked on this flu. I will lie to you no more than if you were my own mother. This flu kills. It… kills. Ninety-five percent or even more of all those who get it… die. From what I’ve seen, I will tell you that the death rate is higher. They say if you’re thirteen you have a near hundred percent chance of catching the flu. They say if you’re sixty…” Lars shrugged, “seventy-five percent chance. I say it doesn’t matter. Old, young, we have to try to stop you from getting it. My hospital set-up in the gymnasium is a precautionary measure should you get the flu. It is my hope that the vaccinations that all of you received will lower your chances of catching the flu and build your immunities to it. But it will only lower them. Chances are, if the flu strikes here, you’ll get it. And it is here in Lodi that we will fight to stop it from taking the number of lives it is claiming outside of our home. We can do it, but only if you stay on top of it. Monitor yourself and the ones you love. Coughing. Sneezing. Low fever. Remember these. These are your onset symptoms. A simple prick of your finger will tell me if you have the flu. If you think you have it, see me. I don’t care if you come to me a hundred times. I’ll run the test. It is imperative that you do. If you have the flu, I must start antibiotic treatment on you within five to ten hours. If not, in almost all cases, septicemia sets in fully. That, my friends, is a poison, the poison that caused the Black Plague, a poison that melts every tissue in your body. You get that, you die… painfully. Now…” Lars reached behind him and pointed at the huge white screen. “I want to get this point across. In order to do so, my friends at the WHO and the CDC have sent me some pictorials of what has happened thus far in the flu battle. I want you to see for yourself that the actions Mick has taken should not be argued with, but followed without question or doubt.” Lars nodded his head. “Bill? Start that.”

As Lars stepped back, a blank white light shone on the screen. And then, accompanied by gasps and moans, the first image appeared.

A man’s face was pictured, his skin grey, his lips cracked and blistered, covered with a dried brown sputum. His wide eyes stared into the camera lens.

“Ah,” Lars stated. “The man who spread the flu. Meet Inez Johnson, Eskimo. Dead. Pathology shows he was the first victim. Of course he had been dead in… Dead Horse…” Lars cleared his throat, “for some time before these photographs were made. Had the temperature not been below freezing, postmortem degeneration would have taken place. Aren’t we glad of that? Next.”

The click of the slide carousel accompanied more moans.

“This is the Johnson family.” Lars let out a heavy dramatic breath. “The children went fast. We believe prior to the mother, who was ill as well, when they passed on. Next.”

The next slide seemed to bring forth sounds of relief.

“This is Bill Daniels, reporter. You saw him on the news,” Lars informed. “He looks semi-well, a little pale from the pneumonia and so forth. As he told you, the flu is not deadly. Meet his cohort in Los Angeles… Trevor. Next slide.”

The sounds of disgust were loud as the picture of Trevor showed.

“Taken after Trevor’s death, this photo makes Trevor look as if he’s four hundred pounds. Actually, Trevor weighed about one sixty. A closed-off rectal muscle prohibited the internal bleeding from exiting his body properly, therefore it backed up. Not an uncommon occurrence. Notice the blood around his ears. Had it not seeped from the ear, or had Trevor not expelled the blood orally, he stood a chance of literally exploding. Next.”

Bodies. There was a mound of bodies in what looked like a field.

“This photo is awesome,” Lars explained. “Six hundred and thirty-five people died in one hour at an Anchorage hospital. What little staff they had could only wait and then they deal with the carnage. That photo was where our friend Bill Daniels began his journey. This is what Trevor took to LA.”

The picture changed, and no sounds emerged from the audience. There was no green on the Oakland Raiders football field, only brown and white, a blur of images that close up would have shown nothing more than lined up cots and the sick on blankets wherever they could find a spot.

“A recent picture. Taken yesterday, I believe. These people came to the stadium for help. There’s no one there anymore to give it. Most of them will die there. My guess, they’ll never move them. They’ll just burn down the stadium. There are a few more images. Bill, if you would?”

Patrick turned away from most of the remaining horrific images that flashed across the screen with a nod of Lars’ head. He opened one of his slightly closed eyes to peek at Mick who stood next to him.

The last picture stayed on the screen. A close up of a woman, eyes grey, her bloody mouth open, and her face frozen in a painful scream.

Utter silence. With the lingering of that last photograph not a sound was heard from the crowd. The chirping of the crickets was louder than sounds of breathing that emerged from the people.

Lars walked back to the microphone. “Well… that’s it. Mick? I believe they’re ready for you now.”

* * *

Reston, Virginia

“An official ‘shoot to kill’ order is in effect against anyone that crosses our lines. And make no bones about it. If they try to get in I will… shoot to kill.”

Too much heart and soul laced Chief Owens’ words for them not to be taken seriously, and Henry did, as he replayed what he heard Mick say in the raw footage played by the media.

Mick Owens spoke few words but said a lot. So much was conveyed in that broadcast that centered around the happenings in the small town of Lodi, Ohio. Henry knew what Mick was trying to get across. He was trying to tell his people that, yes, things will be tight. Yes, you’ll feel trapped, but you’ll be safe. And in doing so, he let them know that he’d personally see to it, if need be.

Henry saw another message in there, a message of warning. Perhaps the Chief of Police didn’t mean to get that across, but he did. A warning to anyone who even thought about sneaking in.

The news boasted Lodi as the “City of Hope”, a ‘flu-free’ zone in a world so sick. That was right before they ended the broadcast and the picture on the television turned to a fuzzy white.

Half a decade prior, no one would have thought twice about there being nothing being shown on television. But in a world of twenty-four hour entertainment, that snowy transmission on the set said more about the world than anyone realized.

Experts made appearances on the news, talking about rebuilding, restructuring. Henry had to wonder where they derived the title “expert”. In his lifetime, the world had truly flirted with extinction. And the lives lost to the flu barely tipped the scales over the lives lost to violence. In Hong Kong alone, mass hysteria caused the destruction of four residential blocks when the people themselves tried to burn out a reported case of the flu.

The behavior overseas was repeated everywhere. Property destruction, looting… Henry had to admit those sorts of things could be rebuilt. Burnt buildings torn down to make room for new. Bodies buried or burned.

But it wasn’t just one city, one country. It was the whole world. And the so-called experts failed to see one very important thing: You can rebuild a house, but could society be rebuilt as easily?

Henry guessed not.

Not with all that everyone overlooked.

Barring the deaths caused by the flu, there was an important factor that played significantly in starting civilization back up: The economy.

It crashed. There was none. It failed to keep going at all.

Stock markets closed everywhere. There wasn’t a business open. No purchases were being made. No exchange of money, no circulation of bills.

Nobody worked. If they did, they were jobs that were community-oriented, and there certainly was no way for those people to get paid.

No one wrote checks out to the utility companies. Aside from the postal service not delivering the payment, the clerks weren’t in the offices to accept the checks. They were home with the flu or in hiding for fear of it. Those who kept the power lines up and running, maybe they were there; maybe not. Henry guessed if they were still there, it wouldn’t be for long. People just weren’t chivalrous enough to hold volunteer jobs in order for someone to be able to turn on a light switch.

Did the people of the world actually expect, when the entire thing was over, that they would just get up, get dressed, and go to work as usual?

Not a chance.

The downfall of man was not only being delivered through the hands of nature’s fury, it was being delivered by the lack of commerce.

And no one knew. No one realized it. They would soon enough, Henry supposed.

What of Lodi? Would it really make it through the quarantine period? If it did, it would emerge clean as a whistle just about the same time the dust was settling from everything else, and the flu was fizzling out.

The people of Lodi, if unscathed, would tear down their iron curtain and go from seeing their picture-perfect 1950s sitcom world, to viewing destitution, a decay of the world that they never saw coming.

They would be—in Henry’s prediction—the only speck of a civilized world left. And that worried Henry.

Aside from being labeled “the City of Hope”, other than being clean, untouched, and still alive, Lodi would become something else… a target. A destination in a Book of Revelations world for those engulfed with rage and jealousy who so bitterly sought out the destruction of what shined to them as… the New Jerusalem.

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

Russ Deacon would have loved to pop open that beer, but he knew he would have to wait, at least until Mick left the front check-in line. He took it with gratitude, his smile not seen through his gas mask. “Thanks, Mick.”

“Gonna go home and have one myself,” Mick stated. “Long day.”

“Yeah. You know…” Russ’ voice dropped. “We have about ten who are sick right now.”

Mick nodded. “I know. How about you?”

“I’m feeling fine. I don’t know how long the lines will hold up.”

“Hopefully it won’t be for much longer. Then the government shows up.” Mick exhaled. “Did Lars start that therapy on your people?”

“Two of them. The rest waited too long. He’s hopeful about the two though.”

“Good. Good.”

“Hey, did I tell you I won the lottery?” Russ asked. “I get to go into a quarantine trailer first.”

“Excellent. Speaking of quarantine… how’s my mother doing in trailer three?”

“Bitching out the window at us. We… we had to bolt her in, Mick. Put a padlock on the outside door,” Russ told him. “She wanted out. She said she didn’t care about getting into Lodi, she wanted to help out. You know your mom.”

“Yeah. Thanks for taking care of that though.”

“No problem.”

Taking one more look at the quiet checkpoint, Mick let out a slow breath. “Well, I’m heading home. Get me on the radio if you need me.”

“Sure thing.”

“Night, Russ.” Mick turned. His bike was parked not far from there. The safe distance of ten feet. Just about to mount it, Mick slowed down when he heard the crackling of his radio.

“Russ.” The crackle and hiss overshadowed the man’s voice. “This is Highpoint. We have a situation. Coming east and west. On the dead highway. Fifty, sixty cars.”

Mick turned around and walked back to Russ.

Russ held the radio close to his gas mask. “Where they headed?”

“Take a guess. They’re getting off the exit.”

No sooner had Russ lowered his radio and his eyes met Mick’s, then they heard and saw the train of automobiles in the distance.

“They’re coming here,” Russ said.

“Goddamn it.” Mick hurried to his bike, and grabbed his rifle. He pumped the chamber as he approached Russ again. “Tell your men to take their positions. Pull in those taking a rest, just to be sure…”

“Yo, Heavy,” Russ called into the radio.

“Yeah?” the deep, raspy voice responded.

“Rustle up the sleepers. We got incoming,” Russ continued to speak into the radio. “All teams, especially those facing due north. Get ready. It’s gonna be a big turn away.”

Mick raised his weapon as the cars drew nearer and his people hurried about taking their places.

“Hey, Mick, you think it’s gonna be bad?”

“Hard to say,” Mick shrugged. “Could be violent. Could be peaceful. Doesn’t matter. Get used to it.” Mick peered into the rifle’s scope. “It’s just the beginning.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lodi, Ohio

September 7th

“They took out four of our guys, Mick.” These words beat into Mick’s head as he raced, feet pounding through the wooded area around the edge of Community Park.

“Coming up on the Black River,” the male voice said through Mick’s radio.

“I got it,” Mick responded as he ran.

“Do you need assistance? There’s three of them.”

“I got it.” Mick could see the river through the thick trees, and hooking his radio back into its holder as he whipped his shotgun around, he charged forth. He was almost there; where the three men were at that point in time, Mick didn’t know. All he knew was that he had to stop them from getting into town.

Just at the edge of his vision, as he leaped over a branch into the clearing, Mick saw it coming at him in a blur of motion. It was brown, huge, and swinging his way. He ducked quickly enough to feel the whoosh as whatever it was swung past the top of his head. As he dove underneath the weapon, Mick smashed his shotgun into his assailant’s vulnerable knees.

The man went down, knees first, and Mick smashed the butt of his shotgun into his face. The man flew back through the mist of his own blood and landed hard on his ass. Mick pumped the chamber, aimed, and fired, hearing a shot from another gun too close to his ear. The sound echoed and squealed in his ear as he got a glimpse of a second man in his peripheral vision. He was more concerned, though, with the man’s revolver. It was close, only inches from his face; with no room to shoot, Mick swung out with his shotgun once more. Like a batter hitting a home run, the shotgun crashed into the side of the second man’s face. As it connected Mick pumped the shotgun and, with little need for aim, he fired. At such a close range, it blasted a hole the likes of which Mick had never seen. It went straight through the man’s torso; Mick could see right through him to the river where the third assailant emerged from the water. Pumping the chamber again as the second man’s body dropped to the ground, Mick fired one last time. Flying backwards, the third and final man never set foot on Lodi soil. His ruined body splashed and sank into the muddy river.

“Chief! Come in, Chief. We heard shots.”

Breathing heavily, Mick pulled the radio forward. “I’m fine. All clear. I’ll be right in.” Returning the radio, Mick had to catch his breath. He placed his shotgun back over his shoulder and bent slightly, hands on his knees. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

A harsh sniff preceded his out of breath smoker’s cough, and mid-chuckle at the absurdity of it all, Mick heard it.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Curious as to what the nearby sound was, Mick lifted his head slightly to look around. Just as he did, he felt it hit his hand.

Drip. Drip. Blood.

Mick raised his hand at the same time another drop of blood fell against his thumb. “What the hell?” He rolled his thumb against his forefinger, felt that it was warm, fresh. “Where the hell is this coming… aw shit!” He whined in disgust and reached up to the side of his head. His fingers touched a moistness that surrounded his ear. Pulling back his fingers, he looked to see them coated with more blood. “Goddamn it. I was hit. Son of a bitch.” In total annoyance with himself, Mick shook his head, held his ear, and walked off.

* * *

Anchorage, Alaska

The final scream of the Barrow Flu rang out and echoed in the silent hospital corridors. The last one. Bill was far away from it. He paused in his task of moving bodies piled on carts to close his eyes. He felt bad for the woman. She had died alone, crying out in pain with no one around to care.

It was over.

Bodies were everywhere, and it was a hopeless cause. Not that Bill was making any order of them, he was just making room to walk, covering the bodies if he could, in his task of shoving them aside.

He heard the footsteps against the linoleum and he looked up to the end of the corridor. Lexi emerged from the last room. She carried a knapsack and no longer wore the hospital garb.

“There you are,” Bill said. “I was looking for you.”

Lexi walked to him. “You’re not cleaning up, are you?”

“No.” Bill shook his head. “Moving them aside.”

“Why?”

“Maybe one day, someone might be by to look for family. I don’t know.” Bill shrugged. “Do you suppose anyone will ever do anything with these bodies?”

Lexi chuckled. “No. Never. They outnumber those who survived by a large margin.” She started walking with Bill. “But our work is done here.”

“You’re all dressed up. Where are you going?” Bill questioned as he hit the stairwell with her.

“I spoke to the Center. There’s a small town in California that has a lot of ill, no medical help. The CDC plane is still at the airport and the pilot isn’t sick. We’re flying off there.”

“I see.” Bill nodded and opened the first floor door for her. “Then what?”

“Who knows?”

“Can I come?” Bill asked.

Lexi paused, “Why would you want to?”

“Lexi, come on. What’s left here? You yourself estimated about six thousand people. That’s it. That’s not a lot. I have nothing here. And I don’t think come Monday morning I’m going to be back at work at the paper. So can I?”

“Absolutely. I’d love the company.”

“Can I get some things from my home? It’s actually in walking distance from here.”

“Sure. I’d love to see where Bill Daniels used to…” Lexi stopped cold as she and Bill stepped from the front door of the hospital. Not only were there no more gunshots, car sounds, or fire smells, there were no noises at all. Not even birds. And the explanation for that came in the form of dead birds all over the sidewalks and street.

Horrified, Bill looked down. “They died of the flu?”

Lexi hit the tip of her boot against one of the birds. “No. I’d say they died of smoke from the burning bodies.” She swallowed and looked around.

“It’s almost as if no one is left. Where is everyone?” Bill led Lexi in the direction of his home.

“They’re around. They’re just not going to be so easy to spot anymore.”

“Do you think the people left in Anchorage will just let the buildings and bodies be?” Bill questioned.

“Yes. Wouldn’t you? They’ll sit tight for a while, those who beat it. They’ll be some who will try to do things. But all in all I think people are gonna wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“For the flu to run its course and be declared officially over. But they’ll be waiting a long time.”

“You don’t think the flu is gonna run its course?”

“Oh, it’ll run its course,” Lexi said. “I just don’t think anyone will care enough, when it’s all said and done, to make that declaration.”

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

“It’s a pissing contest,” Mick complained angrily. He pulled the wet towel from his ear and tossed it in the trash as he and Officer Haddock stepped into the station. “I don’t think the lot of them care if they get in here. I think they just want to see if they can. Like I said, a pissing contest. In the middle of the urine stream, I almost become Vincent fuckin’ van Gogh.”

Haddock chuckled. “Good one.”

“Thank you.”

“Maybe it’s a test, Chief. Maybe to see if you’ll really shoot them if they make in it.”

“If they make it in. And if they do, yeah, I’ll—”

“Mick,” Dylan called out from across the office.

Standing next to his office door, Mick turned around. “Hey, Dylan.”

“Mick!” She hurried to him. “I heard… AHHHHHHH!” Dylan screamed loudly, not only jolting Mick, but causing Haddock to scream, as well.

“What?” Mick asked “What?”

“Your ear is gone.” Dylan pointed, panicked.

“It is not.” Mick showed her. “Just covered in blood. I got shot. What’s up?”

Dylan blinked a few times. “Just like that? You got shot?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Chasing bad guys.”

“By yourself?”

“Um, yeah,” Mick snickered.

“Why would you do that all alone?”

“Because I’m that damn good,” Mick self-importantly joked.

“What the hell, Mick?” Dylan snapped.

Perhaps, he thought, he missed something, wasn’t paying attention, for that split second between the words that he heard and Dylan suddenly growing angry.

“Are you mad about something?” Mick asked.

“Asshole!” Dylan barked.

“What?” Mick looked to Haddock. “What?”

“I’ll tell you what,” Dylan said, poking Mick in the chest. “Do you even give a shit? You got shot, Mick, right on your head. You could have died.”

“I didn’t.”

Dylan growled. “While you’re off trotting around being Robin the Boy Wonder—”

“Why can’t I be Batman?”

Dylan tossed her hands up. “You know what? Just forget it. You don’t see my point.”

“What are you talking about?” Mick was confused. “The point is I was doing my job.”

“No, Mick, the point is… you weren’t thinking,” Dylan told him. “Yeah, run about, be the hero, but what the hell are me and the boys supposed to do if something happens to you? Huh? What?”

Officer Haddock cleared his throat and whispered to Mick, “She’s right.”

“Who asked you!” Mick barked then noticed Dylan walking away. “Dylan!” Mick’s hand raised then dropped. He grumbled softly, “Haddock, you’re a married man. Quick, what do I say to rectify this?”

Through clenched teeth, like telling a secret, Haddock moved toward Mick. “Just tell her you’re sorry, you weren’t thinking, and she should be foremost in your mind. That type of stuff.”

“Got it.” Mick nodded. “Thanks.” Quickly he trotted off after Dylan. “Wait.” He called out to her when he saw her on the street. “Dylan.”

Arms folded tight, Dylan stopped and turned around. “What? And don’t come too close, you disgust me.”

Mick paused in shock. “I disgust you?”

“Yes. Your ear is half gone.”

“It is not. See.” Mick turned his head, but the attempt to show her was in vain. Dylan closed her eyes. “Never mind. Dylan…”

“What? Mick, I have to go.”

“Where do you have to go?”

“To work. Thank you very much for opening businesses again.”

“Dylan, wait.” Mick took hold of her arm. “You were right. I was wrong.”

“About?”

“What do you think?’

“You tell me. You’re a man. You’ll apologize just to get peace, and you’ll never know what you’re apologizing for. So tell me.”

“For taking a risk.” Mick looked at her. “Was that right?”

“Go on.”

“OK.” Mick took a breath. “I wasn’t thinking. I was just acting. But I will not do that again. It was a dangerous situation and I should have called for backup. I’ll be more careful. The last thing I want is to leave you and the boys. Okay?”

Dylan nodded. “That works.” Quickly she darted in and kissed him. “But I do have to go. I want to share the news with the boys before I head to the video store.”

“What news?”

“Oh. I don’t have the flu.”

“Of course you don’t have the flu.”

“No, Mick. Really,” Dylan stated, “I don’t. I went to Lars and he checked. Whew, what a relief.” She rattled on, “At first I thought, ‘He’s gonna run out of fingers to prick.’ But he took four tubes out of my arm. Boy, that had me worried, then I realized it was only to help Patrick learn, which was okay. He did good. See?” Dylan showed her arm. “Boy, he has good hands.”

“Dylan, you have to stop going to Lars every day.”

“But, Mick, I thought I had the flu. I felt bad. Really bad this morning.”

“And how do you feel now?” Mick asked.

“Fine.”

“That’s because it’s all in your head. There is no flu in Lodi. Leave the man alone.”

Dylan gasped in offense. “There is nothing wrong with being careful. Nothing.” She glanced at her watch. “And I have to go. See you tonight?”

“Yeah. Hey, I’m gonna take the boys over to my mom when she gets out of quarantine.”

“They’ll like that.” Dylan kissed Mick on the cheek. “Remember what you told me. You’ll be careful and think first.”

“Absolutely.” Mick smiled and watched Dylan walk away. As soon as he turned, he heard the call on his radio.

“Chief. Come in.” Haddock called.

“What’s up?” Mick spoke into the radio.

“We have two of the campers trying to sneak in through Barker’s property on the south.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Want backup?” Haddock asked.

Mick looked over his shoulder to see Dylan slowly disappearing down the street. “Nah,” he said. “I can handle it.”

* * *

Reston, Virginia

“I never thought I’d feel better.” Cup of tea in his hands, Kurt walked to a chair and sat down. “Still not a hundred percent.”

“You’re not supposed to be walking around,” Henry reminded him. “Lars was able to pull through fourteen so far of our biker wall.”

“What about the campers that showed up a couple days ago?” Kurt asked.

“Mick said his man Russ estimates now about two hundred.” Henry sat down, breathing out in exhaustion. “They are keeping them a good fifty yards from the Lodi boundary. But it won’t be long before the shepherds that flocked there start dropping like flies.”

Kurt cringed. “Can you be any less inhumane?”

“Probably,” Henry snickered. “Truth is, they will all start to show symptoms, or at least most will. Lars just can’t help them. He can’t. The supplies belong to Lodi. Speaking of supplies…” Henry pulled forth a tablet. “I have three trucks, emergency food and so forth from the Columbus bomb shelter heading their way. They should be good for a little while. We’ll order another truck from somewhere else in about a week.”

Kurt snickered. “In a week? From where?” He turned his chair and looked at their map. “I see Alaska is finished.”

“Yep. Haven’t had any new reports in a while. Lexi said they were finished in Anchorage so I marked the state finished as well. Montana, too. California is still kicking, but then again they’re more densely populated.”

Kurt shook his head. “The west dies while up in New York… what is the word from New York?”

“Mid-crisis,” Henry replied. “In the thick of things. Another week, they too will die down.”

“Won’t everything?” Kurt stared ahead.

“Do you realize how fortunate you and I are at this moment in history? No family, no pain. Objective observers of… well… of nothing before long,” Henry said.

“And what then?” Kurt raised his eyes to Henry. “When it’s all over. When there’s nothing left. What… then?”

“Then…” Henry stood up and paced across the room. “Then, my friend, you and I…” his hand rested on the map. “We go to Lodi.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Lodi, Ohio

Mick rubbed his throbbing temple. As if his ear wasn’t sore enough, his head had started to hurt as well. He had felt fine five minutes earlier when he picked up the boys. Perhaps it was caused by limited space in the squad car. Mick never did like driving the boys, and the arguing between Chris and Dustin hammered that fact home.

“Well, what was he supposed to do?” Dustin snapped. “Haul us all on his bike? God, you’re an idiot.”

“Shut up,” Chris barked back. “I just feel like a criminal.”

“Oh, yeah. Big criminal.” Dustin shook his head. “Thank God, we’re here now. I can get away from you.”

Mick mumbled under his breath as he shut off the car, “Yeah, thank God.” He turned and looked at Tigger.

Tigger smiled at him then peered out the window. “Your house is bigger than our house, Mick.”

“Trust me, I realize this now.” Mick stepped out of the car and opened the back door. He undid Tigger’s strap and straightened his hair. “Let’s go, guys.”

“Hey, Mick?” Dustin asked. “How come if your mom got out of quarantine three hours ago, we’re just going to see her now?”

Chris snickered. “That’s because Mick’s afraid of his mom.”

“Shut up, you goof,” Dustin quipped. “Mick’s not afraid of his mom, you moron… are you, Mick?”

“No. Yes.” Mick shook his head. “No. It’s just she may be a little upset.”

“What did you do?” Chris asked.

“Nothing.” Mick moved up the walk.

“Is she gonna yell, Mick? Is she?” Chris badgered.

“Maybe.”

Stopping, Chris flashed a grin at Dustin.

Mick spun around. “And if she doesn’t, make me a promise, don’t remind her that she’s supposed to be mad at me.”

Dustin raised his right hand. “We won’t. ‘Cause we don’t want to get you in trouble, even though it would be funny to see her yell. She swears a lot. Your mom is funny.”

“Oh, yeah. She’s a blast.” Mick rolled his eyes.

A thickly built woman, a little taller than average, wearing blue jeans and a tee shirt opened the screen door as they all stepped onto the porch. “Hey!” Rose Owens smiled. Despite the sprinkling of gray in her short hair she was in good shape and didn’t look her age. “Come on in.”

Mick let the boys go first, saving his entrance for last.

Dustin embraced Rose. “You’re staying at Mick’s, huh?’

“Looks that way. Against my goddamn will.” Rose embraced Chris then hugged Tigger. “Look at you boys. How are you doing? Honestly?”

Dustin bobbed his head. “Good. We’re doing good. It was tough.”

“I know.” Rose winked. “I think about your dad all the time. Nice boy. Nice. Unlike some.” She shifted a quick glare at Mick. “And what the fuck is up with this one’s hair.” She reached down and tousled Tigger’s perfectly smoothed hair.

“Hey,” Mick moved her hand. “It takes forever to get it to lie down.”

“Then don’t fuckin’ make it lay down. If it’s meant to stick up, let it. He’s a child. And who the hell are you to talk with that mane? Grown man. I like a man with long hair, not a law man with long hair. And you wonder why no one fuckin’ respects you in this town.”

Mick’s mouth dropped open. “I’m respected. And can you please not swear around these boys?”

Rose looked at Dustin and Chris. “Does it bother you?”

“No ma’am.” Chris answered. “We have cable.”

“See?” Rose noticed Tigger darting from the room. “Where’s he going?”

Dustin answered, “Being nosey. He does that all the time. Should I get him?”

Mick gave a wave of his hand. “Let him go. He can’t reach anything he shouldn’t see.”

“Look at you picking on that child’s size,” Rose scolded.

“Mrs. Owens?” Chris drew up a sneaky look. “You aren’t mad at Mick, are you?”

Mick cringed.

Dustin hurriedly looked at Chris. “I can’t believe you opened your mouth. Mick asked you not to open your mouth. We don’t even know what it is she’s supposed to be yelling at him for, now you’ve gone and reminded her.”

“My son told you not to mention why I’m mad?” Rose questioned. “Well, I’ll tell you why I’m mad. The fuckin’ asshole locked me up. No, he padlocked me in a fuckin’ tin box for three days. I didn’t want to be in there. I wanted to hold a border patrol with my boys.”

“Well, your boys,” Mick stated harshly, “are dropping from the flu. So be happy.”

“And what the fuck happened to your ear?” Rose reached out and touched it.

“Ow!” Mick jolted back a step. “I got shot.”

“You got shot?” Rose questioned. “You didn’t get shot.”

“I did too,” Mick argued.

“If you got shot in the goddamn ear, why do you still have your head?”

After shooting a scolding look to a snickering Chris and Dustin, Mick returned his attention to Rose. “He missed.”

“Then you didn’t get shot. What the hell were you doing in a bullet’s way anyhow?” Rose asked.

“I was chasing border breakers.”

“Did you get them?”

“Of course I got them,” Mick responded with offense. “I do my job very well.”

“Mick?” Tigger innocently reentered the room with a large envelope that had white paper poking out the top of it. “Why is mommy naked with another woman in these pictures?”

Mick hunched against the loud cries of disgust that came from Dustin and Chris. Then amidst their, “Oh my God, Mom’s a lesbian” commentaries, Mick snatched the envelope from Tigger. He flashed a smile to the boy, then after clearing his throat he threw an embarrassed look to Rose.

Rose smugly folded her arms. “Naked pictures of Dylan and another broad, huh? What was that you were saying about doing your job?”

* * *

The dainty little fingers rested upon her grandmother’s hand as Amy Turner’s chest gurgled with every breath she took. Lars didn’t need to listen to her chest to hear how badly the flu had stricken her, but for the sake of appearances, he listened. He had been called to quarantine trailer one to give his diagnosis.

Sadly, he removed the stethoscope from his ears, letting it dangle around his neck. With his gloved hand, he reached for the tube of blood he had just removed from the seven year old girl. He placed it in his lab coat then glanced again at Amy. The white pasty skin; the thick brown mucus that clogged her nose; the swollen blackness under her throat. Lars wanted to scream in frustration.

By his granddaughter’s bed, Lyle Turner peered at Lars. “Well, Doctor?”

Lars stood up. “I’m sorry, it’s the flu.”

“You can’t be sure. How can you be sure without running tests?”

“You’re right.” Lars held up his hand. “I’ll wait to see the results. I’ll get back to you.” He just wanted to leave. Turning, Lars tried to do just that.

“If it is… the flu,” Lyle spoke up causing Lars to stop. “Is there anything we can do?”

Lars wanted to spin around in outrage and blast the older man and tell him, “Why in God’s name weren’t you asking this two days ago when this girl first got sick? Didn’t I tell you to call me with any symptoms? Why did you wait?”

But Lars didn’t. He shook his head and walked out.

He decided to head outside for a while, maybe fifteen, twenty minutes, give his anger a chance to die down. Lars glanced across the field at the campers that waited to get into Lodi. Those people would never make it into town.

As he wearily stepped away from the trailer, Lars planned on walking off his aggravation.

“Dr. Rayburn,” the muffled voice spoke through the gas mask. “Time’s up for this trailer. Do we let them in?”

“No.” Lars shook his head. “Lock it and then mark it.”

“The flu?” the man asked.

“Yes.” Lars nodded solemnly. “The flu.”

* * *

Los Angeles, California

“You have to admit…” Jeff popped a goldfish cracker into his mouth, “it was pretty brave and ingenious.”

Darrell spoke through his push up routine on the floor, “Smart move by the program director.”

“Looking out for people’s best interest. I mean, it may be the Three Stooges, but it isn’t the news.”

“I thought you liked the news.”

“I love the news. But there’s only so much news you can watch.”

“True,” Darrell agreed.

“So as a…”

Both men let out a disappointed ‘aw’ when, with a diminishing hum, everything went black and the television went out.

“Damn it.” Darrell stopped his pushups. “I knew this would eventually happen.”

“And just when television was getting good again,” Jeff griped.

“Son of a bitch. And it’s pitch black, too.”

“Good thing there’s still some daylight left.” Jeff got off his bed and walked to the window opening the drapes. “There.” Evening light entered the room.

Slowly, Darrell stood up. “No lights. No TV. No phone. This doesn’t look good. Maybe we should just cut out.”

“No,” Jeff was insistent. “We don’t have much time left to wait it out. I consider myself well-informed, and being well-informed about this flu, I am not going out to breathe that air or chance getting shot for two more weeks.”

“But there’s no power, no—”

“You don’t know,” Jeff interrupted. “It may just be this section of the city. How do we know there aren’t bands of snipers just waiting to derive sick pleasure out of shooting people that try to get out of this city? No, if you want to go… go. I’m waiting. I’ll set the alarm on my watch.”

“I’ll wait.” Darrell sat on the bed. “No one’s left in the hotel anyhow. I’ll go down and lift the freezer goods before they go bad.”

“Good idea.”

“So, let me ask you a question. Where do we go after the three weeks are up?” Darrell asked.

“Where do you think? Lodi,” Jeff said smugly. “We have to pick up Rodriguez.”

“Do you think we still have to do that? I mean, we haven’t talked to the Captain in three days.”

“Absolutely,” Jeff stated adamantly. “Who knows? What happens if we fail to get Rodriguez and all is fine in Ohio? This could be a big test for us.”

“In the meantime we just hang around in the dark and wait?” Darrell tapped his hand on the bed. “It’ll get boring.”

“What are you, nuts? There’s lots to do. We can sleep. Have in-depth conversations. Exercise. We’re past the awkward stage so sex is always an option. And… there’s still all those magazines in the gift shop we haven’t even touched.”

“True.”

“So don’t worry about it. We don’t have much time left. It’ll be over before you know it and we can officially call ourselves survivors.” Liking that thought, and happy he at least made Darrell feel a little better, Jeff proceeded to set the timer on his watch for their ‘freedom’ day.

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

A light trickle of bourbon poured from the bottle over the ice in Mick’s glass. Cigarette clenched between two fingers, he swished the alcohol around.

“Go home, Mick,” Lars instructed as he took the bottle, poured a little then passed it to Patrick.

“Yeah, Mick, go home,” Patrick reiterated. “Why are you still up?”

“Afraid of trouble, that’s all.” Mick sipped his drink. “I just feel better knowing, right now, I’m here.”

“How many did you take out today?” Lars asked.

“Sixteen,” Mick replied.

“Why are you bothering?” Patrick reached for Mick’s pack of cigarettes, looked at him for approval, then took one. “I mean, why don’t you just light the whole camp on fire? Burn it, take out your problem all at one time.”

Lars turned a quick view to Patrick. “Isn’t that just like a criminal to say that?”

Patrick gasped. “I’m joking. Besides, I am not a criminal.”

“Aren’t you under arrest?” Lars asked.

“Well, yes.”

“Well, you are then.”

“Nobody knows.” Patrick lit the cigarette. “And I just like to refer to myself as a money-conscious borrower.”

Mick interjected, “Who borrowed over a hundred mil.” He whistled. “Do you still have any of it?”

“Yeah,” Patrick answered. “Why? Do you need some?”

Before Mick could answer, Lars interceded. “Are you trying to bribe the law?”

“Yes. Would it work, Mick?” Patrick asked with a smile.

“Could. A cool two mil might do it, if it mattered. It doesn’t matter. No one will show up for you.” Over his drink, Mick noticed the look Lars gave him. “What’s wrong?”

“You disappoint me, taking a bribe,” Lars shook his head. “You are a man without morals, Michael Owens.”

“Please,” Mick scoffed. “I have plenty of morals. Look, I don’t want to take Patrick’s advice and wipe out our campers, do I?”

“That’s because they pose no threat, just camping there,” Lars said.

“Or do they?” Patrick swung a questioning look at Lars. “I’m curious. If they get sick, all of them, that’s an awful lot of flu being breathed into the air. This thing is airborne; won’t it strike us?”

“Yes,” Lars answered without hesitation, then saw the looks he received. “Wondering why we’re going through all this trouble then? It’s fun.” He held back a laugh in their stunned silence. “I’m joking. Reiterating that I know this flu, I can tell you of tests performed. In the immediate area of the campers, it is highly contagious. But here’s an example: Say you lock a man with the flu in an eight by eight room. He’s coughing, expelling the germ. Now send a susceptible man in there with him. Boom. That man will catch the flu. Same scenario, but this time take the sick man out. Send in the healthy man two minutes later, his chances decrease. The flu is given to us by nature, therefore nature can diminish it. It loses potency the longer it is in circulation. The pollutants in the air start breaking down the flu within five minutes, separating it and making in nonviable within ten. Now, had this flu been synthetic, manmade, we’d be up shit creek. It would lace the air like molasses and never leave.”

Patrick shuddered. “Thank God for… God.”

“Nature has a way of population control, that’s for sure,” Lars chuckled.

Mick laughed. “Nature went a little overboard this time.”

“Did it?” Lars asked.

“Yeah,” Patrick said. “I mean, look at your slide presentation. Which, by the way, gave me nightmares. That Inez Eskimo guy has been the Freddy Krueger of my dreams.”

“Barring your Freddy digression,” Lars said, “my question was did nature go overboard?”

Both Mick and Patrick answered at the same time. “Yes.”

“No.”

“How can you say this?” Mick argued. “Lars, be realistic. When this thing is finished, how much of the world’s population are you guessing will have died?”

“From violence and the flu, at least seventy-five percent.”

Mick laughed. “And that’s not overboard?”

“No.” Lars shook his head.

“Right,” Mick said. “There’ll be nobody left.”

“Hardly,” Lars scoffed. “They’ll plenty left.”

Patrick was confused. “After seventy-five percent die?”

“Consider this,” Lars explained. “In 1976 there were two hundred million Americans. At the millennium there were roughly four hundred million Americans. The birth to death ratio, meaning, every day, after everyone that is to be born is born, and everyone to be dead has died, the world increases by eighty thousand people per day. Eighty thousand people a day.” Mick and Patrick were stunned into silence. “In 1800 the world population stood at 1 billion people. Right now we’re over 6 billion people. If our flu wipes out seventy-five percent, we’ll be back to the 1800 population. If I’m thinking correctly, I don’t believe the folks back then would tell you no one was around.”

Mick stared hard at Lars. “I hate that scientific reasoning shit.”

Patrick seemed pleased. “So the world isn’t going end?”

“Not by a long shot. This isn’t the end of the world,” Lars said. “But it is the end of society as we know it. Things are down. They’ll break down even further. Society will go to pot. People will have to faction off, begin new domains, and start all over again. To get back up could take decades, maybe even a century. Who knows? So…” Lars patted Patrick’s hand, “put those fears to rest. Even though mankind will still be around, I don’t think you have to worry about being the shower stall queen for a big man named Bubba at the state penitentiary.”

Mick laughed long and hard and finished his drink. “That was great. See, Lars? This is why people love you.”

“Stop.” Patrick held up his hand. He looked around at the empty bar. “Before anyone bursts in here, before an emergency occurs, before the subject can be changed, I need to know: Why are you, Lars, a legend around here?”

“I told you it was ridiculous,” Lars replied.

“Yeah, still. Tell me,” Patrick requested.

“All right.” Lars prepared to speak then noticed Patrick gazing about. “I thought you wanted to hear this?”

“I do, but I’m waiting for an interruption.”

Lars continued as he snickered, “I believe I was a young man of twenty-five when I acquired the status. It grew as time went on. But there was a big rally in Washington, DC. I was fortunate enough to be right in the front of a roped-off section. And it was there, on television, that the president walked by greeting people, and he shook my hand.”

His hands folded on the table, Patrick waited. “And?”

“And what?” Lars asked.

“And what else?”

“That’s it.”

“No. You’re lying,” Patrick said with disbelief. “You’re lying because I’m curious.”

“Right hand to God…” Lars raised his hand. “That is it. Ask Mick.”

Mick shrugged. “I don’t remember when it started. But I do remember it was always a big thing to be told by your parents or teacher, ‘You want to grow up to be like Lars Rayburn, don’t you? He shook the president’s hand.’”

“Forgive me, Lars,” Patrick said. “That sucks. That has got to be the lamest reason for someone to be a legend.”

“See,” Mick interjected, “I agree. Who the hell gives a rat’s ass if he shook the president’s hand? But that’s not the reason, in my opinion, that he became a legend. The people of Lodi grasped on to the president thing, and Lars ran with it. Lars was the one that did things for the town. When—what the hell was the name of your second novel?”

“Quips of the Scorned Mistress,” Lars answered proudly.

“Yeah, that one. When it became a romance bestseller, Lars redid the playground. Next big book, the sidewalks. He built his own status, and people ended up loving him. Hell, I really thought ten years ago the council was going to approve changing the name of the town to Lars, Ohio.”

Lars sighed as he tilted his head in consideration. “That would have been very nice.”

“Unbelievable.” Patrick poured another drink. “And here I thought Lars saved the mayor’s life in front of the whole town or something.”

“I did,” Lars stated. “Two mayors ago, during the corn festival. He was choking. But no one remembers that.”

“I certainly don’t.” Mick gathered up his cigarettes. “Well, you alcoholics have a goodnight. Me, I’m going home.”

“Well, it’s about time,” Dylan’s comment reached their ears before they saw her.

Mick smiled as he stood. “Hey.” The smile fell. “What the hell are you doing walking around by yourself?”

“Mick, please. It’s Lodi. Aren’t you supposed to be keeping us safe?” Dylan asked. “Of course, I don’t know how you do that loaded.”

Mick fluttered his lips. “I am far from loaded.”

“Good.” Dylan held out her hand. “Maybe I’ll make you work that big body of yours. Walk me home.”

“Ah,” Lars smiled and capped the bottle. “A romantic walk. Let’s go Ricardo, shall we walk like teenagers behind them and taunt them?”

Patrick finished his drink. “Sounds like fun. You don’t mind, do you Mick?”

Mick grumbled.

After hearing Lars’ comment to Patrick, Dylan, really offended, stopped at the door. “Lars, why did you call him that? Ricardo?”

“That’s his name,” Lars replied. “Doesn’t it make sense?”

“No. And it’s not very nice. I think it’s very racist. Patrick is Irish.” Dylan gripped Mick’s hand. “Let’s go, Mick. ‘Night all.”

Mick laughed as they stepped outside. “This is nice, you walking me home.”

“Yeah, I’m feeling frisky. So take advantage of it,” Dylan said.

Mick stopped her. “Can I steal a kiss?”

“As long as you do it before they taunt us.”

Smiling, Mick pulled Dylan into him. He embraced her then lowered his head. Lips parted, he drew closer. No sooner did their mouths touch when a loud screech rang out in the distance, immediately followed by a crash. Mick jerked away from Dylan. Turning, he heard a series of gunshots and the screech of tires once more.

The door to the bar banged open and Lars raced out with Patrick.

“What was that?” Lars said hurriedly.

Mick, ready to move, grabbed his radio. As soon as he did, a voice called through it.

“Chief, we had a breach. Blue sedan. Took out the guard and is heading toward—”

Mick saw the incoming headlights still far enough away but speeding in their direction. “I see him.” He hooked the radio on his belt, grabbed his revolver and stepped into the street.

“Mick!” Dylan started to charge out, but Patrick grabbed her as the car sped down the road toward Main.

Mick stood in the center of the street. He raised his revolver and didn’t flinch. The car moved quickly toward him. The closer it drew, the brighter Mick was illuminated by the beam of its headlights.

Mick waited. He ignored Dylan’s screams, clenched his weapon, saw a figure through the windshield and then fired two rapid shots.

A loud double ‘pop’ and both front tires blew out. Along with the sounds of the blaring screech of rim on concrete and Dylan’s horrified scream, Mick could smell the rubber tires burning right before the car veered off the road just three feet from hitting him. The damaged car sailed into Central Park, seemingly out of control. And it wasn’t but a few seconds before the car loudly crashed to a halt when the right side of the front end smashed into a tree.

“Stay here!” Mick yelled to the others as he charged forward into the park. He could see the steam come from the front of the car, and the hissing sound of the escaping steam mixed with the ongoing blare of the horn.

Revolver still extended, Mick pulled his flashlight from his waist when he arrived within a few feet of the car. The flashlight flickered across the driver’s face as he slowly lifted his head from the steering wheel.

The sight of his face brightened by the flashlight beam scared Mick more than anything had in his entire life.

There were no indications of the traffic accident. There were, however, signs of something else.

Eyes dark, face pale, sweaty, and splotched, the man looked at Mick with a satisfied grin. He was more than just a border breaker, or an invader, he was a ticking time bomb deliberately set to go off in Lodi.

It was a destruction mechanism that couldn’t be allowed to go off. Mick had to stop it, and he did. One shot, point blank, to the man’s forehead, delivered through the glass of the windshield, and Mick dismantled that time bomb without a second thought.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Lodi, Ohio

September 25th

In the way that a lone backyard barbeque filled the air of the entire neighborhood with its aroma, the campers on the outskirts of Lodi lent their own scent to the air around Lodi.

The rooftop of Diggins’ drugstore became a popular lookout point, a television of sorts for those who needed something to watch, and those who felt the need to monitor the situation.

Dustin and Chris frequented Diggins’ roof. But on that particular day, with the brisk fall settling in, the slight cool breeze usually aromatic of the scents of autumn carried in the putrid stench of reality. Spoilage of sorts, rotten eggs perhaps; both boys tried to place the smell as something other than what it was, which was, plain and simple: dead bodies.

It was inevitable that the scent would fill the air. Too many people had flocked to Lodi, camped out and waited for the opportunity to enter. But after nearly three weeks, only four made it inside.

The boys watched as if something might happen, but no movement came from outside of Lodi. In fact, none had come for some time. The wall of bikers replaced by the U.S. military had dwindled down to six soldiers. There wasn’t a reason for any more border patrols; there hadn’t been an attempt to make it into Lodi for a week. Dustin himself had to wonder if the newest wall around Lodi was even a bigger deterrent that any gun could ever be. The bulldozers had mixed the dead campers and their supplies with huge amounts of dirt then moved them farther back from Lodi’s boundary, creating a wall that no one would want to cross. “Shh,” Dustin told Chris. “If you listen close, you can hear it.”

“No, you can’t,” Chris scoffed.

“I’m telling you, wait for the wind to slow down and listen.”

As the breeze died down, Chris concentrated with unfocused eyes. “Oh, wow.”

“See?”

“How many flies do you think are out there to be able to be that loud?”

“Millions,” Dustin answered.

“I thought flies died when it was cold?”

“Not if they have something to keep them going,” Dustin said.

“It has got to be the biggest maggot feast in the world,” Chris commented.

“Bet you it’s gross looking.”

Chris shuddered in disgust. “You know, if we don’t do something about them maggots we are gonna be infested with flies.”

“Oh, man, attack of the killer flies. Can you see it?” Dustin shook his head. “Hungry flies, huge from the unlimited supply of carnage, seek other means of food. Us.”

“We should write the movie,” Chris suggested. “Sell it to Hollywood.” Chris smiled for a moment then looked sadly at his brother. “Dustin? Will there be a Hollywood anymore?”

“Of course there will be. And if by some reason there isn’t, someone has to start it back up again, right? Might as well be us.”

“We can do that. And you know what? Think about it. No Hollywood, no more wrestling. Which means…”

“We can be the new superstars of wrestling.” Dustin high fived his brother. “That is like the coolest thought to ever come out of this flu.”

“But being serious. We should tell Lars about all them flies.”

“I’m sure Lars knows,” Dustin assured. “I mean, Mick told us they are gonna burn the bodies end of next week. That means they’ll burn the flies.”

“Why won’t he burn them now?”

“Mick said because there are too many. The smoke will dis-a-something or other right over to Lodi. But you want my opinion on why they’re waiting?”

“Yeah.”

Dustin dropped his voice to a whisper as if someone could hear them on that roof. “Remember how the high school used to have big celebration bonfires after the games?” Chris nodded. “Well, the burning bodies will be like Lodi’s celebration bonfire.”

“Huh?” Chris scratched his head. “Why do you say that?”

“End of next week is four weeks. Four weeks means what?” Dustin asked.

“End of the shut-in.”

Dustin smiled. “Exactly. Walls down. Lodi open.”

“Sort of like why they are having the fall festival tomorrow.”

“Yep. Day after tomorrow we will be declared officially flu-free. We made it through, not a single person caught it. Even though Mom thought she had it every other day. Not a single person died. So why not have the fall festival tomorrow?”

“You know what, Dustin?” Chris said softly. “Even though the festival won’t have all the cool food and stuff, it will be the best and coolest festival ever.”

“Why do you say that?” Dustin asked.

“Because it will be the first time ever, we have a really good reason to celebrate.”

“You’re right.” Dustin stared out to the wall of bodies that underscored Chris’ sentiments. “You are absolutely right.”

* * *

The static and snow that blasted on the television ended with the push of a button, then Mick walked behind the bar and picked up the phone. He listened for a moment then hung up.

Very seriously, arms folded, Lars shifted his eyes from Tom and Patrick to Mick. “Why do you do that?” he asked. “Every single morning for the past week, you do that before we have our powwow.”

“I like to have my facts straight.” Mick pulled up a chair and sat down. “And before I make the daily assumption that everything is shut down, I want to make sure it isn’t back up and we look like fools.”

Tom moaned. “Mick, you’re an intelligent man but you sound goddamn stupid making a comment like that.”

“Why?” Mick asked. “You can’t rule it out.”

Before any smart comments could be made, Lars lifted his hand. “Mick has a point. Even though it is farfetched, it could happen. What did Henry tell us?”

Patrick bobbed his head in thought. “A major restructuring process is being done in Washington.”

“Hence our means of communication with them,” Lars said. “The military radio. If that’s still running, somewhere, somehow, I believe so is the military.”

“But they ain’t bringing us any more food, are they?” Tom noted. “A working radio ain’t civilization rebuilding.”

“Tom,” Mick said, “not meaning to sound disrespectful, but do you think that this negative attitude and apocalyptic theory-thing may be just wishful thinking because you hate people?”

Tom gasped in offense. “I love people. Just not a lot at one time. That’s why I avoid the festival.”

“Exactly,” Mick said in annoyance. “That’s why I believe, somewhere, things are running again. Maybe out west and we just don’t know. I mean they finished early with the flu.”

“Christ Almighty, Mick,” Tom snapped. “Get your head out of your ass. Henry said the places on the east that had the flu are on the last leg of it. It is over. The government, who promised to supply us with food, hasn’t. Lodi is running because we are making it run. No one else. The only reason we have lights and power is because Jeb Wilson and Buzz Wright are manning the power station twenty-four seven. You and Patrick hit two warehouses last week to stock us. What did you see? No. Wait.” Tom looked at Patrick. “What did you see out there?”

Patrick shook his head. “Nothing. A few people here and there. That’s it.”

Snidely, Tom looked at Mick. “And you make fun of my apocalyptic attitude.”

Lars saw Mick ready to rebut, and he intervened, “As much as I love the energy derived from semi-family bickering,” Lars commented, “we have a point to this covert meeting, and I for one would like to get to it. Now… since Tom brought it up, we need to discuss the food situation.”

“We’re good,” Mick replied. “Fall festival put a little dent in the surplus, but otherwise we can hold up without a problem for another ten days. Then Patrick and I can go back out.”

“But should you two do that?” Lars questioned

“No,” Tom spoke up. “Pretty soon the four weeks will be up. Flu-free world. The nightmare over. But it’s only gonna be starting for Lodi, see. Lodi is gonna wake up to the reality that there’s nothing left. They haven’t a clue Mick and Patrick are bringing in the food. They haven’t a clue that the government abandoned us. All well and fine if everything ends up coming back and the restructuring starts. But what if doesn’t? If it does, there will be a waiting period. A period of time where we are on our own.”

“Exactly,” Patrick rebutted. “They need food. We’ll get it.”

“No.” Tom shook his head. “Yes, they need food. But you have three thousand people in this town who are perfectly capable of helping with that task. Don’t you dare begin to even think of taking it on alone. Don’t do it. Once you start, once you start doing for people, they’ll never do for themselves.”

Lars let out a breath as he sat back in his chair. “Tom has a point. Right now, the people of Lodi are living in a Pleasantville world. They are going about their lives almost as if nothing has happened. I think we’re gonna need to do one more food run, but…” Lars stopped Tom from saying anything, “only after we devise a long-term survival plan. A well-laid out, long-term survival plan. Get together with the mayor and the village council. Start planning it, hashing it out.”

Mick nodded in agreement. “I’ll deal with that. So when do we tell the people of Lodi? Before we devise this outline of survival, or after?”

“Definitely after,” Lars said. “Because in the same breath you tell them the world ended without them knowing, you wanna be able to come right back and give them hope. Besides, coming up with a viable plan could take time, and we don’t want to ruin the celebration behind the fall festival.”

Patrick chuckled a little in ridicule at that remark. “Lars, please. The festival signifies the end to our risk of the flu. At this point, I don’t think anything can ruin that celebration.”

* * *

Dairy, Ohio

The sound of the little girl’s cry still rang fresh in Jeff’s mind, no matter how many days it had been. He could see her, sitting alone, crying loudly and shrilly on the front steps of that apartment building. No family. No one. A hungry and dirty little girl, and Jeff and Darrell couldn’t leave her. It took hours to find the proper authorities to hand her over. And when they did, they finally made it to the border of Los Angeles they had only heard about and seen on the news.

“I told you asshole,” Darrell snapped at Jeff, “no one is left.”

The military border trucks left empty were mere monuments rather than deterrents. No one was around. Cars had been long abandoned, crunched in a major traffic jam and left behind. Bodies of those who had tried to make it past the border became rodent and fly food in a heat that produced the rancid odor of their decomposition.

How that one lone white cat had survived, Jeff couldn’t figure out. But it did, and they picked it up, taking it with them. Even on the four mile walk to get a car.

Barren.

Everywhere near Los Angeles was barren. It took that four miles to find people and that was where they found transportation, as well.

The journey was underway.

A simple purring meow from the small cat snapped Jeff from his thoughts of the previous three days. After a hard sneeze, he wiped his hand under his nose in a sloppy sniffle, and looked up from his seat in the diner booth to Darrell who returned from the washroom.

“Damn allergies.”

Darrell slid into the booth.

“Are your allergies bothering you too?”

“Yeah.” Darrell sniffed. “I can’t stop sneezing.”

“Me either. Probably the cat. They always set me off.”

“Me, too.”

“So…” Jeff’s hand ran up and down the fur of the feline. “Good thing the threat of the flu is over, huh? Or else I’d be scared.”

Darrell chuckled. “You aren’t kidding.” Shaking his head, he looked across the diner to the elderly man sitting at the counter, a diner completely and utterly empty with the exception of the lone man. “What’s up with him?” Darrell asked in a whisper.

“Don’t know. He keeps on staring at us.”

“I keep staring…” the man said with a country accent, “because I keep a-wondering what you boys are waiting for.”

“A menu would be nice,” Jeff said.

“A-huh. I see. A menu.” The old man stood up and walked over to the booth. As he crossed the floor, he grabbed two menus and dropped them on the table. “There ya go.”

Darrell looked up and smiled. “Thanks. We would love some coffee. It’s been a long trip.”

“Oh, sure.” The man winked. “Coffee would be nice at this moment. I have a cup myself sitting right over there, see?”

Jeff looked across the room in an attempt to pacify the man. “Yeah. Looks good.”

“Is good. Brewed it myself.” The man nodded. “Yep.” He exhaled. “Bet you boys would like to order some food too.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jeff gasped out. “We’re starved. “ How’re the burgers here?”

“Pretty good. The place is famous for its country fried steak.”

With a pleased look, Darrell glanced at Jeff. “That actually sounds really good.”

The old man nodded again. “Don’t it though. Welp…” he stepped back. “Gonna go sit down. Sorry I can’t help you out.”

“Whoa. Wait,” Jeff called out. “What do you mean?”

Slowly, almost too slowly, the man spoke. “I mean… I cannot help you out.”

“We’re… we’re hungry,” Darrell stated.

“Go fetch yourself something. Might be something in the back. Might not.” The man responded. “Can’t tell ya. Ain’t been back there. In fact…” He looked toward the kitchen. “No one’s been back there for a while.”

“What are you doing here?” Jeff questioned.

“Sitting. Having coffee. They have the best.” The man sat back down. “Don’t taste as good when you have to brew it yourself. Still good enough, though.”

Darrell, offended, asked, “Wait a minute. You mean no one’s here in the diner to serve food?”

The old man looked oddly at Darrell. “What’s it look like to you? Now, I am not a college-educated man, but I’d say, no one’s here to serve the food. The diner’s not open.”

“We’ve been here twenty minutes,” Jeff argued. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I wanted to see how long you’d wait.”

Darrell gasped. “That’s not right. And… the sign on the door says open. That’s very misleading.”

“To morons,” the man quipped. “Who in God’s name would drive into an empty town in this world now, and expect to get full service at a local diner? Morons.”

Darrell looked across the booth to Jeff. “I hope he’s not referring to us.”

“I don’t think so,” Jeff replied. “That would be rude. Then again he let us sit here for twenty minutes, and again, this is Ohio.”

“True,” Darrell agreed. “Let’s just hope Lodi isn’t this bad.”

“Let’s hope.” Jeff let out a loud sneeze. “Damn cat.”

* * *

Reston, Virginia

“Send them home,” Kurt spoke seriously and firmly to Henry. “It’s ridiculous.”

“No.” Henry shook his head. “They’ve been there this long, what is nine more days?” Henry questioned.

“A long time,” Kurt said. “It’s useless. It’s over. Reston was one of the last bigger cities to get hit. And look outside. It died with a whimper. So unlike LA, New York. Quietly. It’s over. In two days, Lodi will have made it.”

“That’s not true. They have nine left to go until we can declare this epidemic over.”

“What’s going to happen?” Kurt tossed up his hand. “No one has tried to get in there. Everyone has pretty much resigned themselves to this flu.”

“Except Lodi. No, Kurt.” Henry shook his head. “I don’t smell it. I don’t smell the feeling of victory yet, and I know I will when it’s done with and we have proceeded to save one entire town. Besides, they won’t take the order from me. Who am I?”

Kurt laughed. “Yeah, right. You, Henry, have become the head of the CDC, the WHO, FEMA and Dwight fuckin’ Eisenhower to the military men at the Lodi post. They’ll listen to you. Send them home.”

“As much as I want to, call it a hunch. Not yet,” Henry spoke rationally. “Not yet.”

“Fine.” Kurt gave up. “Change the subject… what did the Vice, I mean, new President say?”

“He is currently reorganizing his restructuring plan,” Henry explained. “That’s his answer. But if you want my opinion, not that he isn’t trying, I don’t think he knows what to grasp for the means to pull it off.”

“Do you think he will eventually?”

“Let’s just say I hope so.” Henry said. “Despite what it looks like, there are a lot of people left. And people in general, they tend to be followers. I’ll tell you, Kurt. If out of this whole mess a strong voice doesn’t rise above the ashes, we’re basically fucked. The masses need someone to lead them, give them direction. If someone doesn’t, mankind stands a good chance of fading away.”

“Why don’t you do it?” Kurt asked. “Be the voice?”

“Who, me?” Henry chuckled at that notion. “I’m not a leader.”

“You don’t think?” Hand extended, Kurt motioned around. “Look around. Look at how you kept all this going. Against the odds and in spite of a lack of technology, you managed to keep me alive and the Center operating. You have stats. You have it all. You haven’t left this post.”

“That wasn’t the leader in me. That was the diehard optimist screaming to see this thing end.”

“Guess what? You have. We’ve seen the last of this flu.”

Henry closed his eyes. “Let’s hope.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Lodi, Ohio

Patrick couldn’t believe it was in. He had been waiting all week to get his hands on that new release, constantly stopping in Tom’s store to see if it was there. Of course, it actually wasn’t a new release seeing how Tom hadn’t received a shipment in nearly a month. But Patrick had it, and pleased, he walked up to the counter.

“Here, Tom.” Patrick laid the movie down. “Quite the selection tonight. Usually the shelves are empty.”

“Usually people aren’t getting ready for the festival tomorrow night. Not gonna help?”

“Oh. I’m helping, but I stay up pretty late. That’s for later.”

Tom peered at the box. “Will you stop pestering me now?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good flick.” Tom nodded. “Watched it last night.”

“Wait a second…” Patrick said. “You said you’d call me as soon as it came in.”

“Never came in. I was on my way out, Wayne dropped it off. I took it.”

“Figures. I was bored, too.”

“Must happen to you a lot.”

“Yeah.” Patrick hunched down and peeked in the mostly empty candy case. “No chance of any chocolate covered peanuts in the back?”

Tom lifted a finger and pointed.

Marian, with a pleased expression on her face, came from the back room with a box. “I knew you were in here. Had to find that box.” She smiled and gave the candy to Patrick.

“Thank you.”

“You are brushing after those. They tend to…”

“Marian,” Tom cut her off. “You can’t be badgering the customers about good oral hygiene. It isn’t gonna help business if things go back to normal.”

Embarrassed, Marian giggled and went behind the counter. “Did you tell him?”

“Shush,” Tom shook his head. “Getting there.” He pushed the box forward. “Got you logged.”

“Thank you.” Patrick gathered up his things.

“Say…” Tom spoke up, stopping Patrick, “did you know, since this whole thing went down and we just been logging movies, you’ve rented a whopping fifty-three movies?”

“That’s… that’s just pathetic,” Patrick commented. “That many?”

“Yep. Pretty much tied with one other person.”

Shocked, Patrick shook his head. “I guess I have nothing else to do.”

“Bet you get lonely sometimes being the single guy and all,” Tom stated.

“Yeah, kind of,” Patrick nodded.

“Bet you’d like nothing more than to have someone to watch that movie with. Discuss it, laugh over it.”

Patrick gave a shrug. “That wouldn’t be bad. I think Mick is getting tired of me going over there with him and Dylan. Lars, he argues with me over the movies.”

“It’s tough when the world shuts down before you get a chance to meet someone. I mean, a nice home cooked meal…”

“That,” Patrick lifted a finger, “would be nice.”

“Would you like a nice home cooked meal, and someone to watch that movie with tonight?”

Patrick smiled, his eyes shifted to Marian who seemed to have on her best Donna Reed look. “I’d love it.”

Tom’s eyes lifted at the ring of the doorbell and he smiled. “Well, you’re in luck. Eunice?” Tom gave a wave of his hand. “He said ‘yes’. How do you like that?”

Eunice? Patrick didn’t want to turn around. He felt her presence near him.

Tom leaned closer to Patrick and whispered. “Eunice is a nice woman. Has dinner all ready. Loves this movie. Go on, have a good time. She ain’t married.” Tom winked.

Thinking, Maybe Eunice just had a case of bad luck and got a really shitty name, Patrick grinned and turned around with an extended hand. He felt every facial muscle freeze when he forced the smile to stay put. His neck muscles felt the strain as well from looking up at the extremely tall, thin woman in her late forties, with obviously dyed jet black hair. To Patrick, the sourpuss look she had all but shouted one of the reasons she wasn’t married. Patrick swallowed. What was he gonna do? Nervously he pulled his hand back, while trying desperately to find a single positive detail about Eunice.

Eunice’s thickly painted lips parted and she smiled widely. “We’ll have fun.” She continued to smile.

That was it. Patrick knew where he would focus… on her mouth. She had great teeth and her mouth wasn’t bad. Patrick only hoped that Eunice never noticed that he never looked anywhere else.

* * *

The tiny tug on Mick’s tee shirt sleeve made him turn his mouth from the fork full of pasta to Tigger. “Yes?”

“What’s a maggot?” Tigger asked.

The fork lowered from Mick’s mouth. “What the hell kind of question is that to be…” His eyes raised across the picnic table to Dustin and Chris, who were snickering. “What did you guys tell him?”

“Nothing,” Dustin laughed.

“Nothing,” Chris repeated in the same manner.

Rose Owens shook her head. “Mick, wipe that fuckin’ look off your face, they’re just being boys.”

“They made Tigger bring up maggots,” Mick defended then lifted his fork again.

Tigger gave a pull on his sleeve. “What’s a maggot?”

Laughing, Dylan decided to intervene, “A maggot is a baby fly. Little disgusting worms.”

Tigger nodded his understanding. “Oh. Hey, Mick, so are there a zillion maggots on the bodies outside of Lodi?”

Mick opened his mouth to answer only after sending a scolding look to Dustin and Chris. “Not a zillion. A few.”

Tigger let out a little shriek. “Oh, they lied. They said maggots were crawling in and out of dead people’s bodies and…”

“Enough,” Mick grumbled. “And boys, why are you talking about this?”

“Check this out, Mick.” Dustin leaned into the picnic table. “Jerry got a hold of a scope for the camera. We were snapping off pictures of the bodies from Diggins’ roof.”

“What the—”

Rose cut off Mick. “How very entrepreneur-like of you, Dustin. Getting the scope.”

Dustin nodded. “Did you know when the Spanish flu hit no one took any really disgusting pictures for the public to see?”

“That’s because they saw it,” Mick commented.

“Yeah, but,” Dustin continued, “generations to come wouldn’t have seen it. Right?”

Rose noticed the look on her son’s face. “I hope you aren’t being fuckin’ discouraging about the career choice Dustin here is making. A photographer is a—”

“Mom,” Mick silenced her. “Who said I’m not being… Tigger!” Mick reached down to the ground, then, with his free hand lifted Tigger. “You have to use the booster seat.” Mick set the seat on the bench, then Tigger on the booster. “Use it.”

“I’m not a baby,” Tigger grumbled.

“I know you aren’t a baby,” Mick argued. “But you don’t eat when you have to kneel. If you don’t eat, you won’t grow.”

“I’m not growing anyhow.”

“Yes, you are,” Mick said.

“No.” Tigger folded his arms. “Look at me. I’m not gonna grow.”

“I did.” Mick said.

“What’s that got to do with me?” Tigger asked.

Rose interceded. “Mick is trying to tell you that just because you’re little today, don’t mean you won’t be a big fuckin’ ox tomorrow.” She gave a wink to Dustin and Chris who laughed. “Mick was short. God, Dylan, wasn’t he less than five feet in the ninth grade?”

“I think so,” Dylan stated. “Definitely shorter than me.”

“And round,” Rose whistled. “Mick was as round as they came. Called him Orca.”

“Mom.” Mick groaned.

Rose ignored him and continued reminiscing. “Had to get a steel toilet seat. Mick broke three of them his eighth grade year.”

“Mom!” Mick cowered behind his own hand.

Chris shrieked. “You broke toilet seats? Ah, man, Mick. That’s funny.”

“It isn’t funny,” Dustin said, offended. “Mick couldn’t help it he was heavy. And the toilet seats were probably weak; he didn’t break them because of his weight, did you, Mick?”

Groaning, Mick just wanted to eat. “Can we just enjoy one of the last warm days before it gets cold? Please? And eat.”

“I fuckin’ hate Indian summer. Get cold. Stay warm. But make up its goddamn mind,” Rose bitched.

Getting ready to close his eyes in one of those ‘God get me out of this’ moments, Mick saw Dylan solemnly get up and go inside. “Excuse me.” He wiped his mouth and stood.

Dylan wasn’t doing much but staring at the coffee spot on the counter by the sink. She jumped a little when she heard the screen porch door shut. She turned around.

“You OK?” Mick asked.

“Oh, yeah. Fine.” Dylan smiled. “I was getting some soda. We didn’t have any on the table.”

“And you’re fine?” Mick took a step to her. “I didn’t say something to upset you?”

“No, not at all. Go on, I’ll be right back out.” Dylan watched him, but as soon as he reached for the door, she called out. “Mick?”

Mick turned around. “Yeah?”

“Did you… did you ever notice how good you are with the boys?”

The corner of Mick’s mouth raised with a smile. “I should hope I’m good with the boys, I’ve been around them all their lives.”

“I’m talking natural. It’s nice they have that with you.”

“Thanks. It’s nice to hear that from you.” Mick tried for the door again.

“Mick, before you go,” Dylan spoke up. “I just… I just want you to know. When I look at you, when I see you with my sons, I really do see my future. I’m gonna grow old with you, Mick Owens.”

He was going to leave, but he didn’t. How could he? Mick walked right up to Dylan, slipped his hand behind her neck, and kissed her. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

After a smile, Mick kissed her quickly and walked back to the door. “See ya outside.”

Rose looked up when she heard the thump of Mick’s heavy steps on the porch. “She all right?” Rose asked.

“Yeah.” Mick took his spot at the table. “Cramps.” He enjoyed the cringes that came from the boys. “Hey, guys, I wanna ask you something real fast before your mom comes back out.” He waited until he had their attention. “Answer me honestly, okay? No holding back. How would you guys feel if I asked your mom to marry me?”

“Good fuckin’ Lord, Mick,” Rose snapped. “Could your timing be any worse? It’s not a good time.”

Dustin lifted his hand with a smile. “No, Mrs. Owens, it’s fine.” He smiled at Mick. “I’m fine with it. Mick’s been around a real long time. It would be nice. Real nice.”

Mick felt relieved to hear that. Of course, he’d expected no backlash from Dustin. He looked to his right. “Tigger?”

Tigger shrugged. “It’s fine.”

After a nod, Mick turned to Chris. “Chris?”

“Well,” Chris exhaled, “I’m fine with it, too. But, you know Mom has never had a husband stay with her the entire time. Not that she had all that many, she only had my dad, but he was always leaving and hurting her. You aren’t gonna leave my mom when you get mad, are you, Mick?”

Dustin jumped in before Mick could. “What the heck is wrong with you? Of course he’s not gonna up and leave Mom. He didn’t leave her over the lesbian thing did he? No. And Mick isn’t gonna take a hike when things get rough… are you, Mick?”

Getting ready to do his stock groan, Mick stopped when his radio hissed.

“Chief Owens, come in.”

Mick picked up his radio. “Yeah, this is Mick. Go on.”

“Sir, you’re gonna have to come down to the main check in. We… we got a couple of live ones here and they’re insisting on speaking with the law.”

“I’m on my way.” Mick stood up, hooking his radio to his belt. “I’ll be back.” Turning to leave, he saw Dylan.

“What’s going on?” Dylan asked.

“Check this out. We have people at the front wanting in.”

Dylan stared for a moment. “It’s been so long. Maybe it’s a sign, Mick. Maybe it’s a sign that all the world didn’t go to hell.”

Mick darted a kiss to her cheek. “Maybe it is.”

* * *

Suits? Mick couldn’t believe it as he dismounted his bike. The arrivals were wearing suits? Pulling on his surgical mask, Mick grabbed his rifle and walked near the check-in point. He kept his distance. “What’s the problem?”

Sergeant Dion rolled his eyes as he merely pointed to Jeff and Darrell and their cat.

“May I help you gentlemen?” Mick asked.

“Hey! You’re the Harley Cavalry!” Jeff said in recognition. “No wonder you’re running things here.”

“What?” Mick asked, confused.

“The Harley Cavalry. Six weeks ago, some other Ohio town. A kid held up in a store,” Jeff explained. “We were there.” Fumbling with the cat, Jeff reached into his pocket. “We’re FBI agents.”

Mick nodded. “And why are you here in Lodi?”

“To get Rodriguez.”

Mick froze as he stared at them. “Are you fuckin’ shitting me? You’re here to pick up Rodriguez?”

“Yep,” Darrell answered. “You have him under arrest, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah,” Mick fluttered his lips. “I have him under arrest. Did you two happen to notice what’s been going on out there in the world?”

“Things are slow,” Jeff replied.

Mick refrained from uttering ‘no shit’. “And with all that happened you still want to pick him up?”

“Yes,” Jeff told him. “Can we come in?”

“What are you, assholes?” Mick snapped. “I’m not letting you in here. If you feel like setting your bodies in a quarantine trailer for seventy-two hours, after that wait, if all is fine, then you can come in. As for now… that’s all, gentlemen.” Mick turned and walked away.

Sgt. Dion shrugged at Jeff and Darrell, then pointed. “Third trailer is empty.”

Jeff looked at Darrell. “I guess we’ll wait. We’ve waited this long.”

“True.” Darrell spotted the line of trailers. “Let’s go to that trailer. I’m really beat.”

“Me, too. Long trip.” Jeff followed. “My body is aching.”

“I know what you mean. Hey, was it me, or did that chief seem a little testy to you?”

Jeff shrugged as they reached the trailer. “He was a bit testy. But wouldn’t you be? He’s been detaining Rodriguez for so long, he has to be frustrated knowing he can finally get rid of him and has to wait three more days.” Extending his hand for the door, Jeff stopped to sneeze; his body shook violently. “I’m tired of doing that. My head hurts.” He peered down to the sleeping animal in his arms. “Damn cat.”

* * *

Mick had hid it in the tiny freezer compartment of the station’s beverage cooler. Besides wanting to take a walk that evening, he wanted to retrieve that treat. Figuring he’d enjoy that huge ice cream bar on his way back to Dylan’s house, he waited until he was out of the station to unwrap it.

Tearing the bottom portion of the wrapper, Mick looked up as Patrick called his name.

“Mick.” Patrick jogged his way. “I thought people would be setting up for the festival.”

Mick peered at his watch. “It’s midnight. What the hell do you think this is, New York?” He continued to walk.

“Hungry for ice cream?” Patrick asked.

“Yeah. I have this thing about having ice cream after… after…” Mick ripped open the package. “After a long day. So I thought I’d walk and enjoy it.” He smiled. “What brings you out?”

“Well, aside from thinking I would help with the festival setup, I needed to think.”

“Yes, you do,” Mick said snidely. “Oh…” he paused in the middle of his stride, “I hear you had a date with… Eunice Bender.”

Patrick froze. His face cringed. “That’s… that’s one of the things I am thinking about.”

“Strongly attracted to her?”

“Oh my God, Mick. I’m killing Tom over this. I really need someone to help me out here. You have a minute? This is something I can’t tell Lars about.”

Lars unexpectedly walked up behind him. “What can’t you tell me about?”

Like a child, Patrick spun around. “Nothing.”

“Oh, come on. Tell me,” Lars nudged. “Maybe my years of life experience can help.”

Mick bobbed his head as he pulled the ice cream bar from the wrapper. “He has a point. He is Lars Rayburn.”

“OK.” Patrick nodded then motioned his hand to the stairs of Tom’s video store. “Let’s sit.”

Lars raised his eyebrows. “A sitting talk. This will be good.” He took a seat next to Patrick on the top step.

“Shoot.” Mick sat on the last step.

“All right, you know I had this date with Eunice, right?” Patrick closed his eyes. “I’m in trouble. I don’t know what to do.”

“Go on. Tom fixed you up with her…” Mick took a bite of his ice cream.

Patrick shuddered with chills. “I can’t believe you just bit that bar.”

“Tell the damn story!” Mick snapped.

“I’m killing Tom,” Patrick hurried and looked at a snickering Lars. “What?”

“Nothing,” Lars giggled. “I know where this is going. Go on.”

Letting out a breath, Patrick continued, “I figured, what the hell, it’s someone to hang out with for an evening, so I go on this date. She makes pasta, which was good, we watch the movie and talk very little.”

Mick took another bite of his bar. “Where’s the problem? Everything sounded fine.”

“Here’s the problem,” Patrick said. “I figure, movie over, time to go. I say thanks, stand up, and walk to the door. She says…” Patrick’s voice grew nervous, “she says ‘what about a little goodnight kiss’?” He shrugged. “I think, one to the cheek. Okay. I pucker up… and she drops.”

“Drops?” Mick asked.

“Drops. To her knees. Zip.”

Mick choked.

Lars laughed.

“This isn’t funny,” Patrick said, seriously. “I didn’t know what to do. I tried to stop her, but, she proceeds to immediately, despite me trying to pull her from me, she grabs me and goes to town.”

Holding up his ice cream bar, Mick looked up to Patrick. “Let me get this straight. You want to leave. She wanted a kiss and instead she starts to…”

“Blow me, yes.”

Mick cringed. “Eunice Bender. Oh my God.”

“It gets worse,” Patrick stated. “She won’t let go. So right there, exposed, I have two choices. I figure, get forceful, or pretend she’s some hot super model and concentrate on the way it feels.”

Lars titled his head as if to say ‘not bad choices’.

Mick cringed again.

“I look down,” Patrick explained. “I see that dark hair. I’m thinking, ‘Okay, hot Italian actress’. I’m doing good, eyes closed and then…”

Waiting for an answer, Mick raised his eyes. “And then what?” He brought his ice-cream to his mouth.

“I hear slurp, slurp, slurp.”

“Aww, Jesus Christ. Did I need to hear that?”

“You asked. I tried again with the fantasy. But the slurp…”

“Patrick!” Mick barked. “Enough. So the… the noise turned you off and you left?”

“Um, no,” Patrick shook his head. “I started singing old Elvis songs in my head to block out the noise and well, I’m a guy, you know.”

Mick showed his disgust. “What the hell is the matter with you? Have some inner strength.”

“In Patrick’s defense,” Lars said, “Eunice Bender gives great head.” He absorbed the shocked glances from Mick and Patrick. “Oh, yes, she does—once you get past the noise. About twenty-five years ago I had the pleasure of indulging in her fellatio expertise. And I know exactly what you’re feeling, Patrick.” He reached over and patted Patrick on the knee.

“So then what happened?” Mick asked. “This ought to be good.”

“I freaked,” Patrick stated. “You know, it happened, I went over the edge, she stands up, grabs my hand and leads me to the couch. At this point I can’t run out the door. She shoves me down.”

Mick covered his eyes. “Please don’t tell me you had sex with her…”

“I thought ‘Oh shit, I’m gonna have to sleep with her now’. She stands before me, drops her underwear…”

“Enough,” Mick tried to interrupt.

“Lifts her skirt…”

“Patrick,” Mick groaned. “I’m trying to have my ice cream.”

“And masturbates in front of me.”

“She what!” Mick blasted out in shock.

“Masturbated.” Using his own hand to demonstrate, Patrick spoke like a teacher. “She took her hand, placed it…”

“I know what masturbating is,” Mick snapped.

“That’s what she did,” Patrick stated. “Said she didn’t trust a man to do what she did best.”

Lars nodded. “That’s Eunice. And don’t worry, Patrick. You didn’t use her. She used you. She’ll barely speak to you now.”

Patrick blinked. “How rude of her.”

Slowly, Mick shook his head. “I’ll never look at the woman the same way again.”

“Then good thing you aren’t me.” Patrick gave a nod. “I’ll never look at the woman the same again. Mick, when she lifted that skirt, it wasn’t an attractive sight.”

Mick’s entire face winced. His ice cream was melting, and he wasn’t even getting a chance to enjoy it.

“Someone ought to sit down with that woman and tell her that nowadays, women landscape that area.”

“Thank you.” Mick huffed and stood up. “Thank you for ruining my ice cream.” He tossed it in the trash container. “Now, I’m forced to tell you…”

Curious, Patrick looked up to him. “Tell me what?”

“Got two new visitors at the front checkpoint today,” Mick said. “Wanted in. Wanted you.” He grinned. “They’re FBI.”

Patrick’s eyes widened. “Oh shit.”

“Wait,” Lars interrupted. “Are they idiots, or are we missing something? Don’t tell me the FBI is the only branch of the government to survive an apocalyptic flu?”

Mick shrugged. “Don’t know. They said they’re here for Rodriguez. They’re a determined pair, though. Sitting right out in a quarantine trailer.”

Patrick was in shock. “Mick, what do I do? Should I go?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mick told him.

“What do you mean, don’t worry about it?” Patrick asked. “Are you handing me over?”

“No. Don’t worry about it.” Mick waved his hand. “They aren’t getting in here. They’ll never step foot inside Lodi. Because I’m no doctor, I’m no scientist, but I didn’t have to be an Einstein to see…” Mick took his seat on the steps, “those two had the flu.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Lodi, Ohio

September 26th

Mick felt like he was going to puke. His stomach twitched and knotted, and the smell of grease that filled the air at the festival didn’t help much. Another flip of his insides, and Mick let out a slow breath through his slightly parted lips. He ran his hand down his clean shaven face then across his tie that looked a little out of place with his denim shirt and faded blue jeans. But his badge was extremely shiny.

“OK.” Mick looked at Tom. “How do I look?”

“Nervous,” Tom answered just outside his booth, speaking up just a little over the noise of the crowd and Dexter’s Rockin’ Rollers.

“Appearance-wise, how do I look?” Mick asked.

“All right. I guess,” Tom replied.

“She doesn’t know, right?” Mick questioned.

“Nope.” Tom shook his head.

“Good. I would have dressed better, but I didn’t want to dress too good. That could tip her off.”

“No way,” Tom said sarcastically. “No way… unless…” He pointed behind Mick.

Mick turned around when he saw Marian walking toward the booth. He whined. “Aw, why did she dress like that?”

“It’s the occasion.” Tom shrugged.

“Son of a…” Mick looked to the tug on his sleeve. “Oh, hey, Dustin.”

“Mick, can I… can I talk to you?”

“Sure.” Mick, placing his hand on Dustin’s back, stepped away from Tom’s booth. “Can’t talk long. I have to find your mom. Where is she?”

“Watching Dexter’s band with Tigger.”

“Good. I have until Bon Jovi’s ‘Living on a Prayer’ and then I’m up.”

“Mick,” Dustin spoke soft. “Listen…”

“Have you seen Chris?” Mick looked around. “He has to be near. Do I look all right?”

“Yeah, Mick.” Dustin’s eyes moved off to the right then returned. “If things don’t pan out, please don’t go away.”

Very seriously, Mick looked at Dustin. “Go away?”

“Yeah, I mean leave us. Please don’t.”

Mick smiled gently. “Things will pan out. But… doesn’t matter what happens. I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thanks.” Dustin let out a long breath.

“No, thank you.” Mick kissed him on the forehead. “I have to find her. God, are there a ton of people here.” After a swat at Dustin’s arm, Mick darted off.

Dustin felt relieved, then he felt the tap on his shoulder. He turned to see his friend Jerry. “What?”

“Did the chief just kiss you?”

“No! What are you nuts? He was checking me for fever. That’s all.” Dustin sniffed in arrogance. “Kiss me,” he scoffed. “Please.”

* * *

Again, Patrick turned away from the sight. But it seemed to him, no matter where he looked around that festival, freakish shivers ran through him. Dexter and his band of geriatric rockers were on the bandstand cranking out old Van Halen tunes from the eighties. Marian Roberts, smiling, serving up donuts and milk in an evening dress and then… Eunice Bender.

One eye open, Patrick turned to look. Perhaps it was his imagination or his fear; maybe he was misinterpreting what she was doing? However, as he looked, not only did he see that he was correct, he saw that Eunice had moved closer.

Locking her eyes with him at that instant, Eunice did it again.

She manipulated her corn dog for the visual benefit of Patrick. But somehow Patrick couldn’t determine if she was sending an erotic message or a sadistic one. Her puckered lips glazed the entire length of the elongated object and left a thick ruby red smear that was almost barbaric.

Before he could send some sort of unconscious invitation in return, Patrick spun to make his getaway. The second he did, he slammed into a screaming Dylan.

“Oh, shit.” He looked to see Dylan lying on the ground. “I am so sorry.” He reached down and helped her up. “I didn’t see you.”

“Obviously.” Dylan smiled and brushed off her jeans. “Good thing you didn’t run into Tigger.” She gave a nod of her head at Tigger, who was laughing. “Too engrossed in the band?”

“Huh?” Patrick looked. “Oh, uh, yeah.”

“I love this song.” Dylan bounced and shot her hand into the air singing loudly one line of the chorus to the Bon Jovi tune. She snickered. “Sorry. They are good.”

“Yeah. And this song…” Patrick’s eyes widened. “Oh, this song,” he spoke with enthusiasm. “Dylan, you will forever love this song.”

Dylan’s eyes shifted toward him. “Why?”

“You just will.”

“All right.” She shrugged. “Speaking of love, I hear things are blooming pretty fast and furious with you and Eunice Bender.”

Patrick stared for a second. “Excuse me, I see Lars.” He turned quickly again.

“Patrick, watch…” Dylan cringed when Patrick slammed into someone else. Only this time, no matter how much force he hit him with, Patrick didn’t knock him down. Dylan snickered.

“What the fuck?” Mick reached down and lifted Patrick. “You wrinkled me.”

“Sorry. Gotta go. See ya.” After a shift of his eyes to Dylan, then to a staring Eunice, Patrick made sure no more people were in his way and he ran.

Mick shook his head. “What is up with him?”

“Love,” Dylan stated.

“Stay put,” Mick instructed. “I mean it.” He pointed to Tigger. “You, too.”

“Mick, what—?”

“Just stay put. The song’s almost over.” Mick bent down, grabbed Tigger, lifted the stiff child to his level, kissed him, and set him back down. He hurried and kissed Dylan. “Love you guys. Stay put.” He said again firmly and took off.

Dylan lifted her shoulders cluelessly when she saw Tigger gazing up at her. “Don’t ask me. Maybe he’s gonna sing.” She watched Mick approach the stage. “Oh my God!” she spoke excitedly. “He is! Tigger, where are your brothers? They have to see this.”

Lars looked over his shoulder to his right when Patrick snuck up beside him. “Hiding?” Lars asked.

“No.” Patrick shook his head. “I wanted to see Mick… yes. I’m hiding.”

“I understand. I did catch glimpse of Eunice Bender and her mock corn dog fellatio.”

Patrick groaned. “Hiding from the FBI was easier than this. Speaking of the FBI, have you seen them?”

“Yes,” Lars responded. “Last night after our testosterone bonding I stopped by their quarantine trailer. They do indeed have the flu, and lucky for you, they’ve surpassed the time frame where I could help them.”

“That’s too bad.” Patrick cleared his throat. “So, how are they handling it?”

“Fine, I guess.” Lars shrugged. “Seems they don’t even know they have the flu. They think they have allergies. Allergies with thick black clumps of phlegm.” He saw the confused look Patrick gave. “They’re idiots.”

“Look.” Patrick pointed. “Mick’s gonna do it.”

“Nah.” Lars shook his head. “Fifty bucks says he fails.”

“You’re on.” Patrick shook Lars’ hand.

“I know…” Mick lifted his hand to the crowd as he spoke through the microphone, “I know you want Dexter to continue. And don’t worry, he will. He’s got another really good set coming up. But there’s something really important I want to do. Dylan? Can you come up here, please?”

Dylan looked embarrassed. “I knew he would do this one day. Ever since we did that Donny and Marie Osmond song at karaoke. I’m killing him.”

“Mom, go.” Chris nudged her.

“Fine. But I’m not singing.”

Mick watched Dylan slowly make her way through the crowd and to the stage. He waited patiently for her to step up.

Dylan looked to all the faces, then to Mick. “I’m not singing.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Mick told her.

“Then why am I up here?” She clenched her jaws. “Mick, people are staring at us.”

“Good.” Mick smiled. “See, there’s a reason I brought you up here. Dylan. Dylan… a lot has happened in this world, and in Lodi, we survived. A lot has happened in our lives, and you and I survived. I love you. I want you to be my wife. Marry me.”

Dylan’s eyes widened amongst the sentimental sighs of the crowd. “Mick? Why are you proposing in front of all these people?”

“I’m not just proposing in front of these people. I want to marry you in front of these people. Reverend Bower is here, he’ll…”

“Mick,” Dylan cut him off. “What were you thinking?”

“Of getting married.”

“Where did this come from? Why would you put me on the spot like this?”

“The spot?” Mick snickered. “Dylan, yesterday in your kitchen you said…”

“I said nothing about marriage.” Dylan stared seriously at him. “Nothing. I’m not marrying you, Mick. I’m not.” Turning and saying no more, arms folded, Dylan stormed from the stage.

Mick’s eyes went from Dylan, to the microphone, then to the crowd. He stood there in silence, then he handed the microphone to Dexter. “Play something.” Microphone barely from his hand, Mick started to leave the stage. He paused only briefly when Dexter and the boys started to play ‘Love Hurts’.

* * *

It took all of his energy, and a lot of straining, but Jeff got the cough to produce enough sputum to free up his air passages. “That felt better.” He set down his spitting cup filled with the thick brown phlegm. “Darrell.”

Weakly, Darrell lifted his head. “They’re playing AC/DC again.”

“Sucks,” Jeff coughed. “They’re having a good time…” He paused to cough violently. “And we’re sick.”

Darrell could barely open his eyes. “You don’t think that doctor was right, do you? Do you think we have the flu?”

“No. We beat the flu…” Jeff’s eyes started to close. “It’s allergies.”

* * *

The clink of the chain and the creak of the old swing set carried to Mick as he walked into Dylan’s backyard. He could see her on the old set that was originally purchased for Dustin. Her back was to him and she glided slowly back and forth.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, walking up to her. “How come you came home?”

“I didn’t think it was a good idea to stay,” Dylan answered

“I ruined your good time, huh?” Mick crouched down before her.

“No,” she whispered.

“Are you mad at me?” Mick asked.

“No. Are you mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“Because I turned you down. Because I…” Dylan played with the links of the chain. “Because I embarrassed you.”

“I knew there was a possibility of you turning me down. It was a chance I took. And as far as embarrassing me goes. I’m not. Embarrassment is not turning me down. Embarrassment is the whole town knowing you had oral sex with Eunice Bender.”

Dylan quickly looked at him.

“Not me,” Mick lifted his hand.

“Then if you aren’t mad, or embarrassed, you feel bad.”

Mick nodded. “Yeah. I feel bad. Of course I do, you don’t want to marry me.”

“I do, Mick. Just not there. Not at that moment. Understand?”

“Really?” Mick smiled.

“Why do you look happy?”

“Because I am. Look…” He reached into his pocket. “I bought wedding rings. You know how cheap I am,” he tried to joke. “So you really will marry me?”

Dylan nodded. “If you still want to.”

“Absolutely.” Mick kissed her.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry you failed tonight, Mick.”

“I didn’t fail. You said you’ll marry me. It doesn’t matter if I have to wait or not. I got your word,” Mick said. “I’ve been waiting my whole life to marry you, Dylan. You just said ‘yes’. I didn’t fail tonight at all.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

September 27th

The air in the trailer smelled like recently released bodily functions rather than stale death. And that told Lars that the FBI agents, Darrell and Jeff, had not long before met their deaths.

It was a typical death scene of the flu. Both men in beds, covers thrown half from them, sheets laced with blood, a visual display of violent demise.

He debated on whether to order the bodies removed from the trailer or to just let them go. The trailers, like everything else associated with fighting the flu, would see a flame within a few days. Feeling just a little guilty for not stopping by the previous day because of the festival, Lars started to leave the back bedroom.

He pushed aside the curtain and froze with revelation.

Like a tidal wave, the rush of anxiety-riddled blood filled his ears and Lars spun around as if searching for something.

“Oh my God.” He frantically raced about the trailer, panicked.

Getting his bearings together and calming down, Lars did another sweep of the trailer. Releasing yet, another ‘Oh my God’, he flew to the front door and flung it open.

Sgt. Dion stood there. “Everything all right, sir?” he asked.

“No,” Lars shook his head seemingly dazed. “No, it’s not.” With those words and a look of hysteria, Lars took off running.

* * *

His own home. His own bed. His own shower. And everything was clean, too. Mick was impressed with how well his mother had progressed over the years in handling her sloppiness.

It felt good to use his big bathroom and huge shower. It felt even better to sleep in his bed with–and Mick smiled at the thought–his wife.

Dylan married him.

It wasn’t much, shortly after midnight, in the church. The boys, Dylan’s parents, Rose, Lars, and Patrick were there for the “I do’s”. It was a small, short ceremony, but they got married.

Mick swore it was his single proudest accomplishment. For as long as he could remember, like an obsessed stalker, the entire emotional makeup of his soul was dedicated to being with Dylan. And the words “for the rest of our lives” were, for Mick, etched in stone, official, and whether Dylan liked it or not, he was never giving her up. Ever.

Adding the final touch to his Levis uniform, which consisted of his shoulder harness, Mick stared at Dylan sleeping in his bed.

He wished the wedding night could have been somewhere else. He wished they could have had a honeymoon. Disney World, perhaps; the boys would have liked that. But in Mick’s mind, someday they’d get around to it.

Mick wanted to let her sleep while he slipped out, but he couldn’t do that. All through his shower and coffee he had thought about the first morning. The first ‘face to face’ reaction to what had happened. He fantasized about the moment that he and Dylan gazed upon each other as husband and wife, a moment that he saw so much like a scene from a Lars Rayburn romance novel.

Thinking that he caught a glimpse of movement, Mick walked over to the side of the bed where he faced Dylan lying on her side. He crouched down quietly and ran his fingers lightly over her forehead, moving her hair out of her eyes. “Hey,” he said quietly.

Dylan groggily opened her eyes; they rolled slightly out of control before focusing. “Hey.”

“I’ve been, uh… waiting to say this.” He kissed her softly, smiled and spoke in a suavely romantic way. “Good morning, Mrs. Owens.”

The corner of Dylan’s mouth lifted as she stared at him, and then she laughed, grabbing her pillow. “Oh my God, are you corny.” She covered her face with the pillow and rolled the other way. “Go to work, Mick.”

“Hey.” He pulled the pillow from her. “Aren’t you gonna say, ‘Good morning, Mr. Owens.’”

“No!” Dylan snapped. “Go to work.”

“Now, that isn’t right. We’re supposed to be in awe of the fact we were married last night.”

“God, Mick.” Dylan looked over her shoulder at him.

“Come on, Dylan. Give this to me.”

For a few seconds Dylan looked at him then, as she rolled back over, she mumbled. “Morning, Mr. Owens.”

“What was that?”

“Go to work.”

With a “ha”, Mick leaned down and kissed her cheek. “You might want to get up and go home.” He smacked her backside before he walked across the room. “My mom is watching the boys. I grew up with her behavior over breakfast.”

Hearing the bedroom door close, and thinking “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dylan pulled the covers up further, figured Mick was being really weird, and she went back to sleep.

* * *

Mick knew it was going to be a great day. The festival clean-up was underway. People were upbeat, and they had good reason. Flu-free. Lodi had made it. Amongst a group of people doing tear-down work, Mick paused just as he stepped into Central Park. He took a moment to look around and listen to the sounds, then he stuck a cigarette into his mouth. Striking the match while blocking the wind, Mick lit it. As he shook out the flame, he felt a hand grasp his shoulder

“I’m sorry, Mick.” Lars grabbed both of Mick’s shoulders as if trying to hold himself up.

“What’s wrong?” Mick asked.

“Nothing.” Lars shook his head. “Well, no, yes. We’ll see. Nothing.”

“Lars?”

“Have you seen Patrick?” Lars asked with a hint of a frazzled tone. “I need his help.”

“He’s probably still at home.”

“Thanks.” Lars started to take off.

“Whoa.” Mick reached out. “Something is wrong. What is it?”

“Nothing really, just probably my writer’s imagination going overboard.” Lars began to walk backwards. “I’ll keep you posted.” With a turn, Lars ran off.

“Keep me posted about what!” Mick shouted after the running man. With a grunt, Mick tossed out his hands in defeat, realized he wasn’t getting any answers, then shrugged off the incident. He wasn’t going to let an eccentric best-selling romance writer/scientist ruin what was turning into a great day.

* * *

No one could argue the fact that breakfast didn’t consist of the four food groups lumped together on one plate. Chris knew that for sure. Tigger looked like he was raring to dig into it. Dustin stared at his breakfast, prepared by Rose, in debate. But Chris debated it and decided it was indeed a balanced meal. And not a single person could ever accuse Rose Owens of not being inventive when she prepared that toasted cheese sandwich with fried hot dogs and pickles. After a shrug, a churn of his hungry stomach, and a huge squeeze of mustard, Chris dug in.

“Pretty good.” He nodded then noticed the stare Dustin gave him. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re foul.” Dustin shook his head at Chris’ mustard-covered pudgy fingers. When Chris bit into his sandwich, everything flew out the back.

“What?” Chris, confused, took another bite.

Tigger picked apart his sandwich. He liked the hot dog part. “Rose, when’s my mom coming home?”

“Soon. Why?” Rose asked. “Don’t like hanging out with me?”

“No. I mean, I do,” Tigger said. “It’s just that I was wondering when she’s coming home.”

Chris paused in devouring his “breakfast” sandwich. “It’s kind of sad.”

Rose swung a jaundiced look his way. “What is? Me being here?”

“Mom and Mick getting married,” Chris stated then realized what he was implying. “No,” he quickly corrected. “I don’t mean about them getting married. I mean about Mick. I mean…” The smack to the back of his head made Chris shriek loudly and jump up and dive onto his brother.

“Hey!” Rose yelled. “Knock it off.” She reached across the table. “What is wrong with you?”

“Why’d ya hit me?” Chris barked at Dustin.

“Why’d ya say that?”

“Why’d ya hit me?”

“Why’d ya say that?”

“Enough,” Rose snapped.

“You’re rude. That’s her son,” Dustin instructed. “Saying you don’t want Mick marrying Mom.”

“That ain’t what I was saying,” Chris defended. “I’m worried. I like Mick. I like him a lot. He’s been around us all our lives. He ain’t never went anywhere. What if Mom is, like, cursed with husbands? And now that Mick has gone and married her, he’ll leave.”

“Didn’t Mick tell you he wouldn’t?” Dustin asked. “Now believe him, or I’m telling.”

“Chris,” Rose took on an explaining motherly tone. “Why would you say your mother is cursed with husbands? Your mom and dad may have had their ups and downs, but they were together for a very long time. They had you boys. They did good. Your mom’s not cursed. At least I hope to God she’s not.”

Tigger looked innocently at Rose. “Is that why my mom didn’t stay here last night? In case her curse is here?”

Chris answered, “No. It was so her and Mick could have sex.”

Dustin winced and whined. “Aw, now, see. Why would you say that? I don’t want to have that in my head when Mom walks in the door.”

“Don’t you worry.” Rose patted Dustin’s hand. “That was the last thing they were doing last night.” She saw the look that Dustin gave that all but said, ‘yeah right’. “I’m serious. Wait until you get that age. There’s a span of life where folks don’t have sex anymore.”

“Are you serious?” Dustin asked. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah.” Rose nodded. “Between the ages of twenty-five and sixty, people have no desire. They don’t do that stuff.”

“No one told me this before,” Dustin said.

“That’s because it’s a depressing thought.” Rose shrugged. “To know that one day you’re enjoying it, the next, it makes you nauseous to think about it. They probably played Scrabble or something.”

As if he were in school, Chris raised his hand. “And it comes back at sixty?”

“Oh, it comes back in a vengeance,” Rose nodded. “All those years plow you over. Yep. Anyone over the age of sixty is getting it.”

“Even Dexter?” Chris asked.

“Dexter more so than anyone,” Rose said. “That old man Dexter probably gets more pussy than a rich horny man in a whorehouse…” She looked up. “Oh, morning, Dylan.”

At that instant, standing in the kitchen doorway with her mouth hanging open, Dylan realized what Mick meant when he commented about breakfast with Rose.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The festival seemed to be the starting gate to a race that sent the residents onto the track of normalcy. The little corner tavern that usually housed only Lars, Mick, Patrick and a few others, was packed, too packed and too noisy for Lars. The people chattered, laughed and yelled. As if the live music of the night before wasn’t enough, the jukebox blared tunes from the big hair era. Rubbing his temples, his elbows on the table, Lars tried, but he couldn’t think.

In his peripheral vision he saw the two glasses set before him. Patrick started to pour whiskey. Holding up his hand, Lars stopped him. “None for me. You shouldn’t be drinking either.”

“It’s over.”

His hands slammed onto the table, and Lars, usually lighthearted, was heavy with sorrow. “It is not over. You know that and I know that.”

“We looked.”

“We must look again.”

“No.” Patrick shook his head. “I have to disagree. It’s your paranoia. Lars, I want all bases covered as well. But going insane over it isn’t going to do any good.”

“And pretending it doesn’t exist isn’t going to do any good either. My friend…” Lars reached over and firmly gripped Patrick’s wrist, “if there is a stone unturned, we must turn it. If we looked, we must look again. We have to know. We have to stay ahead of this thing. Elimination is the only assurance. I’m not stopping.”

“Ok.” Patrick downed his drink. “I won’t stop either.”

Lars smiled. “Let’s go.” He stood up.

“Right behind you.” Patrick started to follow but stopped. He returned to the table, poured a little more alcohol in the glass, and downed it. He had been at it for hours with Lars, and he knew that was only the beginning. But, Patrick admitted to himself that he went back for that drink because he needed it. Not for the long search ahead, but rather for fear of what they could find.

* * *

Reston, Virginia

Henry never realized how strong his faith was or how deep his religious upbringing ran until he faced it in his dark office counting the hours to morning, a morning that was still so far away.

Of all those Sundays he spent in church, Henry wished for the moments back when he didn’t pay attention. Perhaps it was one of those moments that the priest said something that would be so appropriate for the occasion he faced.

A lot had happened in the past month when he first began his crusade against the flu. Henry did pray at the beginning, but he felt that maybe his prayers were ignored because it was such a hopeless state of affairs. But there was hope in the situation at hand for which he prayed; he felt it, even if it were just an inkling of hope. And toward that tiny morsel of hope he gave his whole heart and soul in prayer.

Henry’s car was never without those rosary beads he had forgotten how to use. His desk was never without the bible he hadn’t opened in years. But there he sat, rosary beads in hand, bible across his lap. It took him a while; he called upon his Catholic upbringing to recall the prayer sequence of those rosary beads. Was it ten Hail Marys and three Our Fathers? Was it ten Our Fathers, one Hail Mary, and three Glory Be’s? Henry didn’t know, and he certainly didn’t remember that prayer that was said at the end. He did his best, and prayed the rosary in his own way.

He expected that. But what he didn’t expect was to remember where to read in the bible. He was astounded by how easily he knew where to find the right passages. Henry felt like a vat of biblical knowledge and he hadn’t a clue where that came from. He swore right then, for any occasion, any situation, he would know just where to go in a blink of an eye. But for the answers Henry needed, even the most ignorant of the bible would know where to turn. And Henry did. He turned right to the book of Revelation.

Although that section of the bible delivered fear to some, it gave hope to Henry. Because it clearly stated that after all the destruction, all the bad, there was glorification in a better place.

God might have just cleaned house with this recent flu.

He likened the biblical chosen hundred and forty thousand in an analogy to the Center’s few thousand of Lodi. The chosen, the spared. But were they chosen or spared? He was suddenly able to draw parallels between the two situations.

The chosen in the bible were not spared. Not at all. They had seen the horrors of the end. But before Lodi would see the end of this plague and reach the Promised Land, they, like those people in the bible, unfortunately had to face and conquer the Beast.

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

“Because your mother said so.” Mick ejected the movie from the player and inserted another. “Watch a Disney movie.”

All three boys whined.

“No,” Mick said. “She’s in the kitchen bitching.”

Dustin looked at Chris. “Not even twenty-four hours and he’s trying to play us.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mick asked.

“It’s you,” Chris answered. “You hate wrestling and you’re blaming it on Mom.”

“Yeah,” Dustin reiterated. “Mom loves wrestling. So… so… there.”

“Well…” Mick came back with the same childish pattern of speech. “Mom told me to tell you to shut it off. So… so…” He turned at a knock on the door. “There.” He nodded and walked over.

“Hurry up,” Dustin whispered to Chris. “Switch it back.”

Mick opened the door to expose an emotionally and physically exhausted Lars.

“Mick,” Lars’ voice cracked as he looked up. “Come with me… Please.”

* * *

The late hour of the night was underscored by Mick and Lars’ echoing footsteps that loudly rang out as they turned the bend in Main onto the last street.

Mick stopped when he saw Patrick leaning against a wall just before the entrance to the narrow alley. “What’s wrong?”

Lars shook his head, flicked on the flashlight and walked into the alley.

Before following, Mick made eye contact with a silent Patrick. Sadness? Was it sadness Mick saw filling Patrick’s eyes? Preoccupied with that, Mick barely noticed that Lars had stopped.

“Here.” Lars looked to the ground.

“What?” Mick asked.

“Our two FBI agents that died?”

“Yeah?”

“They had the flu and…” he aimed the flashlight, “so did he.”

Mick felt his heart drop to his stomach, and he swore the impact sent every ounce of his strength from his body when he saw the cat. Curled up by the garbage can, blood covered its mouth, its body almost desiccated from its horrendous death.

“Despite our best efforts, our strongest barriers,” Lars spoke sadly, still staring at the cat, “the smallest of victims broke our barrier and brought in the assault.”

“No,” Mick whispered. “No.”

“Yes.”

It came from his gut. First rumbling with defeat then filling with outrage, Mick growled out long and loud.

“Mick…”

“Fuck!” he screamed out. “Fuck! I knew it. I knew at some point in my life I would figure out why I always fuckin’ hated cats.” He turned his head hard to the right and bit his lip. “Fuck.” After staring in contempt at the dead animal, Mick took a few harsh breaths to calm down. “All right, maybe this is nothing. Right? Maybe we’re overreacting. He came in, died here…”

“No,” Lars said calm. “He came in. Yesterday was the festival. Everyone was out. Everyone… was exposed. No, Mick. We’re not overreacting. In fact, we’d better prepare.” Lars raised his eyes. “Because the flu we’ve been diligently trying to keep out… is here.”

WALLS OF JERICHO…

TUMBLE

Either a very short instance or an entire lifetime

I knew you.

You touched me. Moved me.

Without your presence, even for a millisecond,

I wouldn’t be who I am.

In an abundance or a speck, I have loved you.

As you move on, I will never forget you.

I am forever impacted.

I’ll forever call you my friend.

…goodbye.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Lodi, Ohio

September 29th

The tissue felt soft as it rubbed underneath his nose, but Tom knew, if this early sniffling were any indication of what he’d have to face, that portion of his face would shortly be rubbed raw. A sneeze vibrated through his entire body, and he wiped under his nose again, keeping the tissue there as some sort of protection.

He quietly stood in his living room staring at the photographs that graced the table behind the sofa. One photograph of him and Marian was taken at the county fair so many years earlier. Most of the photographs were of Dylan. From a baby to an adult, her life spanned that table. His only child, yet she had produced an abundance of life that overwhelmed Tom. Dustin, Chris, Tigger. How ironic it was to Tom that he could view his whole life on the surface of one five foot table. And now on that same table was a simple bag that he would take with him in his war to preserve that life.

The pressure built behind his eyes, and he knew another sneeze was coming. It wasn’t good to stay much longer. Taking a breath, he grabbed that bag, and raised his eyes to Marian who stood at the other end of the room.

“I’ve got to go,” he stated.

Marian whimpered. “Tom.” She took a step to him.

“No. Stay back.” He held up his hand. “You aren’t sick, so you might not be exposed yet. Good thing…” he coughed and chuckled sadly, “Good thing we had that spat last night and I slept on the couch, huh?” He lifted the bag and turned. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Let me go with you,” Marian beseeched.

“You heard what they said yesterday when they warned us it was coming. They need to keep confusion to a minimum at the aid station. They’ll hit me with those antibiotics and send me home in a day or so. But I have to go. Time is valuable here. I’m an old man.”

Marian’s head dropped. “I’ll pray.”

“You do that.” Tom walked to the door and reached for it. “Ya know… I still am madly in love with you after all these years.”

A single tear ran down Marian’s cheek. “I love you, too.”

“Have no fear.” Tom opened the door. “You ain’t getting rid of me that easy so you can have Lars Rayburn. I’m not gonna die from this flu. I promise.”

Marian could only close her eyes tighter and cry even harder when Tom walked out.

* * *

“And this is Patrick McCaffrey.” Lars introduced Patrick to Henry and Kurt. “He has been my right hand man.”

Henry shook Patrick’s hand. “Very nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Patrick responded. “So, tell me, what brought you from the Center?”

“Well,” Henry let out a breath. “We were coming here anyhow. We figured you could use our help. We are, despite our cushy office jobs, both doctors.”

Kurt smiled. “And somewhat experienced with this flu.” He looked around the gymnasium to the lines and lines of empty, perfectly made-up cots. “This is quite the set up.”

“We’re ready to go,” Lars said. “IV poles, tubing, all prepped. No wasted time. Time is of the essence. We were able to get close to a thousand cots in here, plus thirty at the hospital. We’re hoping not everyone comes down with it at one time. We’re expecting waves. Get them dosed up, see that they’re out of danger, send them home, and make room for the next person.”

Henry nodded. “Will you be doing the testing?”

“Yes,” Lars replied. “I’ll need you, Kurt, Patrick and other medically trained townspeople on IVs. I’ll be perched at the table pricking fingers and testing to see if it’s the flu. If they have symptoms, they’ll show it.”

Nervously, Patrick took in the silence. “Maybe we’ll be lucky and all this readiness will be for nothing. Maybe by the grace of God, Lars, it really did miss us.”

Before Lars could respond with an “I hope” the gymnasium door slammed and echoed across the room. Lars looked up to see a gentleman standing there holding a little girl.

“Dr. Rayburn,” he spoke from across the gym, “my little girl… I believe… I believe she has that flu.”

After a glance to Patrick that conveyed “you were just saying?” Lars walked across the gym to the man and his daughter.

* * *

Hands that were always strong and steady, hands that never twitched a millimeter, trembled out of control, and the radio that Mick held sailed to the ground breaking in three pieces. He didn’t stop to pick it up, he aimed his focus outward and charged full speed from the station.

The front steps were a mere impedance as he tore down them and hopped onto his bike. There was zero hesitation in his jump to start it and even less as he quickly rode off.

* * *

Roaring and choked with tears, the scream that came from Tigger was bigger than his entire body. His little arms extended out to desperately reach his brother as Dylan lifted him up and pulled him from Chris’ legs.

“That’s my brother!” Tigger cried. “Why can’t I touch my brother?”

Dylan couldn’t breathe. Her chest felt as if it were caving in from her sob-choked breaths. With a deep sigh, she looked over her shoulder at Chris who stood by the door. His face was red and puffy; his bottom lip quivered from crying. “You can’t, Chris,” Dylan said sadly.

Dustin’s eyes shifted from his mother to Chris. His brother stood there alone, frightened, and with a deep tearful breath, Dustin shook his head. “Well, I don’t care about no flu.” He raced to his brother.

“Dustin.”

“I don’t care.” Dustin threw his arms around his little brother who stood nearly head to head with him. “He’s my brother, Mom. He’s my brother.”

Chris knew he shouldn’t, but he held on to Dustin, squeezing him tightly with all he had. “I’m scared, Dustin.”

“Dustin, please!” Dylan, crying, grabbed Dustin’s arm. The more she tried to separate the pair, the tighter they held on. “Please don’t…”

The front door flew open and Mick charged in.

Dylan wiped her hand under her nose. “Mick,” she whimpered out. “How…”

“Dustin radioed me.” Mick’s eyes landed sadly on Chris. He swallowed the lump in his throat as he stepped to him.

“He was fine over breakfast,” Dylan said. “And then… and then…” Seeing Tigger charging forth, Dylan intercepted him.

Mick extended his hand between the embracing boys and laid it upon Chris’ cheek. “This boy’s fevered bad, Dylan. I have to get him down there.”

“I know, I know.” Dylan wiped her eyes.

Chris felt the huge hand engulf his entire face and he turned into that hand for comfort. “Mick, please tell me don’t be scared.” His words were thick and muffled with congestion not just from crying, but from the flu. “Please?”

The moment Chris’ brown eyes, red and glossy, met his own, Mick’s heart stopped. He thought at that moment that his chest was so tight that he would choke. “Don’t be scared. It’ll be fine. Let’s go. Dustin, let him go.”

“I love you,” Dustin whispered into his brother’s ear. “Get better.”

The nod Chris gave was rapid and frightened. “Mom?”

Laying a strong arm around Chris, Mick walked him to the door.

Dylan followed, “Dustin, I need you to watch…”

“Dylan,” Mick stopped her. “You can’t go.”

“He’s my son!” Dylan cried, shaking with emotion.

“You can’t go. You know the rules of that station,” Mick explained. “You’re upset and there’s too much flu down there. You stay put.”

“But, Mick…”

“No,” Mick stated firmly. “You have to be here with these boys and away from that aid station. You hear?”

Overcome with sadness and frustration, Dylan charged forth, “Fuck you, he’s my son!”

“Yes, he is!” Mick blasted “And so are they! What good is it gonna do any of these boys if you get sick! There are over five hundred sick people at that station already, Dylan. That flu is thick down there. You stay here with them, where it is safe.”

Dylan’s mouth trembled, and her voice sounded defeated. “He’s my son, Mick.”

“I won’t leave his side. I promise you,” Mick said, speaking directly into her soul. “I promise.”

Chris stared helplessly at Dylan; when she saw his fear, Dylan broke through the barrier that was Mick and grasped Chris. “You tell me. You tell me. If you say you want me with you, I don’t give a shit about the flu. I don’t give a shit about what the rules are. If you want me with you, I am there. I’ll go.”

Chris shook his head, then raised his eyes to his mother. “Stay here. I’ll be fine.” He sniffed harshly and stepped back. “Not to sound bad or anything but… but I’d rather see Mick get the flu instead of you.”

That bred an emotional smile from Dylan. She nodded and ran her hand down Chris’ face. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

Dylan gazed at Mick and mouthed the words, “Watch him.”

Mick winked and gave her a look of assurance, then he pointed to Dustin. “Watch your mom and brother. We’ll be back.” Mick wrapped his arm tightly around Chris, stepped from the house, and pulled the door closed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

After twelve hours, Lars had to wonder what he’d been thinking. One big room for all of the sick people? Perhaps when he originally set out to try his theory on the people of Lodi, he expected the small town with the small population to be hit like all other places, but they had been nearly all getting sick at once.

Then again, in other towns, they didn’t have to deal with who would live and who would die. They were all lumped together because the majority wouldn’t make it.

That wasn’t the case in Lodi. Pushing close to a thousand confirmed cases in just twelve hours, Lars hit the point where he had to divide them into two groups: Those who beat the septicemia, and those who didn’t.

He was overwhelmed, and he was profoundly grateful for Henry and Kurt’s expert assistance. A quick look at a drop of blood on a slide, and the three of them could make an immediate diagnosis.

But the other tasks were more time-consuming. They had to break down the blood, mark it as an initial sample, do a septicemia screening, log the results, and pump the person full of high strength antibiotics, then repeat the whole process in another twelve hours. Was there a change, increase, or decrease? Those results would determine who would stay in the gym to finish treatment and who would go home to die. Plain and simple.

Lars was on the second batch of septicemia testing.

“We’re hitting the psychosomatic phase. Good thing we set up the other testing site at the library,” Henry informed Lars when he stepped into his partitioned off lab in the corner of the gym.

Lars looked up. “You probably had a woman named Dylan Hughes, I mean, Owens, stop by with her two sons for that test.”

Henry flipped through the screening sheets. “Yep. All negative.”

Lars nodded in relief. “I’ll pass that on to Chief Owens. That’s his family. She’ll be back tomorrow, though. She’s seen me for the test a ton of times.”

“Trying to stay ahead of it I guess.”

“I guess. But test the little one. He’s going to be more susceptible because of his size.” Lars stood up.

‘I’m afraid to ask,” Henry said. “But how did we do?”

“Well… not everyone is determinable yet. The early ones are.”

“And?”

“And out of the five hundred that hit the twelve hour point, we were able to beat septicemia in seventy percent.”

Henry exhaled. “Wow, that’s great.”

“It’s better than I expected. But still sad, since at least thirty percent of these people will die. And that’s not including those who will succumb to secondary infections. That will happen, as well.”

“I know. But I watched the world die. I took statistics, Lars. You’ve saved seventy percent of these people that would have died. Would have died,” Henry emphasized.

“I have to keep reminding myself of that. If we didn’t try this, these people would have fallen as hard as the rest of the world. But they’re still gonna fall hard. One person, two, or over a thousand like I’m gonna predict. It’s gonna hit them because they’re all like family.” He laid an exhausted hand on Henry’s back. “If you’ll excuse me. There are a few now due for a second bag of antibiotics they won’t get and they… and they’ll have to be moved.”

“Would you like me to move them?” Henry asked. “Kurt and I aren’t as close to them as you are.”

“No.” Lars shook his head. “I think they’d rather hear it from me. Thanks anyhow.” Feeling tired, but not allowing himself to succumb to it, Lars parted the curtains and stepped out with his results. He glanced at the sheet that highlighted the name, row, and cot number of their locations.

He didn’t have many, but more than he wanted to face. Burdened with intense sadness, Lars moved to his right to start at the head of the line of cots. As he did, he noticed Patrick removing an empty intravenous bag from a little girl and getting ready to replace it with another. Noting the location of the girl’s cot number, Lars quickly looked down at the sheet. He flipped the second page and his eyes closed briefly. Lowering the sheet, Lars headed Patrick’s way.

Patrick prepared to insert the intravenous tubing into the shunt in the little girl’s arm when he felt a hand on his wrist. He looked up to Lars. “Am I doing it wrong?”

“No,” Lars shook his head. “No, you’re fine, but…” He took the tubing from Patrick.

“I don’t understand. She’s due for her second dose.”

“She doesn’t get a second dose.”

Patrick chuckled sadly. “If she doesn’t get a second dose she’ll…”

“I’m sorry,” Lars spoke softly. “Supplies and room are limited as it is. We can’t…”

“That’s bullshit.” Patrick reached for the tube.

Lars pulled it further away. “Patrick, I did the twelve hour test.”

“Doesn’t matter. You heard Henry. Kurt’s levels were the same at twelve hours, they didn’t decrease until the twenty-four hour mark.”

“That’s right. The same.” Lars nodded. “Hers are higher. Two hundred percent higher. I can’t authorize this antibiotic when another child will need it. I can’t.”

“What?” Patrick gasped. “You just want to shunt her aside?”

“You make it sound so cold.”

“It is cold. This is a child.”

“And this,” Lars said firmly, “is a battleground. We are at war right now, Patrick. I have wounded lining the hallways, holding their IV’s themselves while waiting for a place to lie down and close their eyes. They need to be monitored. This is the observation bay.”

“What are we supposed to do with her?” Patrick asked.

“Get in contact with her parents.”

Slowly, Patrick shook his head staring at the sleeping girl. “That’ll be real easy seeing that her parents are three cots over.”

“Then I’ll take her down to the cafeteria with the others.”

Patrick saw Lars reaching for the girl, and he stopped him. “No, I’ll take her down.” Sliding his arm under the little girl, Patrick lifted her as her arms dropped and her head fell to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Lars told him and stepped out of his way.

Patrick nodded. In a way he understood, but the reality was too painful. It had started happening so quickly, and it wasn’t slowing down at all. Even though Lars had told him that when it struck it would strike boom-boom-boom, a part of Patrick didn’t believe it would be so bad.

As he turned the corner and neared the cafeteria, Patrick could hear the chorus of coughs assault his ears. The cafeteria was designated as the room, or at least the first of the rooms, to which they would move the patients who had no one to care for them at home, the patients who didn’t beat the blood poisoning. They would get care, the best they could give, and comfort from the limited staff. But Patrick realized when he walked in that, even if the ratio of caretaker to patient was one-to-one, there wouldn’t be enough staff to comfort them. There had to be fifty people in the cafeteria, and all but four were children.

Heart sinking, barely able to look at the older woman who wiped the forehead of a child, Patrick haltingly laid down the little girl. He parted his lips, tried to call out to the woman, but no words emerged. His throat was swollen shut with emotion. Spreading a blanket over the girl, Patrick saw that the woman had noticed him. Breaking the brief eye contact, he nodded his head toward the child and raced out of the cafeteria.

Patrick didn’t stop running until he was outside, then with a loud wheeze he inhaled the fresh cool air and gagged.

Patrick fought hard to keep from expelling the contents of his stomach. Bending over, Patrick held onto his knees taking in slow breaths. His eyes watered, and it was at that moment, when the first tear fell and saturated the edge of his surgical mask, Patrick pulled it from his face.

He no longer had to vomit. He controlled that, but he couldn’t control his feelings. The sadness overwhelmed him and, like a frightened child, Patrick turned and leaned into the wall of the school. His forehead pressed firmly into the wall as his fist pounded against the red brick. What did he do? What did he start? The hundred million dollars that caused the infected FBI agents to chase him to Lodi would never be enough money to bring back even one life lost to the flu. There was nothing that could do that.

Standing there, wanting to collapse and fold, Patrick started to cry. “I’m sorry, Lodi. I’m sorry.”

* * *

“And you’re sure you’re fine?” Dylan asked her mother who was sitting in Tom’s chair in a house robe.

“I’m sure,” Marian replied. “Go home.”

“You’re sniffling.”

“I’ve been crying. And,” Marian held up her finger, “I’ve been checked. Go home.”

“I will. I guess…” Dylan exhaled. “I guess I needed something to take my mind off of waiting for news about Chris.”

Marian reached out her hand and grabbed Dylan’s. “I believe he’ll be fine. Your father is gonna be, right? Patrick made sure he came over to tell me. Daddy beat that blood poison thing. So will Chris.”

Dylan fought her tears, and she nodded. “I think so, too.” She sniffled, trying to hold back her emotions. “I’ll go. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

“Please.”

After leaning down and kissing her mother, Dylan looked once more at Marian and walked out. As soon as she stepped outside she saw Dustin walking up the path. Panicked, Dylan raced to him. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing. I… I thought I’d walk you home,” Dustin replied. “Rose said it would be nice.”

Letting out a breath, Dylan smiled softly. “Yeah. I need to be with you.”

“Tigger’s sleeping. Finally,” Dustin said as they started to walk.

“Rose put him to bed?”

“Nope. Won’t.”

Dylan stopped walking. “What do you mean?”

“She said she wants to hold him. Tigger’s so small, if he sniffs or feels warm, she wants to catch it right away. Sleeping or not.”

“Maybe we’ll all take turns doing that. Keep our mind off of Chris.”

“Mom?” Dustin questioned as they started to walk. “You think he’ll be all right?”

“I pray. It’s the longest twelve hours of my life… Dustin?” Dylan grabbed hold of his shoulders and stepped before him. “I need to tell you something.” At that instant, Dylan realized she had to look up. She actually had to look up to her son. “My God, are you tall.”

Dustin smiled.

“All you boys… all you boys are my life. My life force. You know?” Her hands slid to his arms as she spoke softly. “We all rally around Tigger to protect him. We baby Chris because he’s sensitive. But you, you project this big brother, grown up kid image. You’re so independent and strong that I know you think you get lost in the shuffle because you’re the oldest.”

“Mom…”

“Let me finish,” Dylan stated. “You may get lost in the shuffle but you are never, never lost in my shuffle, understand? I need you to know that. I know you’re strong, Dustin. I know you want to be a pillar, but promise me. Promise me that at the slightest twinge of this flu, you’ll tell me.”

“I promise, Mom.”

“I mean it,” Dylan was firm. “I would die if anything happened to you boys. I love you all. But you, Dustin, you are my oldest and for that you hold this… you hold this really special place in my heart no one can touch. I just wanted you to know that. Okay?” She winked softly.

“Okay.” Dustin kissed her on the cheek.

“Now… be the big guy and walk your mother home.”

“That’s why I’m here,” he said with joking arrogance.

Dylan started down the sidewalk. “I know you haven’t done it in a while because you’ve been too big. But for this walk… you think you can hold my hand?”

Dustin smiled and leaned to Dylan with a whisper. “As long as you don’t tell my friends.”

It was a laugh she needed, and not only did she grip Dustin’s hand, Dylan gripped Dustin for a little hope and strength.

* * *

Chris could have been two years old; that was how young he looked to Mick laying on that cot. In a fetal position, rolled up on his side, the intravenous tubing laid gently across him as the bag on the pole released its last few drops.

Mick sat in a chair right next to Chris. His hands held onto those of the boy, covering them completely. Mick leaned close, chin on his thumbs, face near to Chris’. He could smell the fever in each exhalation of Chris’ congested breaths. Occasionally he would bring his lips down to kiss Chris’ hand while he stared. Mick never left his side, not for a moment.

Mick would never have believed he could feel as much fear as he felt right then. Not just for Chris, but for Dustin, Tigger, Dylan, everyone. His entire body shuddered with the possibility of any of them getting sick. It was something he couldn’t control, no matter how hard he wished that he could.

The twelve hours had expired and Mick knew the news of Chris’ condition was imminent when he heard Lars approach the cot. Head still lowered, Mick only raised his eyes.

Lars wanted to yell at Mick but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. Aside from adding to the confusion, there was a sound reason that those who weren’t ill were prohibited from the observation bay. Exposure to the flu wasn’t just possible, it was probable. The germ permeated the air constantly, and Mick was breathing it in at a steady rate.

“Mick,” Lars said gently.

Mick let out a breath. “I watched you take out three more kids, Lars,” he said, dazedly. “You think that five, ten hours’ leeway to catch this thing, hey, it’s a lot of time, right? It’s not.” Mick’s voice dropped. “It’s not. Every minute, every second counts.”

“Yes, it does. Mick, every second you are in here counts, as well. Do you understand me? I cannot urge you enough to protect yourself.”

Mick shook his head.

“You are human. You are also the strength for this boy’s family. What if you get sick?”

“Then I get sick. And I’ll beat this, guaranteed. But, Lars…” Mick stared at Chris. “This is a child, a child who’s sick. He needs comfort and love. That’s why I’m here, and I’ll be damned if he’s gonna have to feel that through a pair of rubber gloves and the cloth of a face mask.”

“Your point has merit…”

“Tell me,” Mick’s voice cracked. “Tell me. It’s been twelve hours. You ran the test.”

“You know his levels were high when…”

“Tell me.” Mick closed his eyes tightly, clenching his facial muscles so tightly that the blood rushed to his ears.

“We need to hook him up for his second dose. His levels dropped. We’re on our way.”

Mick exhaled loudly with relief and grabbed Chris’ face and kissed him. “Did you hear that?” Overcome with emotion, he spoke to the boy. “Way to fight. Oh, I’m proud of you. I have to go tell your mom.” Mick stood up. “I’ll be back.” He touched Chris once more. “I’ll be right back.”

Mick hurried urgently from the observation bay. He knew he heard Lars calling out to him about not returning, but Mick ignored that. Not returning was not an option. At that moment all that Mick knew was that he had to go home and give Dylan the news.

Dylan had paced. The final hours were an eternity, but she couldn’t sleep. She went down to the gym four times and was sent away. The results would be given when they were complete. All she thought about was Chris. How she missed the first home run he ever hit because her hair appointment ran long. How she wanted to hear those long-winded stories he told so many times that she only pretended to hear. She felt insane with worry, sick to her stomach with sadness.

She desperately wanted to know what was going on, but she feared the answer so much that, when she heard Mick open the screen door, she spun away from seeing his face.

Mick’s expression would say it all. An earthquake of fright went through her body when the front door clicked. With her eyes tightly closed, a single tear fell and Dylan gathered the strength to turn around. Mick’s expression did say it all, and so did his body as he crossed the floor in one step, wrapped her tightly in his arms, lifted her from the floor and embraced her with such strength that it muffled her shout of jubilation.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

October 1st

If the layers of skin upon Mick’s face were evidence of his frustration, he would have rubbed them off hours earlier by continually rubbing his hands over his mouth and chin.

It was day three into the flu, and it had been the longest three days of his life. Rough was an understatement. And Mick showed outward signs of that, as well. Even though it lacked the standard “rule book” appearance, Mick had his own style of Chief of Police uniform. He’d always looked crisp and sharp, but he was long past worrying about something so trivial. He grabbed what he could that hadn’t made it into the pile of undone laundry. He sported a pair of old baggy jeans. His hair, usually pulled back into a neat ponytail, fell against his shoulders as he kept the front out of his eyes by wearing a backwards baseball cap. He still wore his symbols of authority, the shoulder harness and badge, but they were somewhat buried underneath the long denim over-shirt.

There didn’t seem much time for anything. Between keeping order, shuttling in and out the sick, and making sure food was distributed, Mick estimated he had zero time to take care of himself. He hadn’t shaved in days, nor had he slept much. Every free moment he had was being spent with Dylan, the boys, and his mother. They centered him.

Despite how much Mick was doing, he still managed to project strength. He had to, not only for the townspeople, but for his family.

Big shoulders or not, Mick worried every time another task fell upon him.

Again, his hand ran across his chin. “No.” He shook his head at Mayor Brad Connally. “I don’t have the free hands.”

“What about those not sick?”

Mick laughed. “They aren’t coming out. Come on. Do you blame them? They listened to Lars. They know they just have to wait it out. This task you’re asking is one they will not do.”

Brad moved slowly as he stood up. “This has to be a concern.”

“Yes, I understand that. But, there’s nothing that can be done. As cold as this sounds, we’ve only lost twenty-four lives. More are on their way. We have to deal with it when this thing is over with, not during.”

“The hospital can’t hold anymore in the morgue. Sgt. Dion said he tried to find you with this…”

“Me?” Mick snapped. “Why me? He went to you, this is your town.”

“Aside from the fact that I have to get down to that aid station myself, no, Mick, this ceased being my town a long time ago. This… this is your town. People look to you for answers, and they are gonna look to you for answers about what the hell we are gonna do with all the dead.”

“I don’t want to deal with this issue…” Mick’s voice cracked with frustration as he tried to maintain his temper. “I have to get through this flu, then I’ll deal with the aftermath.”

“They need answers.”

“And you need to get down to the aid station.” Mick shook his head. “I have to go.”

“Mick, you’re gonna have to deal with it sooner or later. Find a resolution now.”

Mick paused before leaving. “Do you honestly think this is gonna be a major concern?”

“Yes.” Brad nodded. “Two doors down, Mrs. Hawk lost her husband. She wants to bury him, Mick. Can you blame her? Everyone is gonna want to bury those they lose.”

“And there’ll be way too many to be digging single plots. I can’t… I can’t take people from Lars and the station and send them out to dig plots. I can’t. Anyone that’s helping has to go where they are needed. We will bury our dead when this thing is done. People are just gonna have to understand that. And I think they will.” He grabbed the door. “Get down to that station. I’ll come up with something.” His shoulders feeling the strain of too much extra weight, Mick walked from the Mayor’s house, wishing that there were someone else to help carry his burden.

* * *

Lars pulled the partition curtain closed and returned to the small table with Kurt and Henry. “Sorry about that.”

Henry gave a “no problem” wave of his hand. “Hey, we knew the meeting would be interrupted.”

Lars sat down. “Now where were we?” He pulled a sheet of paper forward. “Volunteers. We’re doing well.”

Kurt spoke up, “Tom Roberts said when he gets well, he will be back to help out.”

“Which, knowing Tom,” Lars smiled, “will be fast. I’ve had the same commitment from others, which is good. We’re gonna hit a busy phase. We had our first wave, and a few trickled in after that. Now we’re gonna get hit with the big one.”

Henry nodded his understanding. “The ones who got infected from our original flu victims.”

“The close contact victims,” Lars said. “Yes. Our overall success rate at beating the septicemia was eighty percent. I look for the overall to be around sixty this time.” He saw the curious looks. “Confidence, gentlemen, will be the killer. The second wave knows how well we beat this flu in the first round. These people won’t be as scared, therefore, they won’t be so rushed to get here… and they may wait too long. And just about the time they start coming in we’ll start losing those who weren’t so fortunate from our first round.”

“Speaking of which…” Kurt interrupted, “Chief Owens said any that pass on here in the station are to be moved to the old Tool and Die building until this thing runs its course and a full burial can be arranged for everyone.”

Lars shook his head. “Mick doesn’t stop, does he? Good plan though. Weather is cool enough to slow decomposition. Let’s reiterate to our workers that they must practice safe methods of handling bodies. Henry? Stats?”

“We’ve brought in seventeen hundred and three residents so far. The children are my main concern. I estimate that, less the twenty-five percent who will now end up being immune, we’ll have four hundred due in. That’s a lot of kids. You and I know that’s where most of our deaths will occur.”

Lars swallowed with difficulty. “With my estimation of twelve hundred in this next wave that means that kids will make up a third. Let’s just try to keep our wits about us. Nothing was harder for me than to send a child back home with their parent and telling them… I’m sorry.” Shaking off the emotions brought on by that thought, Lars looked to Kurt. “How are preparations going?’

“We lost two of the doctors at the hospital. They’re down with the flu. I just don’t trust a quick training of anyone to do tests. So I went ahead and did some crash course IV training with folks. Let them start the IV and we’ll do the finger pricks. We may get overwhelmed, but at least the results will be accurate. I have slides prepared and ready to go for this second wave.”

Lars nodded. “Good. But this should be it. It should start tonight, hit hard through tomorrow afternoon, then fizzle. A trickle here and there over the next day or so, as you gentleman have seen, but that will be it. This time next week, the first of three wars will be over.”

Henry looked up curious. “Three?”

“Oh yes,” Lars replied. “Facing and conquering the flu is the first. Facing the grief will be a second battle. But the third will be the most difficult, and won’t be over within a week. That war will be facing tomorrow and surviving.” As he said that, Lars’ eyes raised when he heard the sliding of the curtain. “Patrick,” Lars said in rebuke. “Where is your mask?”

Patrick cleared his throat, but as he spoke, his words were thick. “I don’t need one. In fact I don’t think I need a confirmation test either. I’m pretty sure… no…” He closed his eyes. “I’m certain I have the flu.”

* * *

“Now, quit fussing.” Tom ordered and smacked away Marian’s hand as she fluffed his pillow.

“I have to fuss. You’re sick.”

“I’m home. I’m getting better.”

Marian gave a fling of a hand and finished up. “Juice.” She pointed to the glass on the table. “Remote.” She handed it to Tom. “John Wayne movie already in the player. You are ready to go.” After bending down to kiss him, Marian gave a quick sniff and smiled. “Get some rest.”

“Whoa. Hold up,” Tom called to her.

“Yes?” Marian looked back at him as she tried to leave.

“Are you sick?”

“Who, me?” Marin giggled. “Don’t be silly. I’m fine.”

“You sure? You sound stuffy…”

“Sinuses.” She held up her hand. “See, I was checked.”

“Let me look for the prick mark.”

“It’s there. Now watch your movie and rest.” She tried again to leave.

“Marian, I’m very serious. Are… are you sick?”

“No, Tom, no. I’ll check back in a bit.” Smiling once more, Marian pulled the bedroom door closed as she stepped into the hallway. Pausing there she lifted a tissue to her nose and wiped, taking a shivering breath as, feeling a chill, she wrapped her sweater tighter around her as she walked away.

* * *

Was his mother laughing? Thinking? Chris didn’t know, all he could see were her eyes, the rest of her face was covered with the blue mask. But he knew one thing for certain, his mother wasn’t crying and that made him feel good.

“Open up.” Dylan held the spoon near Chris’ mouth. “Take it.”

The spoon clanked as it glided against Chris’ teeth when he took the cough medicine and cringed.

“Lars said the cough has to break up.” She set the bottle on his dresser.

“It is breaking up. Listen.” Chris coughed and the congestion rumbled.

“Oh, that’s nice.” Dylan smiled and sat on the bed. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“I’m glad I’m home, too. It was bad down there, Mom. People crying, Mick kissing me all the time.”

Dylan snickered. “Mick kisses everybody. Been a problem of his since he was in school. How come you think he got beat up all the time? Kept on kissing people. Kissed your father once.”

“No, he did not.” Chris laughed which made him cough again. “But speaking of school. Will we ever go again, Mom?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I really don’t. Maybe when the flu is over, Patrick can teach.”

“Mick says Patrick has the flu.”

Dylan’s eyes widened. “He does?”

“Yep. When he stopped by this morning, he said he saw Patrick in the aid station.”

“Oh, no. I hope he gets better,” Dylan said with worry. “And poor Eunice Bender. They just started out. She’s probably really upset.”

“She died,” Chris said nonchalantly.

“Eunice Bender died?” Dylan asked shocked. “When?”

“Yesterday afternoon right before I came home. They were beating on her chest and stuff. Said she had infested heart failures.”

“Congestive heart failure?”

“That’s it.” Chris nodded. “I feel better, did I tell you that?”

“Yeah,” Dylan spoke dazed. “Did you see all this, Chris?”

“What? Eunice dying or them beating on her chest?”

“Both.”

“No.” Chris shook his head. “I saw them beating her, Lars and that Henry guy. But then the other little Burt or Kurt came over and said to them to stop. It was useless. Why do you think he said that Mom? Didn’t he like Eunice?”

“What he meant…” Dylan searched for the right words. “Was that Eunice probably was passed on for a while. Poor Patrick.”

“He has the flu.”

“You said that. And I…” Dylan quickly looked up when the door opened. “Dustin,” she scolded, “out.”

“I just wanted to say hi.” Dustin stepped inside.

“Me, too.” Tigger darted in.

“Out!” Dylan ordered.

“Can’t we stay by the door?” Dustin asked. “And just talk to him for a minute. We got our masks on.”

“Yeah,” Tigger repeated. “We got on our masks.”

“Mom?” Chris looked up to her. “They got on their masks.”

Dylan grumbled. “I know. But I’d rather keep you boys separated.”

Dustin laughed. “Mom, haven’t you figured out yet, there’s no way to keep us away from him.”

“I’m sure I can figure out some way,” Dylan spoke over Chris’ coughing.

“Mom, it’s called brother chivalry.” Dustin scoffed.

Noticing the violent sound of the cough, Dylan with concern, turned her head to Chris. “Are you all right?” She asked.

Mouth tightly closed, Chris nodded.

“What’s wrong?”

Cheeks puffed out, lips zipped, eyes watering, Chris muffled some noises.

“You need to spit?” Dylan asked, got another nod and lifted a cup to him. As soon as Chris relinquished what he held in his mouth, Dylan looked away from Chris to the loud sounds of disgust followed by the slamming of the door. Dustin and Tigger were gone. With a shrug she retrieved the cup. “Well, so much for brother chivalry.”

* * *

Mick shook his head, groaned and rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why I stop and visit you.”

Lying on the cot, refusing to show she was ill, Rose flipped him off.

“Nice. Thank you.”

“Use that authority and get my ass out of here.”

“It isn’t a matter of authority,” Mick said. “It’s a matter of getting the complete dose of antibiotics.”

“I can get them at home.”

“You get them here,” Mick argued. “They have to watch you. You can have a heart attack, have a reaction. Suddenly fall… silent.” He raised his eyebrow.

“Is that a fuckin’ dig?”

“Dig at what?” Mick tossed up his hands. “How come everyone else is either knocked out or loopy during this antibiotic phase and you’re still a feisty old broad.”

“Fuck you, I am not an old broad.” Rose folded her arms. “I want to go home.”

“Your home is up by Ashtabula. You mean you want to go to my home. And I say ‘no’.”

After flipping him off again, Rose motioned with her head. “Patrick’s sick.”

Mick looked over to where Patrick lay. “I know. It doesn’t seem right though, him laying here with everyone else.”

“What? He’s too good?”

“He’s been nothing but help. He should get some privacy.”

“What’s he know? He’s passed out.”

“Man,” Mick shook his head, “you are just full of compassion.”

Suddenly Rose’s demeanor changed. “I do have compassion. For those I love. Mick.” She grabbed his arm. “You guys are watching Tigger, right?”

“Yeah, we are. Both boys are getting round the clock checks. Trust me.”

“How often?” Rose questioned.

“Every two hours on the dot. Sometimes sooner. Check for fever, check for congestion. We’re on the ball. Don’t worry. If they get it, we’ll catch it within the time frame.”

“Even with Tigger?”

Mick winked. “Even with Tigger.”

He was having a walking meeting with Lars when Henry stopped the second he stepped into the gym.

“What’s the matter?” Lars asked.

“Him.” Henry pointed to Mick. “Chief Owens.”

“What about him?”

“Okay, I think I can pretty much call myself an expert about this flu. From what I learned, healthcare workers immediately came down with the flu within forty-eight hours of initially starting to help. Unprotected workers got hit with a vengeance. So…” He looked at Lars. “If that’s the case, if those are the facts, why is that man not down and out?”

“I don’t know.” Lars answered with a hard look at Mick. “But you know what?” He started to walk away from Henry. “I’m gonna find out.”

* * *

Tom had to admit he was tired and worn. His chest was hurting from the coughing and his throat was sore from forcing out the phlegm that always got stuck there. He could have probably just fallen fast asleep, but there was always something about the movie The Green Berets. No matter how many times he had seen it before, he could never turn away before watching the entire movie.

End music playing, touched once again by John Wayne’s heroism, Tom lifted the remote and flicked off the set. The silence of the room was broken with the crash of glass. Quickly he jolted his head toward the sound that seemed rather close. “Marian?” he called out. “Marian, you break something?”

He waited for a response and didn’t receive one. Figuring he wasn’t projecting his voice, he tried again. “Marian!” He coughed from the strain and grew worried at the silence.

Lifting the covers off his body, Tom slowly climbed out of bed. The room spun for a second from the lack of circulation. After catching his balance, Tom used the bed and other furniture for support and made his way across the bedroom.

He called the entire route. His ability to stand up straight was nil, and his hand stayed on the wall the length of the corridor. Just as he got to the top of the staircase and readied to descend, he froze.

Thinking that he saw wrong and hoping it was a trick his eyes played on him, Tom slowly looked behind him to the bathroom.

Feet. Marian’s feet.

Seeing this gave Tom an immediate infusion of strength. He spun around and flew into the bathroom.

Had he been wearing his bedroom slippers, at the force he ran inside, he probably would have fallen. His bare feet splashed in the puddle of water that splattered across the linoleum where Marian lay, unresponsive, unmoving. He knew she was still alive because he heard her breathing, and that wasn’t a good sign. When he dropped to his knees to aid his wife, he noticed the thin trickle of blood that flowed like a stream through the spilled water. Tom’s horror multiplied; not only did he hear the rumbling of congestion emanate from Marian’s chest, it was coupled with the sight of blood that completely encircled Marian’s head.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The shelves were empty, the products were removed, but the big white sink was the giveaway that it was, at one time, a broom closet. While Kurt took the time to x-ray Marian, Lars took the time to create a private space for her. He cleaned out the closet with the help of Mick, moved a hospital bed in there, and designated it Marian’s room.

She couldn’t be at home, Lars knew that. It was too far for him to constantly be going over to check on her. They had one doctor in the hospital who was fortunate enough to be showing immunity to the flu.

Marian needed to be watched. Tom couldn’t do it, despite how insistently he argued with Lars. Lars ordered twenty-four more hours of rest.

“Tom,” Lars said as he stepped into the very small room, “I told you earlier to go home.”

“You said rest. I’m resting. Aren’t I sitting in this chair?”

“Yeah, go on,” Lars said with sarcasm. “You sit in that chair. You rest, then you have a heart attack when the fluid squeezes the hell out of your heart and suffocates it. Because it’s not the pneumonia, congestive heart failure is what is killing those who don’t pass on from septicemia.”

“I always hated you.” Tom held Marian’s hand.

“No, you did not. You were just jealous…” Lars pulled up a chair. “Because I was her first.”

“First what?” Tom asked.

“First love,” Lars exhaled.

Tom laughed. “Oh, shut up, Lars. You know that she felt sorry for your pathetic skinny ass because you were this young kid in college, the brainiac who everyone picked on. Delusional then, delusional now.”

“Yes, well… no one knows that. Tom… we agreed,” Lars said, “I put that awning on the video store, you never tell anyone the truth about my one true love.”

“Stalker,” Tom snickered. “Anyhow, deliver it to me, Lars. I have a good feeling.”

“As well you should.” Lars explained. “That’s why I want you to go home. Nine stitches, a concussion, and the flu.” He whistled. “But you’re lucky. She’s been symptomatic for at least a day. A day, twenty-four hours. If she was septic, she would die. She’s not septic.”

The appropriate reaction would be to show his relief, but Tom didn’t feel the need to outwardly acknowledge it. Long before Lars had said anything, he knew that Marian would be fine. He’d been married to her too long, and was too in tune with his wife, not to be that sure.

* * *

Though his complete exhaustion caused his body to sink into the bed, Mick didn’t sleep. Even with his clothes on, he just enjoyed lying there on his back with Dylan in his arms.

Just a moment or two stolen in the quiet of the evening, before Mick began round fifty.

“And she’s gonna be fine,” Mick told Dylan.

“I know. Lars told me,” Dylan spoke as if her thoughts were focused elsewhere.

“Nine stitches in her head.” He received a relaxed ‘a-hmm’ from her. “Dylan… quit that.”

“What?” She lifted her eyes to him. “I just find it curious how your nipples get so hard through your tee shirt for no reason.”

“It isn’t for no reason, you keep rubbing them to make them that way. Now stop.” He lifted her left hand from his chest. His eyes caught a glimpse of the wedding band and he smiled. He rolled her fingers around his hand and kissed them. “Have I told you lately how happy I am you married me?”

“You tell me every day.”

“That’s because I am.” Mick kissed her then lifted his eyebrows at the double knock on the wall behind his head. He grumbled, “Chris is most definitely feeling better.”

Dylan smiled. “He should be sleeping.”

“I’m not tired,” Chris’ voice carried through the wall.

Mick shook his head. “At least Dustin and Tigger are out.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I would suggest… you know. But…” he motioned his head toward the wall.

Dylan laughed.

Chris pounded on the wall.

Chuckling, Dylan snuggled closer to Mick. “We should sleep. Both of us. Just like this.”

“Want to?” Mick asked.

From the other side of the wall, Chris replied. “Please. I need quiet.”

Mick lifted his arm and banged once. “Go to sleep.” Arm still out, he reached to the night stand and grabbed the alarm clock. He started to set it. “I’ll get up in an hour, check the boys, then crash for the other two. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds good.” Dylan reached down for the blanket and covered them, then snuggled up close to Mick. Her hand rested on his chest.

“Don’t play with my nipple,” Mick joked.

Chris gave a pound. “That’s gross.”

Smiling, Mick looked down at Dylan. “You didn’t say anything about what Lars told me.”

“I’m glad.” Dylan nodded. “Very. But it doesn’t seem quite fair.”

“I blame it on the swine flu when I was four.”

“That’s not what I mean. It is fair about that, but not about us.”

Mick looked at her, confused. “What do you mean?”

Dylan exhaled. “Well, look at us. Look at our family. There’s you. And knock on wood,” Dylan reached and knocked lightly on the night stand, “I’m not sick, Dustin and Tigger so far have been spared when almost all the other kids are ill. Chris made it. My dad, my mom, your mom. We’re lucky, and then I look at the Ross family. Both their boys died this morning and Mrs. Ross isn’t gonna make it.”

Mick closed his eyes. “There is no rhyme or reason, Dylan, for what is happening. None.” After a pause, Mick glanced down at her. “I want to ask you something.”

Three soft pounds hit against the wall. “Ask her when you wake up!” Chris shouted.

“Go to sleep,” Mick ordered him then directed his attention to Dylan. “I know we’ve never discussed it. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot for some reason. The world right now… is gonna be fucked up. I know that, you know that. But I think, no, I know I’m strong enough to take care of you all despite the odds. Do you believe that?”

“With all my heart.”

Mick exhaled. “OK, without making me feel stupid, and without shooting me down right away, will you think about something? I know we aren’t that young anymore, but we’re still young enough. Let’s… when this thing is all over with, let’s have a baby, Dylan.”

Dylan lifted her head from his chest. She stared at him for a few seconds then whispered, “Mick.”

“Okay, go on. Say something sarcastic.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You really want to have a baby with me?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, Mick.” She grinned as she exhaled and giggled. “Oh, Mick, I am so happy to hear you say that.”

“Why?” Mick asked, confused.

“Because I was so scared. I was scared you would think we weren’t young enough. I was scared you would think this world is too fucked up.”

“Dylan, what are you talking about?”

“Mick. I was scared to tell you I am pregnant. We’re having a baby, Mick.”

“You’re lying,” Mick said with disbelief.

“Yeah. I’m lying.” Dylan waited for him to groan. “No, I’m not. We are.” She looked straight into his eyes. “I’m about two months along.”

“You… you… oh my God.” Mick ran his hand down his face. “Oh my God.” He grinned. “We’re having a baby?”

“Yes. So I take it… you’re happy?”

“Dylan,” Mick sat up, pulling her to him, “do you realize, I couldn’t ask for my life to be more complete? We’re… we’re…” Mick let out a loud ‘whew!” then laughed. “We’re having a baby!”

Both at that moment looked at the wall and waited for the pounding to start. Just as they both shrugged thinking Chris was finally asleep, they jumped as the bedroom door flew open.

Chris stood there, pale, shaky, and looking shocked. “You’re having a baby?”

Grinning, Dylan nodded.

“Oh, that is so wrong,” Chris gasped. “That is just so wrong.”

Mick slowly sat up straighter. “It’s not wrong, Chris. There’s nothing wrong about us having a baby.”

“Not the baby. That’s good news. But I know how babies are made, Mick.” Chris gave a knowing nod. “And if you guys can’t have sex until you’re sixty, how in the heck did it happen?”

After seeing the confusion on Dylan’s face, Mick plopped backwards with a moan. “My mom.”

* * *

Lars, maybe. A quiet med station, or darkness. Patrick expected to see any of these things when he drowsily opened his eyes but not a smiling Mick.

Mick grinned widely and chewed his gum as if he knew a secret.

“Mick?” Patrick questioned.

“Hey.” Mick pulled up a chair. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

“Why? You should be sleeping; you look terrible.”

“Me?” Mick laughed as he sat down. “I’m not the one with the flu. In fact… that’s why I’m here. Guess what?”

Patrick shook his head.

“Lars did a test.” Mick leaned into Patrick. “I’m immune to it.”

“No.”

“Yep.” Mick leaned back.

“That sucks.”

Mick chuckled cockily and smiled wider, then sniffed hard. “Yep. Smell that flu.”

“You’re sick.”

“No, you are.”

“How’s the family?”

“Hanging in there,” Mick replied. “Marian has the flu, but she isn’t septic. Tom’s getting well. My mother is still bitching and Chris is recovering.”

“Tigger?”

“Hanging in there. Not sick.” Mick looked at Patrick. “How are you feeling? I hear you beat the twelve hour mark.”

“Yeah, how about that? How’s everyone holding up today?”

Mick shrugged. “Panicking. We’re starting to uh… we’re starting to lose people now.” His voice cracked and then Mick cleared his throat. “Not as many as the rest of the world, though.”

“We’re still losing them,” Patrick said sadly. “I’ll never get over this.”

“Sure you will.” Mick tossed out a hand. “Lars said you beat…”

“Not the flu,” Patrick whispered. “For what I did.” He saw the confusion on Mick’s face. “Come on, Mick, you know I’m responsible for this.”

Mick stared for a second. “Don’t you think you’re being a little full of yourself taking credit for a history-making plague?”

“Not the plague. I mean what happened in Lodi. If those FBI agents weren’t coming after me, they would have never brought the flu.”

“They didn’t give Lodi the flu,” Mick argued. “The fuckin’ cat did.”

“Who brought the cat?” Patrick asked. “The FBI agents. If they weren’t chasing me, they wouldn’t have been outside the city with an infected animal that got in here.”

“Yeah,” Mick nodded. “OK, I can see why you blame yourself. Good point.”

“I should have never have come to Lodi.”

“Patrick,” Mick gave him a nudge, “it’s really asinine to blame yourself for this. For the flu. I hoped with all my heart, but I never truly thought it would pass us by. My big fear was, what happens if it’s dormant and it hits us after Lars moves on, or after the supplies run bad? It hit us when we were ready. And if you want to blame yourself for anything, blame yourself for the fuckin’ stupid way these cots are set up.”

“Excuse me?” Patrick questioned. “What’s wrong with the cots? It took a lot of thought and planning.”

“I have to squeeze through. When I do, I bump sick people.”

“Then don’t walk around. But I utilized a lot of space. We got over a hundred more cots in here than we thought.”

“That’s right.” Mick smiled. “And you also got over three thousand syringes prepared for immunizations, tubes for testing, tables… You have a lot to blame on yourself, and I say, if it wasn’t for you being so gung ho to help Lars, we wouldn’t have had the efficiency we have. That’s what I blame you for. Now the people of Lodi,” Mick added a joking tone to his voice, “I hear they’re wanting to hang you when it’s done.”

“That’s not…” Patrick paused to cough. He cringed as he grabbed his chest.

“You OK?” Mick asked.

“Yeah. Just a sharp pain.” He held the look of pain for a moment then let it go. “I’ll be fine.”

“Patrick, when this thing is done with, are you staying in Lodi?” Mick asked.

“I was thinking about it. We started that long term survival thing. Then again, I have the hideaway.”

“What’s that?”

“My final place,” Patrick explained. “Up on the Canadian side of the lake. A cabin, lots of land, secluded. I was going there when I couldn’t run in the States anymore.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It is. Why, wanna pack up everyone and go? Got the keys and the map at the house.”

“I might. Something to think about. But right now you…” Mick swatted Patrick’s leg as he stood up, “need to rest. I just wanted to stop by and torment you some.”

“And you did.” Patrick slightly shook his head and chuckled. “Immune.” He coughed and cringed.

“What can I say?” Mick lifted his hands with an arrogant look. He saw Patrick start to drift. “Patrick… one more thing. You said you should have never come to Lodi. I just wanna let you know, criminal or not,” Mick winked, “you’re a good guy. I’m really glad you ended up here. I made a friend in you I’d like to keep.”

“Thanks, Mick, that means a lot. More than you realize.”

Mick smiled gently. “Get some rest. I’ll check on you in the morning.”

With a soft “goodnight” Patrick closed his eyes.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

October 2nd

Dylan made a mental reminder to have Mick check the water heater, because the hot water felt just a little cool. But even less than hot, the shower still felt refreshing. Of course, not as much as the four hours of sleep she had. It was the first time in days she had that much sleep at one time. Mick never woke her. He only left a note that he had checked the boys. Then again, that was a while ago and it was time to check them once more.

As she finished brushing her teeth, fully dressed and ready to start the day, Dylan opened the bathroom door and jumped, startled to see Dustin standing there. “I’m sorry, honey, all yours,” she told him.

“Mom?” Dustin cleared his throat. “I’m not sure, but I think I feel a little stuffy.”

With a sinking heart, Dylan lifted her hand to Dustin’s face. “You’re not warm.”

“So what do we do?”

“Oh, we take you down and get you tested.”

“Mom,” Dustin whined. “I get tested all the time.”

“And it doesn’t hurt to be safe.” Dylan saw that he was going to complain. “No arguments. Get dressed, I’ll check Tigger and then we’ll head down. Okay?”

Dustin nodded.

“Good. Get ready, I’ll be back.” Dylan kissed Dustin on the cheek and walked down the hall. Though she could have waited a little longer to check, previous false test or not, she wasn’t taking a chance. To Dylan, being uncertain meant any symptoms were mild, and mild symptoms told her that, if it was the flu, it was early enough to stop it.

* * *

Bodies lined up outside of the school were covered and waiting to be placed on the truck that would take them to the old Tool and Die building. The sight made Mick stop. A few hours earlier there wasn’t a line of deceased. He knew there were deaths. He had heard that from Haddock, who was doing pretty good at thwarting the flu.

Mick watched the few men that had volunteered lift the bodies. After saying a short prayer, he fell back on the thought that put him in a semi-good mood. Word from Lars was that the second wave was slowing down. Four more days and Lars was confident that all those in Lodi who would catch it would have caught it. The countdown was underway in Mick’s mind.

In the mood to harass Patrick, possibly torment him about slacking on his food stockpiling responsibilities, Mick entered the gym.

He could see Patrick lying on the cot sleeping and that added fuel to Mick’s playful fire. “Hey,” Mick called to him. “Man, sick or not, you are lazy.” He gave a light smack to Patrick as he walked around to face him. “You gonna get…” Mick froze. His heart dropped when he stared at Patrick’s wide open eyes “Oh my God.” Laying his hands on Patrick’s shoulder, Mick felt the coolness of his body. As he rolled Patrick onto his back, he saw the entire left side of Patrick’s body was black from the settled blood. “Lars,” Mick called out. “Lars!” Nearly hyperventilating, Mick shook his head. “Not you… not…”

“What hap…” Lars didn’t need to ask when his eyes fell upon Patrick’s body.

“Lars?” Mick questioned. “You said he beat this. You said he beat the septicemia.”

Lars swallowed with difficulty. “There are other things that are just as threatening. I keep… I keep telling people this, yet everyone remains so confident.” His final word dropped with an abundance of sadness. He lifted the blanket whispering, “I’m sorry, Patrick, my friend.”

Watching the interaction sent Mick into a flurry of confusion. He didn’t understand it; he had assumed all was fine. Patrick, not a few hours earlier, was fine. Mick had tried to keep a mental distance from all that was happening; that was how he stayed so strong. Yet here he was, unable to distance himself. Patrick was his friend. He didn’t know how to feel, or how to act. All he knew was that he had to get out of there. Hurrying through the narrow aisle of cots filled Mick with even more sadness as he rushed to leave the gym.

He flung the doors open in his haste to get outside, and the fresh air brought the vision of death again. Wanting badly to catch his bearings, Mick started to turn to walk away, but as he did, he saw Dylan and Dustin approach the gym.

“No,” he ground out. He knew they would only be approaching for one reason. “Dylan.” He raced over.

“Mick,” Dylan’s voice quivered a little.

“What’s wrong?” Mick asked.

“Dustin has the flu.”

Mick reached out laying his hands on Dustin’s face. “I’ll get him in there. Where’s Tigger?” he asked, almost panicked.

“Mick, calm down,” Dylan said, sensing his anxiety. “Tigger’s home. He’s fine. And Dustin…” She smiled. “He’ll be fine. We got it early.”

“Yeah.” Dustin smiled. “I don’t even feel sick. Just a little stuffy. Mom? Go on home with Tigger.”

Dylan nodded and embraced him. “I love you. I’ll be back when they hit you with that second dose.”

“Ok,” Dustin said. “Go on, though. Mick’s here.”

Sliding her hand down his face, Dylan backed up. “Take care of him, Mick.”

“I will.” Mick put his arm around Dustin. “Let’s get you inside.” He started to walk with him.

“You all right, Mick?” Dustin asked.

“Um, yeah.” Mick pulled Dustin closer and kissed him on the cheek as he did.

“You seem worried. Don’t be getting worried on me, Mick. I mean, I barely have a sniffle, I haven’t even sneezed yet. We got it early so there’s nothing to worry about. We beat it, right?”

Mick slowed down his pace as he walked into the gym. He could see out of the corner of his eye that Kurt and Henry were removing Patrick’s body from the cot. A hard lump formed in Mick’s throat.

“Mick? I’ll beat it, right?”

“Yeah.” Mick gave a soft smile to Dustin. “You’ll beat it, Dustin. You’ll beat it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Hands folded as in prayer, Mick kept his eyes steady on a sleeping Dustin. Like with Chris, he never left his side. He didn’t understand the feelings in his gut. He tried to decipher them and reason them through, but he was scared for Dustin and a sick feeling hit him every time Dustin took one of those breaths that grew increasingly labored. A few hours earlier he’d spoken with Kurt; Kurt told Mick how impressively early Dustin checked into the station. How ‘on top’ of it the mature young man was. Mick fed on that, trying to derive some comfort from those words, but they weren’t relieving him. They didn’t help ease the worry. Perhaps Patrick was too much on his mind for Mick to think clearly or feel confident, maybe because he had been confident that Patrick would be fine and that belief had slapped him in the face. To Mick, Patrick was the epitome of proof that nothing should be assumed and nothing should be taken for granted.

So engrossed in his thoughts, in what was happening, and nearly hypnotized by watching Dustin, Mick jolted a little when he felt someone brush against him. Dylan laid her hand on his back.

“Hey,” she whispered.

“What are you doing here?” Mick asked.

“I got tired of waiting. It’s been over twelve hours.” She took a shuddering breath. “I’m getting nervous. How is he?” Dylan placed her hand on Dustin. “Mick, he’s warm.”

“Yeah, I know. And really congested.” He pulled the covers up further over Dustin.

Dylan’s eyes rose to the empty IV bag. “What’s going on? Why haven’t they started his second bag?”

“I don’t know. Maybe…” Mick let out a breath and smiled. “Here comes Lars now. They probably got busy.”

Lars slowly approached the cot. “Dylan, what uh, what are you doing down here?”

“I came to check on Dustin,” Dylan said. “Mick hadn’t come home. But since I see you’re getting ready to start the second—”

“Can I see you two outside for a moment?” Lars asked. “Please.”

Mick’s eyes shifted to Dylan as he stood up. “Lars?”

“Please,” Lars whispered, then without waiting, walked across the gym.

Dylan knew something wasn’t right; her reaction time was slow, so she didn’t move at first. Then, clenching Mick’s hand tightly, they walked out of the gym. When they stepped outside, Lars stood there, his back to them, his hand resting on the back of his neck.

“Lars?” Dylan called him.

His loud sigh echoed and then Lars turned around. He stared with heartbreaking intensity at Mick and Dylan.

That was enough for Mick. His eyes closed. “No.”

Dylan quickly looked at Mick “No what?” She glanced to Lars. “What?”

“Dylan…” Lars stepped to her, “there will be no second bag. Take Dustin home.”

Mick could feel the pain rising inside of him. It crept in, rumbled from his chest to his throat. He closed his eyes tighter and his hand went to his face. He screamed inside.

“What… what are you saying?” Dylan asked with worry. “Lars, what are you saying?” She stepped to him. “We brought him here early enough. Didn’t we?”

“Yes,” Lars stated. “The time frame was perfect. His levels of septicemia were very low. But… but Dustin failed to respond to the therapy. His levels rose.”

“No.” Dylan shook her head and all the breath escaped her body. “No. Keep trying.”

“Dylan, I’m sorry.” Lars nodded slowly, sadly, and walked toward the gym.

“No!” Dylan grabbed his arm. “Try it again, Lars. Try it again. Please,” she beseeched him. “Please.”

“I’m sorry.” Lars shook his head. “You must take the boy home.” He couldn’t speak or look at Dylan anymore, and needing to get from her, he went inside.

“Lars! That’s my son!” Dylan screamed, raging toward the door but was stopped by Mick. She couldn’t process this reality; it wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be happening, but the second she looked at the expression on Mick’s face, she crumpled into the reality, fell into his arms, and broke down. “No, Mick…” she whimpered, buried within his tight grasp, “no.”

* * *

The tip of Tigger’s tiny nose fit perfectly between Mick’s slightly parted lips. With closed eyes, he kissed him, then pulled back to look at the sleeping child, so innocent, lying in the center of his and Dylan’s bed, curled up and lost beneath the covers. Tigger hadn’t awoken even as he was being moved from his bed. There was a lot of shuffling around, and it surprised Mick that none of the boys woke up during the process. To him, that was good, no questions would be asked that Mick and Dylan weren’t ready to answer.

Slipping quietly from the bed after stealing a few moments with Tigger, Mick left the room. He walked two doors down to Tigger’s room where they had taken Dustin. Reaching for the doorknob, Mick paused when he heard the muffled sob. If it were possible, his heart broke again. Slowly he opened the door and as he did, he looked at Dylan. Her head rested on Dustin’s leg as she sat on the floor next to the bed.

Dylan heard him and raised her eyes; then she sobbed again and her head dropped.

How Mick was even able to breathe at that moment he didn’t know. It felt to him as if he had lost all ability to do anything. Think. Walk. His body felt heavier and his hand rested firmly on Dustin’s leg as he made his way next to Dylan.

Dylan sobbed as she spoke. “This isn’t happening,” she whimpered. “Oh, God,” she cried. “This can’t be happening, Mick.”

Mick was always strong, never one to be labeled silent, but at that second he couldn’t speak. His throat closed in each attempt to do so. He laid his free hand on Dylan’s back and inched closer to her, dropping his head to her arm.

Dylan’s head lifted only slightly. Her vision was blurred with the tears that welled in her eyes with a vengeance before they fell. “I keep hoping there was a mistake.” She felt Mick grab her arms and she moved into his embrace. “There isn’t a mistake, is there?” Again she sniffled, wiping her hand across her cheek. “What do we tell him when he wakes up? How do we tell him?” Her words lost all articulation as she whispered softly. “What am I gonna do, Mick? He’s my son.” Crying, her head fell back down to Dustin’s leg and her hands gripped him with desperation. “He’s my son.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

October 3rd

“Break it up!”

It was the loudest Mick could ever recall himself yelling. Even thinking back to his years in the service, he didn’t remember ever yelling that loud, that deep, and with that much emotion as he did at the two men fighting at the food center.

“You come in here and fight about fuckin’ milk! There are other things to worry about. Keep it up and you’ll find your own fuckin’ milk. Your own fuckin’ food. I won’t put up with it!’

Crash!

What had caused Mick to crack like this, painfully slamming one man into a wall and the other into a shelving unit? Was it Mick’s inability to deal with the emotions that raged through him? He would guess that was the case, that and the fact that despite where he wanted to be, where his priorities screamed he’d go, he was stuck here. He was still distributing food, still breaking up fights, and still maintaining calm.

And on top of the events that transpired before the sun had even risen into the clear sky, Mick was moving bodies. Too many bodies.

Like they came into the aid station in masses, they died in masses as well. Barely cold or even rigid, the deceased were being moved out.

The coughing carried through the masks of those men who were out to help, men who felt well enough to lend a hand even though they still suffered the after-effects of their bouts with the flu.

“Lars said I barely beat that time frame,” one said.

Mick tried to block out the voice as he carried the last body that would fit into the truck.

“Hear Mayor Connally didn’t beat the time frame. Heard he’s bad,” another said.

“Mr. McCaffrey did, but we put him in the truck yesterday.”

“The time frame is too…”

Slam! Silence fell when Mick shoved the tailgate closed. Time frame this. Time frame that. He didn’t want to hear about beating any time frame. Catching his bearings, Mick turned around and faced the two men who’d been talking. “Are you guys going to the Tool and Die?”

“No.” The one shook his head. “Albert and Carl are there waiting.”

Mick nodded. He noticed that the sky was growing lighter; he knew his time was limited and he wanted to get back home as soon as he could. The boys would be waking up, and he didn’t want Dylan to be alone to answer the questions.

The drive wasn’t far, about a minute or so through the empty streets past the residential area. Albert and Carl were outside the building smoking cigarettes when Mick pulled up.

“Don’t you ever sleep?” Carl asked, tossing his cigarette.

“What’s sleep?” Mick shut the driver’s side door. “We ready, gentlemen?”

Albert nodded. “You have them tagged right?”

Mick shook his head. “I don’t know. Henry and Kurt got the bodies ready. Are they supposed to be tagged?”

“Yeah,” Albert answered. “We’re trying to keep everything in order for when we clear the warehouse.”

Mick understood that. Letting out a response that was only a sigh, he walked around to the back of the truck and opened the gate. “You track them now or later?”

“Once we get them inside. We did really well with it yesterday,” Albert replied. “Of course…” he looked in the back of the truck, “this is a lot more than yesterday.”

Mick didn’t need help to take out the first person. Lifting the covered body, he hoisted it up and tossed it over his shoulder, not even thinking what task he was performing.

“Hey, Chief,” Carl called out as Mick headed to the warehouse entrance. “Men to the right. Women to the left. And children straight ahead.”

Mick stopped cold when he heard those words just as he reached the open doorway. Hand bracing the back of the body he carried, Mick looked toward the lines of bodies. One to his left. One to his right. Then his entire being shuddered because the size of the men and women’s sections paled in comparison to the massive number of black bags that were straight ahead.

Children.

A sickening knot immediately cramped Mick’s stomach. The magnitude of his revelation punched him, and his hand no longer felt “just a body”; he was holding a human being, and gently, with a slight tremble, Mick set the body down.

He looked around for the first time, really looked around. It wasn’t a resting place, not even a waiting place. It was a warehouse, a dirty, dingy, run-down old building where rats scurried about. It was a mockery of life. It also was Mick’s decision to use the warehouse. Why, before the flu, it was a place that Mick wouldn’t leave an old pair of shoes, yet using his authority, without second thought, he deemed the run-down place deserving of Lodi’s most precious commodity, its people; its young.

With that on his mind, Mick walked straight out. “This your car?” He pointed at the automobile and looked at Carl.

“Yeah, but…” Carl saw Mick opening the door. “What are you doing, Chief?”

“I’ll be back. Get the names together of these people. And I don’t want another child moved into that building, you hear?” Mick started to get into the car but stopped. “In fact… I want all the kids removed. Take them all out. All of them. Now.” On his final word, Mick got into the car, slammed shut the door, started the engine and took off.

He rode fast and with vengeance straight out of town. He knew where he had to go; he went to the field just outside the town limits, to the place where the trailers and campers used to park.

The mound of dirt that semi-buried those who had waited to get into to Lodi was wide and high. But that wasn’t what Mick went to see. Stopping the car, Mick centered himself, got out and walked straight to the line of heavy equipment. He didn’t hesitate when he reached the small backhoe. He jumped inside, saw the keys were still in the ignition and started it.

He backed up and then drove it to the right about fifty yards. Seeing that the clearing was big enough, at least to start, Mick began his task.

His arm shifted the controls with the edginess of his inner emotions and flashing visions, visions of hundreds of small black body bags. The rumbling of the engine was loud, but not loud enough to drown out everything Mick felt and saw in his mind.

Down went the arm, and the huge teeth of the claw slammed into the earth. The straining engine groaned as he shifted gears and dropped the claw into the dirt, forming a ditch. It wasn’t deep, only about three feet, but Mick moved the dirt to give it enough length.

That was one.

Lifting the claw, Mick moved the backhoe over a few feet and started again. He kept thinking of the many children that had died. Their passing from earth was one tragedy that couldn’t be changed. But he could reverse the poor judgment he’d used when he said to put them in the warehouse. And Mick wasn’t going to stop until he made enough room in that open field to rectify what he truly believed turned out to be an inhumane decision.

* * *

‘Dustin is dying. He’s not going to make it.’

The words barreled over Tom. Though Lars tried to tell Tom as gently as he could there was no way to deliver the message in a gentle way. They were hard, cutting words that stabbed through his being and into his heart.

For a few seconds, even longer, Tom thought he was having a heart attack. His arms went numb, he lost the ability to breathe, his chest felt crushed. The room spun and he had to sit down. How to tell Marian would be difficult, but Tom couldn’t perform that task until he himself calmed down enough to do it.

Would he be able to calm down? And if he did, would he lose it when he spoke the words? Tom didn’t want to believe it. It couldn’t possibly be happening to his family. A single tear had not been shed from Tom’s eyes since he was a child, yet in the silence of his home, trying to make sense out of all that was happening, Tom sobbed.

He sobbed from his soul, not just for Dustin but for Dylan. The thought of the pain that his very own flesh and blood was experiencing was unbearable. Tom knew what he would feel if he found out he was about to lose his child and he prayed that would be a bridge he would never cross in his lifetime.

* * *

The crinkling of paper told Mick that Chris was awake and the inevitable task was at hand. It had landed upon him. Dylan wanted to tell Chris, but she couldn’t speak without crying, and he and Dylan both knew that it would take strength to be there when Chris was told. The problem was that Mick himself was so close to going over the edge right along with Dylan. He knew that the moment he slipped into that ocean of sadness he would certainly drown.

The lump was back in his throat, and heat was in his face as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. Mick opened the door to Chris’ room after a single knock.

Chris rested on his bed flipping through a wrestling magazine.

“Morning,” Mick said then quickly cleared his throat. “How… how are you feeling?”

“Better. I haven’t spit yet.” Chris shut the magazine. “Can you believe I actually found an article I didn’t read in here? Man, and I thought Dustin and I read it all. Oh!” He sat up excitedly. “Did you tell Dustin yet you and Mom are having a baby?”

“We didn’t get a chance. We will.” Mick walked to the bed.

“It will be so cool, Mick. Not meaning anything bad against Tigger and all, but me and Dustin can pretend the baby and Tigger are midget wrestlers. That is until the baby gets bigger than Tigger. You mad?”

“Me? No.” Mick shook his head and laid his hand on Chris’ leg.

“You know you guys have built-in babysitters with me and Dustin, too. What’s wrong?” Chris asked. “If you aren’t mad, something’s wrong. What?”

Mick nodded. “Uh…” He let out a breath. “If you can at this moment, can you not respond with something sarcastic? Okay?” He winked. “I want to tell you I love you. Now, I know you want to say…”

Chris smiled. “I love you too, Mick.”

Immediately, Mick stood up. He turned his back to Chris. Not now. Not right now, do not fold. Mick closed his eyes tightly and brought his fingers to the corners of his eyes.

“Mick?”

Three slow nods and Mick turned back around.

“Mick? You’re sad?”

“Actually, Chris… sad… sad is a…” Mick looked to the ceiling and swallowed. “Sad is pretty small word to describe what I’m feeling right now.” He walked back over and sat on the bed. “I have always been honest with you boys, right? Straightforward. So I’m not gonna change that now.”

“Tigger’s sick, isn’t he?” Chris asked, worried.

“No,” Mick shook his head. “Dustin is.”

“Mick,” Chris smiled, “I knew that.” He reached out as if to give comfort to Mick and he rested his hand on Mick’s. “Bet you thought you had to tell me something I don’t know. Yeah, I knew. Mom took him yesterday.”

“He’s… he’s home, Chris.”

“Already?” Chris asked. “Wow, he’s lucky. I was there two days. Did he get better already? He always gets better fast.”

“Chris… you know how they hooked you up to the medicine that would beat the poison that comes with the flu?” Mick waited for the nod of understanding. “Well, they hooked up Dustin. But… but the medicine didn’t work. Dustin is very, very sick.”

Chris shook his head. “He’s gonna get better, though, right?”

“No, Chris,” Mick’s head dropped. “Not this time.”

“Mick?” Emotionally and confused, Chris stared at him. “Mick? What do you mean? He has to get better. Don’t tell me my brother’s gonna die.”

Mick only raised his eyes.

Pain. His young soul had felt pain when he lost his father, but what he felt over learning about Dustin’s impending death through Mick’s eyes was incomprehensible to him. Chris reacted as if he’d been struck; the pain emerged as a long, loud, uncontrollable scream.

Mick felt himself slipping over the edge, and the only thing he could do to stop it was to grab on to Chris and hold him and take in, even if only briefly, the pain that the young man was feeling.

* * *

Dylan not only heard but also felt the pain of her middle son. She knew. Mick had told him. Wiping the tears from her face, she began to stand to go to Chris but stopped when she saw Dustin open his eyes.

The scream had awakened him. Confusion covered Dustin’s face as he looked around Tigger’s bedroom. He opened his mouth to call for his mother and his throat burned. He took a breath that barely made it into his air passages. “Mom?” The word rumbled out.

Dylan fell to his side again. “Dustin.” She grabbed a cool rag from the stand and wiped off his face and around his lips. “Shh.”

“I can’t…” Dustin coughed then coughed again. He felt the blockage move up some, but it stopped. “Why… why am I home, Mom?”

Dylan closed her eyes.

“How come I feel worse?” Dustin coughed again, turning his head from his mother as he did. “Mick?”

Dylan quickly looked to see Mick walking in the room.

It was a visualization that, in the brightness of daylight, became abundantly clear. Dustin’s dark eyes, pale face, and neck had begun to swell to the width of his cheeks. Mick saw how sick Dustin had become in the course of twenty-four hours.

“Mick?” Dustin questioned.

Dylan took a moment. She heard the fear in her son, could sense it, and right then she realized that he didn’t need to sense it from her. She laid her hand on Dustin’s hot skin and turned his face so his eyes met hers.

“You were crying.” Dustin looked from his mother’s eyes, to Mick, and around the room; then with shock in his eyes, he sank back into his pillow. “It didn’t work. It didn’t work on me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

“I haven’t told your mother,” Tom said in Dylan’s kitchen.

Dylan leaned against the stove sipping a cup of coffee.

“She’s not conscious yet, Dylan.”

“That doesn’t seem right,” Dylan stated.

“Nope.” Tom shook his head. “But I’m sure she’s just stealing a rest that she needs after forty-two years of marriage to me.” He winked gently. “I’m sorry this is happening to you.”

“I am, too,” Dylan said softly. “I keep waiting for Lars to rush into the house with good news, that he made a mistake. That he can help Dustin. Should I not be doing that, Daddy? Should I just face it?”

“Nope.” Tom shook his head. “Why in God’s name would you give up hope? You hold on to hope. Hope is a strong lifeline. Stronger than you can imagine. You hold on, you never know where it’s gonna pull you.”

Dylan grunted out her answer and rubbed her eyes.

“When did you sleep last?” Tom questioned.

“I catch a nap here and there.” She shrugged. “I’m fine. I have to keep checking Tigger.” She gave an emotional chuckle. “Isn’t it funny? The tiniest, the weakest of my crew ends up surprising us. With Mick, you see him, you expect it. Big, strong…”

“Mick’s not that strong, Dylan. Not right now,” Tom said.

“Who, Mick?” Dylan smiled. “He’s a tower of strength.”

“No, he’s not. Look at him. Michael Owens never had a poker face. He’s the most emotionally-charged man I know. He’s not that strong right now.”

“He has to be, I need him to be.”

“And so does the entire goddamn town of Lodi. But… Dylan,” Tom laid his hand on her shoulder, “don’t put that pressure on him. Be your own strength. He can stand there and hold you. I can stand here and hold you. But nothing will take away what you’re feeling, nothing will make you stronger, but you.”

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” Dylan kissed her father on the cheek. “You always know the right thing to say.”

“No I don’t. Because if I did, I certainly would be saying the right thing right now to take this all away for you.”

Dylan immediately threw arms around Tom and embraced him, burying her head against him. More than he realized, she wished he could take it all away for her. But unlike the skinned knees that healed with a kiss, a trip to the store on a bad day, nothing could or would be able to take it from her. Nothing except a miracle, and Dylan, though she wished for one with all her heart, knew the reality of a miracle occurring was slim.

* * *

It was the first time since Lars’ first experience with the flu many years earlier that he had done so. He didn’t know what caused him to reach that breaking point, to act so unprofessionally, but he did. Hands to his ears, like a child, he blocked out the horrendous scream of agony that blasted across the gym from the cafeteria.

The final scream of death made by so many. But the one that sent him over the edge, the one cry that no amount of morphine subdued, cut straight through him. It wasn’t one of a child, a woman, or anyone he was personally close to. It just was the final straw.

It ceased and Lars lowered his hands and looked at Kurt and Henry. “My apologies.”

Henry shook his head. “I found myself doing that twice last night. Plus, something totally unforgivable, I find myself saying, ‘please just die. Let go, let go’.”

“That’s not unforgivable,” Kurt intervened. “It’s compassionate.”

Lars chuckled with a hint of defense and anger. “Euthanasia is compassionate right now. If that was me out there, my wife, my child, parent, I would choose euthanasia over that agony.”

“You’re knowledgeable,” Henry stated.

“I am very straightforward with these people,” Lars rebutted. “They aren’t listening.”

“They aren’t doctors,” Henry argued. “They are people. These are the ones they love that are dying. Of course they aren’t gonna say, hey, just put them out of their misery. They are gonna hold on to the hope that things might turn around at any second.”

“Even as their internal organs liquefy and emerge?” Lars questioned with sarcasm.

“Even then.” Henry tossed his hands up. “If I had a child, I don’t know if I could make that decision either. Has anyone?”

Kurt answered, “Seventeen. That’s it. Out of the four hundred that have died so far and six hundred well on their way, only seventeen asked for that route and we delivered.”

“Six hundred?” Lars snapped with surprise. “Why is that number so high?”

“Why are you so angry tonight?” Henry stood up. “Calm down.”

“I can’t,” Lars said. “How in God’s name did we go from saving seventy percent of those with septicemia to fifty?”

“We didn’t. They did,” Henry responded. “You called it. Overconfidence. They waited too long, most of them. We expected it. And the child deaths are skewing the ratio. The children, the children just don’t have the response and the strength adults do.”

Lars closed his eyes. “The most painful loss.”

Kurt interceded, “At least… at least it looks like the flu has run its course with the children. The numbers show only a few remain unscathed. Some of those children we can accredit to the immunization and some to genetics.” Kurt noticed the sudden change on Lars face. It went almost peaceful. “What? What did I say?”

“I’m having a horrendously bitter night.”

Henry nodded to Kurt with a grumble. “You can say that again.”

“But,” Lars said, “I was thinking a drink would help. However, we’re too busy. Instead, Kurt, you told me how else I can get that dose of feel-good.” He walked to his table of folders and began to flip through them. “Here it is.” He pulled out a folder. “I thought it was a bad time, when indeed it is a perfect time.”

Confused, Kurt looked at him. “I don’t understand. Can you tell me how I just brightened your day?”

“Absolutely.” Lars smiled. “By telling me how to brighten, even just a little, someone else’s day. Excuse me.”

Henry turned to a questioning Kurt and tossed up his hands. “Don’t ask me. He’s Lars Rayburn.”

* * *

“Hooked up.” Mick moved the television closer to the bed. “Can you see?”

Dustin nodded then returned to talking to Chris. “And the German suplex…” He struggled to not cough. “I want that forever known as the Dust-plex.”

“Cool.” Chris nodded. “I wanna go with some sort of crippler move. You know.” He wrote down on the sheet of paper he had over the magazine. “Call it the Chrispler.”

Dustin laughed and that made him cough. It grew violent and his face turned purple during his struggle.

“I’m sorry,” Chris whispered.

“Enough talk,” Dylan intervened, she had to get hold of herself when she saw Dustin’s struggle. Calmly, she reached behind his back. “Mick, can you give me…”

“Absolutely.” When Chris moved out of the way, Mick sat on that edge of the bed. Hand to Dustin’s back, he leaned him forward a bit, allowing Dustin’s chest to rest in his other hand. “Remember what Lars said. Calm. Okay?” Mick said while firmly striking Dustin’s back.

Dustin coughed, his airways cleared, and the red started to leave his face. He took a couple of breaths, as best as he could.

“Better?” Mick asked.

With closed eyes, Dustin nodded.

Dylan brought the wet cloth to his face, wiping around with a firm gentleness. “Did you want to watch your disk?”

“Yeah.” Dustin turned to Chris. “Can you get it?”

“Wrestlemania Three?” Chris asked and received a nod then took off in an excited sprint, but he didn’t make it far. His feet got tangled in his own sleeping bag and he tumbled to the floor with a thump.

It was better than any medicine and Dustin laughed, coughing again.

Mick pulled Dustin upright. “Christ, Chris, you all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” He stood up. “I should have waited until I was ready to sleep to put that down, huh?” He moved to the door. “I’ll be back.”

Laying Dustin back, Mick shook his head. “Your brother.”

“Hey, Mick?” Dustin shifted his eyes to his mom. There was a sadness about him. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.” Mick leaned closer; when he did, Dustin brought his lips to his ear and whispered.

Dylan knew something was up as she watched Mick listen to Dustin and throw a glance to her. Her eyes all but asked, “What’s going on?”

Mick nodded. “Dylan, can you… can you give us a minute.”

“Oh, sure.” She put down the rag and leaned down to Dustin. “I’ll be right back. Want anything?”

“No. Yeah. Some water,” Dustin struggled to speak.

“You got it.” After a gentle wink and smile, Dylan walked from the room. Pulling the door closed, she stepped into the hall. Hearing the click of the lock, Dylan’s heart sank with a feeling of uselessness and perhaps a bit of jealousy that she was being shut out at that second. But hearing Chris ascending the steps drew her attention, so not only did she go to retrieve Dustin a drink, she went to cut Chris off.

There was a weakness to his thin arms that Mick knew Dustin was unaware of. He felt the assistance Dustin tried to give, as Mick finished putting a new shirt over his head. “There,” Mick said then straightened Dustin’s hair.

“I didn’t need a shirt.” Dustin lay back.

“I always feel much better when I put on a fresh tee shirt.” After unlocking the door, Mick sat on the side of the bed facing Dustin. “You feel better?”

“Much.” Dustin stared down. “You’re not gonna say anything to Mom are you?”

Mick shook his head. “No.”

“Mick?” His glassy eyes raised to Mick’s. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to do that. I’m sorry for what Mom is feeling.”

“Don’t.” The word was strong with emotions when Mick delivered it. “Don’t.” He laid a firm hand on the side of Dustin’s face, cupping the entire cheek in his hand. “Don’t let me hear you apologize. You have nothing to apologize for. We do. Because we’re such a… such a goddamn mess over this. I wish, Dustin…” Mick looked into his eyes, “I wish with all my heart I could have one ounce of your strength right now. I am very…” The cracking and breaking up of Mick’s voice betrayed his emotions. “I am very proud of you. I love you very much.”

Dustin’s breath was quivering and rumbling when he looked at Mick and saw the strained look on his face, along with the gloss of unshed tears in his eyes. “You’re pretty cool, Mick. I love you, too.”

Mick’s free hand went to his eyes and he squeezed them shut with his forefinger and thumb. The clearing of his throat didn’t help clear away what he struggled to hold back.

“I don’t believe it,” Dustin said with a sense of awe.

Mick cleared his throat again and opened his eyes. “What?”

“Many men have tried,” Dustin rasped out. “They tried to break the mighty Mick Owens. Man, haven’t I always said I would be the one?”

“Just don’t… don’t tell your mom.”

“It’s an exchange of secrets.” Dustin’s fingers moved slowly toward Mick’s hand, and he weakly grabbed it. “Can I tell you another secret? I’m kind of scared. Does that make me not tough? You’re always tough. You don’t get scared… do you, Mick?”

Mick wanted so badly to do his stock grumble at a typical “Dustin- style” question. He wanted to blast out an argument like always, but this time he couldn’t. There was no argument. Dustin was right. And with the honesty he always gave the boys, Mick just grabbed Dustin and hugged him like he had never done before. His face was pressed tightly against Dustin’s body, and his words were muffled as he spoke to Dustin. “I have never been so scared in all my life.”

Dustin, as best as he could, grabbed tighter to Mick. “Then I guess it’s okay, huh? Scared’s not so bad now.”

Another squeeze conveyed his feelings to Dustin, then Mick pulled back from the embrace. He aimed a hard emotional stare at Dustin followed by a smile. “I’ll be…” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be right back.” His hand firm on Dustin’s, Mick leaned down and pressed his lips hard against Dustin’s forehead, leaving them there for a moment. “I’ll be back.” He couldn’t look at Dustin for another second. Face red, his body feeling like a volcano ready to erupt, Mick hurried from the room past Dylan and Chris who had just stepped in.

Down the steps, across the living room, through the kitchen and out the back door. Mick didn’t stop until he reached the back yard.

What he wanted to do was just let go. Drop to the ground, curl up like a child and break down, allowing everything he felt to flow out. But he couldn’t. Something told him he just had to be strong, but strength was difficult to come by just then. Mick fought and fought to keep it inside. His fist clenched as his body tensed up, and a fireball of pain shot from his gut and radiated through his chest. Turning sharply, he faced the single tree in the back yard. Muffled by the image Mick had to project, he growled out an anguished scream as he raged his fist into the side of the tree.

The connection with the bark didn’t even pinch his fist. Mick’s emotional agony overshadowed his physical pain. His mouth parted in a silent cry that he tried diligently to keep inside, he leaned into the tree.

Mick was lost in this moment, hurling out all of the pain that he felt as if the tree could absorb it for him. He couldn’t move; he was frozen there. His reaction time slowed, and he realized it when he couldn’t pull himself together when he heard the crunch of leaves near him.

Slowly, with his forehead lowered to his arm against the tree trunk, Mick looked up at his visitor.

Lars took another step forward. “I’ve had many new experiences with this flu. You… you have just driven home to me the true meaning of pain.” Another step closer, and Lars’ voice whispered. “It’s all right, Mick. It is all right to let it out.”

Mick turned around and leaned his back against the tree, his voice growling his pain. “Oh my God, Lars. Pain. You said pain. I have been shot, stabbed, beat up… but I have never in my life felt a pain like this.” Mick’s arms crossed tight, squeezing against his own midsection. “I can’t take it. I cannot take what I am feeling right now.”

“I won’t pretend to know what you are going through, you or Dylan. I can only imagine. I am so sorry that you are feeling such pain.” Lars moved to him.

“The mother in Cleveland.”

“Excuse me?”

Mick swallowed and took a deep breath; he let it out slowly as he stared at the sky. “You said a while ago, the mother in Cleveland who knew she was losing her child. You wanted to stop a mother in Lodi from feeling that.”

Lars remembered that speech well. “Yes, I recall saying that. Mick, I tried.”

“You did it,” Mick said. “You did.” He sniffed hard. “Dylan just so happened to end up being the mother you saved and the mother in Cleveland.” He growled out softly, “God.” Closing his eyes Mick stepped away from the tree. “I keep wanting to ask ‘why’.” He looked at Lars. “Is that stupid? I know there is no answer to that question. But I keep wanting to ask.”

“Everyone does. Those who survived, those still ill, and all of you who are losing someone. Why.” Lars dropped his voice. “You’re right. There is no answer to why some were spared. The injection perhaps, gambling with the timing, poor genetics… good genetics.” He shrugged. “No reason.”

“And it’s not over. Not for us. We were confident after Chris beat this. We’re hanging on to futile hope with Dustin. Lars…” Mick breathed out his words, “I had to change his bed. He thought…” Mick squinted his eyes in pain as he spoke. “Dustin thought, you know, that he had an accident.” Another shudder of emotions escaped him. “Blood. Lars, all there was, was blood on that bed. Blood. I’m not handling this well.”

“Yes, you are.”

Mick shook his head. “No… no, I’m not. I’m trying to look like I am, for Dylan, for Dustin. But I’m not. I’m dying. I’m physically dying inside. And we still have Tigger to worry about.”

“No, you don’t.” Lars reached into his back pocket. “That’s why I’m here. To ease your mind, even if just a little.” He held up a folded sheet of paper. “Lou Smith, you know him, he’s immune. His son Craig, nine, immune, too. Brian Watts, immune. His six year old son Lenny is immune. Genetics, Mick. You’re immune. Only goes to figure…” Lars handed him a sheet of paper. “So is your son.”

Mick didn’t open the paper, he took it, and closed his eyes.

“Tigger is your son, Mick. Did you know that, or did I just drop the bombshell of the century here?”

Mick’s words dragged as he spoke. “No. I knew. We… we knew. How did you…?”

“When he came down for his daily flu testing, I had to run an immunity test. I had to. There was no reason whatsoever for that boy to be well. He, of all people, with his medical history should have fallen first.” Lars watched Mick nod. “But, I have to say, I’m shocked. I’ve known you your entire life, Mick. I would have never thought you to be one to…”

“Deny my child?” Mick asked. “Let me tell you something, Lars,” his voice deepened as he answered, “never.” Mick raised his eyebrow. “It was not what I wanted to do. Come on, you know mine and Dylan’s history. I’ve loved her forever. We always hooked up, innocently though, when her and Sam would split. But that one time… that one break up, I thought that was it. I did. She made love to me, and that told me so much. She wouldn’t have gone that far, that deep, if it wasn’t really over with Sam.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“No. After about a month, they got back together. Dylan… was pregnant.” He tossed up his hands. “We found out shortly after their reunion, and there wasn’t a doubt it was my child because their reunion hadn’t become physical yet.”

“What did you do?” Lars asked.

“I wanted the baby. I wanted the chance. It was my chance to have Dylan. To have a family. To finally have it all. Chris was just starting Little League then. And I remember thinking how great it was gonna be that I would be more than just ‘Mick’ at those games. I went to every one of those games, you know. Dustin’s, too.” Mick winked softly as he nodded his head. “I never missed a moment in these boys’ lives. Dylan was my best friend, and they were the closest thing I had to my own kids.”

“Then came Tigger.”

“Then came Tigger,” Mick said. “Sam knew. And it kicked my ass that he was so understanding about it. Sam’s attitude was he just wanted to get past it, move on, put the incident behind us. We were all friends. But it wasn’t Sam’s attitude that dictated this situation. Not at all. He called another one of his little meetings.” Mick chuckled. “I was determined, I wanted my kid. But what changed me was Dustin and Chris. I looked at them that night. They had their mom, their dad… their family. And all the good I have ever done, all the looking up to me that they did, would be…” Mick snapped his fingers, “gone, the second I stepped into the picture in a different role. So we decided that no one would know Tigger was my kid. Sam would raise him, treat him as his own, Tigger would call him… Dad. I was allowed to see him as much as I wanted, spend time with him alone. But it never happened, that alone time I mean. It felt unfair to do that. So I ended taking all the boys for overnights and trips.”

“You didn’t lose, Mick,” Lars stated. “Listening now, hearing it, you made the right unselfish decision. These boys love you. They really love you. Your relationship with them is exceptional, so exceptional that any biological father would be envious. You didn’t give up one son. You gained three.”

“I know.” Mick nodded. “And now I’m losing one.” Mick finally opened the paper and looked down. He gave a soft emotional chuckle. “I better get inside. Mind if I show this to Dylan?”

“No. That’s why I brought it.” Lars reached out and laid his hand on Mick’s arm. “You’re in my prayers, Mick.”

Mick was unable to speak his thanks, giving only a grateful nod of his head. Then after a soft, painful “See ya tomorrow”, Mick slipped back into the house.

Mick cleared a spot on what he called Dylan’s “mess table” that sat in the upstairs hallway, a little round stand that she always put papers and cups on with intentions to take them downstairs, but they never made it. On that table he put two cups of coffee. Something told him they might be sleeping, so he tried quietly to make his entrance into Dustin’s room. He would have done so had he not almost fallen over Chris who was lying on the floor.

“Sorry.” Chris looked up.

“Chris,” Mick said, crouching down, “you still aren’t better yet. How about sleeping in a bed one more night?”

“No.” Chris shook his head. “I don’t want to leave my brother.”

Understanding that, Mick kissed him and stood up. He looked at Dustin who had fallen asleep. He made sure he touched him as he walked to Dylan. “Hey,” he whispered in her ear. “Can I steal you for a minute?”

After nodding, Dylan quietly followed Mick into the hall. She pulled the door closed. “What’s up?”

“I just needed a minute with you. I got us coffee…” He pointed. “Can we sit out here in the hall? If you don’t want to…”

“No. That’s fine.” She reached up and laid her hand on his face. “Dustin’s asleep. Mick? Are you okay?”

Mick grabbed her hand and kissed it, then led her away from the door a few feet. He handed her the coffee and at the same time they both sank to the floor. “No.”

Dylan looked at him.

“No, I’m not okay. And I want to apologize to you for that.”

“I don’t understand. Why are you apologizing?”

“For not being as strong as I should be.”

“You’re my strength, Mick,” she blurted out. “I don’t know what I would do without you right now. You’re keeping me together.”

A single chuckle came from Mick. “I say the same thing about you.”

“I kind of think…” Dylan played with the cup in her hand, “that right now, we’re overwhelmed with shock and sadness. But I think we both have more strength than we realize. I look at you, I’m screaming inside, and you’re so calm.”

“You think?” Mick smiled. “I’m not calm. You… Dylan, I admire you so much for how brave you’re being right now.”

Scooting closer to him, Dylan leaned her head against Mick’s arm. “I wish God gave us, as parents, one chance. Just one chance, on a tiny slip of paper. A chance to switch places with your child. For anything. And when that moment is needed, we as parents could turn that slip of paper in and trade places.”

“One slip?” Mick asked. “One chance.”

“Yes, why?”

“Dylan, sweetheart. If God did that, you of all people wouldn’t have a chance to turn in right now. Not you. You would have turned that chance in years ago. When Dustin used to get picked on in school, you wanted to trade places. How about when Chris got that case of chicken pox and was in the hospital? A few days ago when Chris had the flu? The time Dustin got the lead in the school play and he opened his mouth to sing and nothing came out?”

Dylan smiled slightly. “Poor Dustin.”

“You would have done it many times. That’s why God doesn’t give us those chances, he knows how we can’t, with the love of parents, ever choose which moment is deserving enough. They all are deserving.” Mick exhaled heavily. “I want to talk to you about something.”

Dylan sat up and looked at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Dustin asked to see Tigger. He needs to see him, and I think Tigger should spend some time with his brother before… well, I just think he should.”

“I do, too, Mick, but I can’t take a chance on…” Dylan was silent when Mick handed her a sheet of paper. “What’s this?”

“Let Tigger in the room. Lars did some testing. Like father like son, Tigger is immune.”

Dylan hadn’t cried in hours, but at that second her entire face spasmed emotionally and a single tear ran down her face. She set down her coffee, and with the results still in her hand, Dylan embraced Mick. The moment in the hall ended up being just what she needed, a break from the heartache, and a little shining light of good.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

October 5th

Dustin didn’t awaken often. When a brief bout of consciousness allowed him to open his eyes, he’d shift them around the room to linger on Dylan, Chris, and Tigger. Even though they were tired and glazed, Dylan could look into his eyes and see Dustin’s life force, his soul. She painfully saw that he understood everything that was going on. He may have been ill, his body ravaged and swollen, but Dustin tried to smile because he enjoyed the happy stories they told. Over the course of the next twelve hours, he was aware of them for brief periods of time, then he’d fade into sleep brought on by the illness and the increasingly larger doses of pain medication.

However, even when he was unconscious, Dylan, Tigger, Chris, and Mick, whoever was in the room, kept talking. Dustin loved to talk, he loved to be a part of every conversation, adult or not, and they gave him that.

Although the event taking place was somber and solemn, Dylan didn’t want the mood to be somber; she strived to keep the atmosphere as normal as possible. She watched Chris and admired her middle son’s stamina and good sense. Although suffering through what he was witnessing with his older brother, Chris kept up a good front, upbeat, high spirited and energetic. The wrestling videos played constantly, and Chris, even when Dustin was asleep, rewound the parts that they always rewound, shouted out as always when matches were “awesome” and Chris would ask Dustin if he saw this or that.

Dustin was dying and the room was redolent of life, loud, noisy, and active. Dylan allowed that even at times when she wanted so badly to rest her eyes, wallow in sadness, or say a prayer in peace. She couldn’t. Dylan took in all that transpired in that room between her sons because she had come to the painful realization that moments of enthusiasm over wrestling, Chris’ chattering and spoken dreams were moments between her boys that soon would be no more.

* * *

The tissue, damp with Rose’s tears, shredded with the nervous rolling of her fingers. She could honestly say that she hadn’t cried since her husband had passed on years and years before. An avalanche of pain crushed the inner strength she’d always had.

She stared at her son, a monster of a man in size, yet she saw how small he felt. He was broken. The hours leading up to Dustin’s death became the sledgehammer that shattered him as if he were a pane of glass.

Mick hadn’t called upon her to be a mother in quite some time. Rose couldn’t recall how many evenings in the past she knew Mick had problems and she’d pick up the phone only to be told by him he was fine. So many times she wanted him to come to her and say, “Mom, what do I do?” Mick never did. Until that very moment. And all the years of motherly advice, at that second, seemed to vanish.

What to say? There was so much that could be said. Rose went through her mind as she listened to each word Mick spoke. What would be the best response? What would help?

Nothing.

There wasn’t a single word of comfort or advice that she could give that would even attempt to take the pain away.

After a sniffle, in a second of silence, Rose shivered, grabbed onto Mick’s hand and squeezed. “I’m sorry. I am so very sorry.”

Mick bit his bottom lip. “I just wanted you to know. You may want to stop over and see him. He’s not… chances are he’s not gonna make it through the night.”

Hearing that, even though she knew it was coming, made Rose’s chest sink with sadness.

“Mom, I don’t know how Dylan’s doing it. I don’t. It hit her some time yesterday that Dustin, no matter we do, no matter how hard we pray, he’s leaving us. Why can’t I accept that? Why am I so damn angry over this? And hurt. Oh, God, I don’t even wanna touch that. I just wanna pick him up, take him somewhere, and say ‘Help him,’ but there’s nowhere to go. Nothing will help.”

“That’s what the problem is right now with you, Mick,” Rose said to her son. “You’ve always rushed in, saved the day, righted a wrong. You can’t fix this one. Dylan’s faced that easier, because despite how tough you think you are, she’s always been more reality-based than you. You see something, and you want it, no matter how far from your reach, you go after it. And… and usually, you get it. But Dylan, she goes after what she knows is within that reach, never too far from it. She knows this is out of her hands. It’s in God’s hands now. She won’t touch it. You, Michael, if you could take on God right now to win that boy back, you would. But you can’t. This battle for you is unwinnable. Not to say, if you could, you wouldn’t give God a pretty good fight.” She winked.

“My typical comeback would be, ‘nah, I’d kick His ass’, but…” Mick chuckled, “I really need Him right now, and I don’t want to say anything to piss Him off.”

“I hear that.” Rose gave a pat to his hand. “You’ll get through this, Mick. No matter how bad you hurt, you will get through this. Life goes on. It really does. And you are strong, Mick, no matter what you say right now. I kinda think that may be the reason you feel so weak; it isn’t because you are, it’s just that fate stole some of your strength and tucked it away in reserve so you can go full force when this is over.”

“What if I’m not able to do that?” Mick asked.

“You will be.” Rose embraced her son and almost died when she felt how tightly he held on. And through that hug, she realized that perhaps, even just a little, she did indeed give the comfort and words as a mother she had always wanted to give.

* * *

“To cop a ‘Patrick’ phrase,” Lars chuckled softly, “this sucks. This really… sucks.” Lars dropped down onto the fresh mound of dirt and took a seat. An artificial flower, perfect in its beauty, was in his hand. He peered up across the field to the lines and lines of fresh graves. To him it seemed like a miniature Arlington Cemetery. No headstones or crosses adorned the graves yet, just single wooden stick grave markers which held a white cloth with the name of each of the dead. The wind was brisk and the white cloths all flapped in a small orchestra of noise. They looked like white flags, but somehow they didn’t hold the typical stigma of surrender. To Lars they waved in glorification of life, because there had been no surrender from those who passed on from the flu. They battled, they fought hard, and in essence, in their own way, they really won. They had moved on to something much better, where those who were left behind were left to live a life of grief, painful reminders, decades of hurt and struggles.

“I brought you a cheesy gift. All the others will be envious.” Lars placed the wire stem into the earth. “There. You have a decoration. I apologize for not coming straight out here yesterday when you were buried. But I’m sure you understand. It’s been bad. Very bad. Tonight, tomorrow…” Lars exhaled, “is the finale. Dear God, the company you will have out here. We didn’t do as well as we wanted to, Patrick. The second wave undid the great stats we had. What happened?” He shook his head. “Confidence. Too many came in too late. We had a lot of young not respond. I think you’re lucky that you have missed this last round. In case you’re curious… no. Aside from not being able to get there, I’ve no plans to go back to Africa. I do have plans to stay in Lodi.” Lars gasped as if he were faking shock. “Surprised? You and Mick laid a lot of groundwork for survival. My God, the pressure that is going to fall upon that man’s shoulders when this thing is over. People look to him as a leader. He’s gonna have to pull them through. He’ll need some help since… you abandoned him. Just like you to run, isn’t it? As I have said to you so many times, just like a criminal. Can I let you in on a little secret?” Lars dropped his voice to a whisper. “I have never viewed you as a criminal. I think you know that, I only liked to joke with you. I need to tell you something, Patrick, if you don’t mind. I wished I could have told you these things when you were around. I guess that regret will be multiplied ten-fold around here by everyone. But, forgive the sappiness. I’ll allow you to haunt my dreams and badger me, how’s that?” There was a pause of silence and sadness from Lars. “A month never is long, but when you seem to spend every single day with someone, it can contain a lifetime. You have never treated me as any more than the man I am. Your bizarre curiosity of me made me laugh and your energy and youth made me feel alive. I guess in essence you are a criminal, because my friend, you stole my heart. And when I speak of you in the years to come, as I keep your name alive, your spirit, I will always preface your name with the words, ‘my friend’. Because you are.” Lars ran his hand over the mound of dirt. He grabbed a little and placed it in his pocket. He let out a long breath and folded his arms over his bent knees. “Ah. Okay, sappy time over, mind if I hang out for a while and insult you?”

* * *

Peyton Place, the ageless story, was Marian’s favorite movie. Tom hated the thought of staying in the bedroom and watching it with her, but she asked for it. And since her spirits and health were improving, Tom gave in. It took a while, but he found that movie in his pile of ‘hide for good’ movies at the video store.

Some soup would hit the spot for the two of them. He had done a lot of digging the previous night, and he hadn’t warmed up from the chill that had set into his bones.

Movie under his arm, two mugs of soup in his hand, Tom pushed the bedroom door opened with his foot. “Hey, dinner and a movie. Just like old times.”

There was a gurgling sound that hit him the second he stepped in. Down onto the dresser went the mugs, the movie dropped from under his arms and Tom flew to the bed. “Marian!”

White. Her face was white, her eyes wide in panic as she struggled for each breath that seemed to come through a thick, slushy mud.

“Can’t… can’t… breathe,” Marian tried to gasp. The rumbling was louder.

Tom grabbed her hand with worry. “I’ll be back, Marian. I’ll be right back. I have to get Lars.” Murmuring, over and over, ‘I’ll be back’ Tom flew to the door.

“Tom?” Marian called out softly.

It was clear, too clear and perfect. Tom skidded to a stop. He heard nothing, and he knew. Slowly, he turned from the bedroom door.

Marian’s eyes had closed. She didn’t move or breathe. The silence bespoke of a blanketing peace that gave a small bit of comfort. But it wasn’t enough to ease the broken heart that, at that moment, Tom suffered. He felt a part of his own soul leave. Marian was gone.

* * *

Thump.

Against the hollowing chest cavity of his young body, Dustin’s lungs snapped against the struggle to take a breath, echoing in a sense his own beating drum, his final dance in life. There was complete and utter silence from everyone in the room. The only noise came from Dustin. The long breaths in, the thump, the wheeze out. Slowly, with a heartbreaking and frightening pause between each one.

He was sitting nearly upright, but his head tilted to the right, his eyes on his mother. His eyes that wouldn’t close held a half focus as they partially rolled to the back of his head.

Dustin had stopped blinking. The only movements he made were involuntary, the quick rise of his chest and slight twitch of his head with his inhalations.

Dylan held his hand, her eyes staying on him, trying telepathically to relay some sort of message of hope and freedom from fear.

Chris huddled in the dark corner, knees to his chest, eyes glued to Dustin.

Mick prayed. Between his palms, pressed to his lips, was Dustin’s hand.

Nobody moved. Nobody said anything.

Another moment of quietude ensued, only it was too long, much longer than any of the other breathless hushes. Dylan’s eyes rose to meet Mick’s and as soon as they did, a sound broke the silence.

It was whimpering, a tiny whine, soft, short. Dustin’s eyes shifted, and again he made that noise. It was almost inaudible. Then after a heavy gasping wheeze, Dustin’s breathing went out of control, labored, hard. And with the most paralyzing, anguish-filled scream they’d ever heard, his mouth dropped open, his body flung forward and Dustin’s arms reached out frantically as if desperately asking for help.

“Mick!” Dylan screamed, lunging for Dustin as his body convulsed out of control.

But Mick was there already, slipping behind Dustin, wrapping his entire being around the boy to keep his body still. No amount of strength could stop the uncontrollable shaking Dustin did, and nothing, absolutely nothing, blocked out the horrendous scream.

Over and over, long, loudly and painfully, Dustin cried out.

“Dustin!” Dylan grabbed his hand, her words trembling and crying. “Dustin, baby, let go.”

Mick cradled him, holding him tighter and tighter “Shh. We’re here. Just let go, it’s all right. We love you. We’re here.” Mick wanted to bellow out at that moment; everything crumbled inside of him as he held Dustin, trying to take it from him.

His ears covered, head down, Chris cried out over the screams of his brother and the painful pleas of Mick and Dylan. “Make him stop. Help him! Help him!”

Dylan swiped hard at the tears on her face. “Maybe, if I held him, Mick. Maybe if I held him…” She sat on the bed, scooting closer, and Mick moved Dustin from his arms to hers.

The cry of his pain buried itself against his mother’s shoulder. And when his body completely met hers, chest to chest, Dylan’s arms around him, Dustin fell silent.

Mick watched it as if in slow motion. The drastic arching of Dylan’s neck as her head flung back, the veins that protruded in agony, the redness that crept from her throat to her face, they all precluded the most heart-wrenching, soul-annihilating cry Mick had ever heard.

Dustin’s still body rested, braced within the grip of Dylan’s grief. And in a painfully completed circle, against the body that gave him life, in the arms of his mother, Dustin surrendered his last breath.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

October 8th

It was the first one made, Mick made sure of it. He did it himself, a thick wooden cross, treated so it wouldn’t ruin, with Dustin’s name on it. Dustin was also buried farther from everyone else, next to Marian.

During the course of the day, Mick continued to stop at Dustin’s grave. Every breather he took, he walked over to say hello and wish with all his heart just to be able to hear Dustin one more time, make one of those statements where he defended Mick with a vengeance, then in a single breath tore it down with a simple ‘do you, Mick?’

It would be the last of the long days during which bodies were buried.

It was over. The big wave of death hit twenty-four hours after Dustin had passed away, and with as much grief that Mick held, it was a wave of distraction he needed.

The calm following the end of the flu brought a sense of anxiety to Mick. He was facing the battle Lars always spoke of, the battle to go on. But Mick was pretty certain, as hard as it would be, as difficult as it was to face, he would be able to go on. He didn’t have a choice.

* * *

Lars took a second to peer up at the amber glow of the evening sky. The manmade illumination brought on by the burning bodies, it was yet another sign of the end of the flu era. He walked into the nearly empty gymnasium. It had been weeks since he had been able to walk across the empty floor. He paused at the circle, closed his eyes and imagined that the silence was a room full of applause and cheers. Those that came from children, an abundance of enthusiasm that would be a long time coming before it occurred again in that school gym.

Relinquishing the memory of many school basketball games and pep rallies, Lars went back to what he was originally doing in that gym: Finishing up.

Henry and Kurt packed boxes with folders, sealing them with duct tape and stacking them alphabetically.

“How’s it going?” Lars asked as he approached the pair.

“Fine,” Henry answered. “Just getting things ready for future documentation. When we’ll do that, I don’t know. Perhaps someone out there will want the task.”

Kurt chuckled. “Do you honestly think you’ll let them? You were anal about keeping everything in order. You did a good job.”

“We all did,” Henry said.

“You didn’t say,” Lars stated, “are you two staying on in Lodi?”

“Absolutely,” Kurt replied. “We want to help. Tom’s been putting together a new village council to help out Chief Owens during the restructuring. Don’t know what we can do, but we volunteered our services.”

“Did I tell you…?” Henry lifted the cellular phone. “I got an answer today.”

Surprised, Lars looked at him. “Who did you call?”

“The president. As we suspected, flu’s done everywhere else,” Henry answered. “And he’s still trying to restructure, put things back together. He really is. However, he has nothing to work with. Perhaps Lodi can be a strong starting point of assistance to him.”

Kurt added, “If he didn’t think that before, the president does now. Henry here boasted of a pretty strong leadership in Chief Owens.”

Lars smiled. “I’ll back Henry up on that. I’m sure Mick will do whatever is needed of him. Since everything is finished here.”

Henry smiled with relief. “No one came in today.”

Lars let out a breath. “Yes. Which is good. I didn’t want to make last night the cut-off. I didn’t, even though we knew, if they were symptomatic, they would have been ill by last night.”

“Think it’s safe to declare this thing officially done?” Henry asked.

“Yes,” Lars replied with absolute certainty. “I think we can safely say… it’s over.”

* * *

Mick sat for a second on his motorcycle after he turned off the engine. He pulled the key from the ignition and looked up at the house. It was late, but he knew Dylan and Chris at least would be up. He needed to see them both. The day was long; he’d been out in the field and didn’t get a chance to stop by home, not even once.

Summing up enough energy to get off that bike, Mick took the path to the house. He smiled when he approached the door and Chris rushed out.

“Hey.” Mick picked up his pace to greet him.

Chris let out a few hyperventilated breaths. “Mick.”

The horror on Chris’ face shot through him. “What’s wrong?”

It was more of a whimper then a spoken word that Chris released. “Mick,” he took a couple of fast breaths, “it’s Mom.”

Wondering if she had fallen, if she’d gotten hurt, Mick flew into the house. The second he stepped inside he received his answer.

A cough.

Barking-like, deep, thick, and rumbling. It filled Mick’s ears with blood and his legs were numb as he charged upstairs. “Dylan!” he called her name with fear as he raged into the bedroom.

From the dresser Dylan turned around to face Mick. Her eyes were red, filled with panic and sadness as she slowly lowered her hand from her mouth. “Mick… oh God.” She lifted her trembling fingers to expose her blood-laced palm.

* * *

The scraping of Mick’s fingertips across the dining room table broke the quiet while he and Dylan waited for Lars to speak. His forehead rested against his other hand as he stared down to the table.

When Dylan heard Lars clear his throat, and noticed Mick not looking up, she grabbed his hand. “I need this more than your head does.” She slipped her fingers tightly in between his. “It’ll be fine,” she whispered, then looked to Tom, who sat on her left. She took comfort in her father’s hand that rubbed reassuringly on her back.

Lars glanced down to the faces of Dylan, Mick, and Tom. “I don’t think I need to tell you.”

Dylan nodded slowly and let out a quivering breath. “We figured as much.”

Tilting his head, Mick’s eyes squinted. “What happened? How did this happen so fast? I kissed her this morning. She was fine.”

“What time did you leave the house, Mick?” Lars asked. “I saw you at five in the fields. It’s nine at night. Time is what happened.”

Rolling his fingers into a fist, Mick lightly slammed it on the table. “Why didn’t I come back? Why didn’t I come back here?”

“And what?” Dylan asked him. “Mick, I didn’t even know I was sick. I have cried so much over these past few days, I didn’t know. I didn’t know until I started coughing a little bit ago.”

“Start the antibiotics,” Mick said strongly.

Tom tried to intervene. “Mick, look…”

“Start them!” Mick blasted at Lars.

“And what!” Lars yelled back.

“Try to beat this thing! Damn it, try!”

Lars held up his hand, it was not the time to lose control. “Mick, for what? Yes, I know you want to try everything to save her. But what are we doing? The dosages I will give her will knock her out for twelve to fourteen hours. That is twelve hours that you could talk to her. Hold her. Say things you always wanted to say. Don’t lose that. Do not lose that time.”

Mick tossed his hands. “So we just give up? Just like that?”

“Mick,” Tom spoke up, “this is my kid. You think for one second that I don’t wanna fight this thing, too? But where do we draw the line on fighting? We saw it all.”

“There is no line to be drawn in fighting for Dylan,” Mick said tenaciously as he stood up. “I have fought my entire life for her, I will not stop now.”

Softly, as she stood, Dylan spoke. “Yes, Mick. You will.” She walked to him. “This got ahead of me. As neurotic as I was about this flu, the time I had it, I didn’t even think about it. I don’t wanna stop fighting either.” She reached up and touched his face. “I don’t. But I am okay right now with this. I am. The only thing that scares me is not the pain that I’ll go through at the end. It’s the thought of my father, my children, and you watching it.”

“They don’t have to,” Lars spoke up.

Slowly Dylan turned to face Lars.

Mick was hit with the revelation. “No.”

After seeing that Dylan comprehended where he was going, Lars continued. “Listen to me, okay? Dylan is bleeding right now. What that means is that in a few hours, a few hours Mick, she’ll be too sick to get out of bed. This time tomorrow, because of her size, she’ll be too sick to respond, the next day, incapacitated. We give all of you tonight with her. And tomorrow morning, just as she reaches the point where she will be in pain, unable to breathe or function, we will give her the euthanasia.”

“No!” Mick yelled.

“Mick,” Lars said calmly, “she won’t feel anything. No pain. A euphoric feel when she passes instead of agonizing pain. Instead of suffocating and drowning, she’ll merely close her eyes.”

“You wanna kill my wife, Lars! Like a sick animal you put to sleep. Tom, come on,” Mick looked to him with pleading eyes. “Argue with me on this. Dylan…” He turned to her.

Dylan took a slow breath, which produced a cough that shook her entire body. She looked at Lars and her father. “Can we be alone for a second, please?”

Mick stood in the silence as Tom and Lars walked out. He waited for a moment before he spoke. “I won’t let you do this.”

“Mick, listen.”

“No, Dylan. No. You’ll leave me tomorrow morning? Don’t cheat me out of every single second I have left with you. Please, don’t cheat me out of that.”

“It’s quality versus quantity.”

“I want it all. Every moment. Do you hear me?” Mick argued with passion. “I have fought for you, I have waited for you, I finally have you and now…”

“Do you think I want to leave you?” Dylan whispered. “Don’t you think it’s breaking my heart right now to have to leave you and my sons? It is. I watched my flesh and blood leave this earth in the most horrible way. I don’t want my father to see his child leave this earth like that. I don’t… I don’t want my kids to see that again. I don’t want you to have to clean me, change me, hear me scream. Let me go with dignity. Let me say while I still have my full mind what I have to say to all of you.” Her voice dropped even further. “Just let me say… goodbye.”

* * *

Dylan looked into the eyes she needed to see. Tigger’s. No fear, no sadness, only his smile. His face close to hers as she lay on her side. “You know,” she reached and touched him, “all these people can take a lesson from you right now.”

“Why’s that?” Tigger asked.

“Look how strong you are.”

“I’m trying.” Tigger reached out and grabbed the intravenous tube. “Is this your medicine?”

“Yep,” Dylan said. “Almost done, see?”

After looking to the IV bag, Tigger nodded. “Then?”

“Then I go to sleep. That’s why I wanted to just, you know, tell you I’m hoping you’ll keep Mick in line for me.”

Tigger glanced to Mick who was right there. “That’s a tough job.”

Dylan inched closer. “You think Chris can handle it?” She shook her head. “Pap will kill him.” She smiled. “You’re the tough one. Look how good you’re being right now.”

“I’m still sad.”

“I am, too. Come here.” She pulled Tigger closer and embraced him. “You get going. Go wait downstairs. I love you very much.”

“I love you too, Mommy.” Tigger backed from the embrace with a small pout. “I’ll miss you.”

“Ditto.” Dylan fought her tears as she promised herself she wouldn’t cry. She let Tigger’s hand slip from hers as he stepped back.

Chris stepped forward; he dropped. He dropped to the floor, head to the bed and he grabbed on to Dylan. “Mom.”

Watching it made Mick unable to breathe. He laid his hand on Chris’ shoulder and squeezed.

“Chris,” Dylan whispered, “look at me. I wanna look at you.” When he raised his head she saw the tears. Reaching out, she wiped them. “I know it doesn’t seem fair right now. But think about it: I think all this happened for a reason. You guys will stay here with Mick and Pap, and I’ll be up there taking care of Dustin. I think he needs me, Chris.”

“I need you here, Mom.”

“I know, sweetie. But I’ll always be around, you know that? We’ll be watching you, me and Dustin. Now there’s something you have to do for me. Okay?”

Chris nodded.

“You go downstairs, take Tigger. You put in your favorite wrestling show. And you watch it. You watch it and you enjoy it. Okay?”

“But, Mom…”

“No buts.” Dylan kissed him. “We’ll just say our goodbyes now, like I’m leaving for a long trip. Okay? Give me a hug.”

Chris moaned out his pain into that embrace, squeezing and holding Dylan, not wanting to let her go. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too.” She kissed him, dropping her voice to a whisper as her hands cupped his face. “I love you.”

Chris wiped his tears and stepped back. “Come on, Tigger.” He grabbed his little brother’s hand and slowly they walked to the door, then they both paused with a heartbreaking look back at Dylan, and Chris tried to smile. He lifted his hand in a wave, and walked out.

A slight whimper escaped Dylan and she closed her eyes. She sniffled hard, one that was in unison with Mick’s.

Tom’s hand glided up his daughter’s calf as he walked to the side of the bed and Mick moved back. “Well…” He sat on the edge of the bed. “I see that bag’s just about done, now. I won’t dally in here.” He leaned down and kissed her, grabbing her hand. “I’m proud of ya. You make sure you tell your mom, I said ‘hi’. Okay?”

“I will.”

“I love you.” Tom kissed her again. “You make sure, if you can, you pop back and visit us.” He gave a hard squeeze to her hand, gazed upon her with a proud look and stood up to leave.

Mick was somewhat confused. “Tom?” He followed him to the door. “You’re not staying?”

“It’s my child, Mick.” Tom gazed over at Dylan. “I don’t want to see my child leave this earth. And besides…” he shivered, “she’s the love of your life. You take this last moment.” After a pat to Mick’s cheek, and another glance at Dylan, Tom slipped out.

Mick closed the door and leaned against it, but not for long. He felt the door press into his back, and when he stepped away, Lars walked in. Mick’s heart dropped and he whispered a painful, “Oh my God.”

Lars only nodded and walked to the bed. “How are you feeling, Dylan?”

“I don’t feel sick,” Dylan replied.

“Good.” He laid a hand on her leg and walked to the intravenous bag.

“Mick?” Dylan called him.

“I can’t believe this is happening.” Mick walked over to his chair, pulled it as close as he could to the bed and grabbed Dylan’s hand. He watched Lars remove the IV shunt. “Dylan, how… how are you being so strong right now?”

“I’m not really.” She clenched his hand. “I’m not. But you know what makes this all easier, Mick? I get to see my son. Dustin was always my buddy. I get to be with him. And my mom, too. And…” feeling herself ready to break, she smiled, “Sam.”

Mick’s eyes lifted.

“I wanna fight with you one more time, Mick.”

“No.”

“Please?” Dylan asked. “I know that’s been running through your mind. About Sam.”

“No it hasn’t.”

“You thought of it at least once?” Dylan questioned. “Me, Sam, Dustin…”

“All right, fine.” Mick cut her off. “Okay, yeah. And I’m jealous.”

“Kind of ironic. All our lives I’ve kept going back to him. Now you secure me, marry me and…”

“Dylan,” Mick grumbled out her name, “why do you have to go do this, right now?”

“Because this is us. This is you and me.” She squeezed tighter to his hand. “You’re my soul mate, Mick. I love you.”

Lars cleared his throat. He pushed the intravenous pole aside. “Ten minutes,” he said softly then walked out.

Mick’s chest began to cave again and his eyes closed tight. “That’s all I have left with you.”

“Don’t do this, Mick. Let’s have a good moment.”

“Am I allowed to just slip into bed with you, and hold you?”

Dylan’s lips quivered and she fought her emotions “Please?” She peeped out the word. “This is one time in my life I really, really need to be held.”

With no hesitation, no delay, Mick stood up, walked over to the other side of the bed and lay down. He spooned Dylan from behind, placing his arms under her body and holding her tightly to him.

“This is nice…” Dylan said.

Mick kept his lips to her cheek.

“I have to tell you. I’m glad I married you, Mick.”

“We should have done it sooner. But it was everything I needed. You made my life so complete, Dylan.”

“I’m glad, Mick, my boys have you. I feel so secure that they’ll be loved and all right.”

“They will be, Dylan. I’ll dedicate my life to them.”

“I know you will. And this isn’t something you want to hear right now, but… I named the baby.”

In his anguish, Mick’s eyes clenched shut.

“Harry.”

Mick’s eyes opened. “You named our baby Harry?”

“Yeah. It just popped into my mind.”

“Harry?”

Dylan smiled. “Harry. So when you talk about me and the baby, you can say, Dylan and Harry.” She exhaled. “Mick, about this time, a lot of wives will tell their husbands, if you find someone you love, you move on.”

“Dylan…”

“Not me,” Dylan said enjoying the slight chuckle Mick let out. “I don’t want another woman to have you. I’ll come back and haunt you.”

Throaty, his words filled with emotions, Mick choked out, “Please do. And Dylan, I can honestly say there will never be anyone else. Ever. Any time in the past I tried to date you ruined it.”

“True.”

“Do you realize in the past eight years you are the only woman I have been with?” Mick kissed her. “No, I’m still with you, Dylan. I’m dedicated to you one hundred percent. Here or not. You’ll be alive with me.”

“Thank you for that. Mick?” Dylan’s words dropped some. “It kind of feels right now, smooth. No pain. Comforting, like I’m getting ready to fall asleep.” She felt his hold tighten. “Kind of like that one time you and I got high, fooled around and passed out in my father’s tool shed.”

“Sam found us.”

“Yeah, Sam found us,” Dylan’s speech started to slur. “You were holding me, just like now.”

“How old were we? Eighteen?”

“Yep. Remember what we did?” Dylan asked.

“Everything.”

“Everything,” Dylan repeated. “And I pretended that it was just because I was using drugs that I slept with you. Mick? I never meant that.”

“I know.” He kissed her. “We had a full life, Dylan. A lot of years, you and I.”

“A complete history.”

“I have no regrets,” Mick whispered.

Dylan’s words were barely heard. “Neither do I, Mick. Neither do I.”

Mick felt her body relax even more. He knew. As he pressed his lips more to her face, he saw her eyes open slowly, and he watched a smile form. “Dylan?”

A small airy gasp flowed from her, and Dylan spoke peacefully as her hand slowly extended outward. “Dustin.”

Gone.

With the last beat of Dylan’s heart, Mick felt the ceasing of his own. He swore he felt her last breath, felt her spirit pass through him. In awe of the peaceful silence, with his lips to her face, his arms around her, Mick curled up his body tightly, engulfing Dylan completely. Almost merging their beings, Mick, with every ounce of himself, held on to his and Dylan’s final moment.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

October 15th

The final bag went into the back of the utility vehicle and Mick slammed the hatch. He checked the cord that held the gear on top, giving a firm tug as a double check.

Lars slapped Mick’s back. “Gonna look empty out there.”

“I thought you said there’s a lot of people left.”

“There are,” Lars replied. “But it’s gonna look empty with almost eighty percent gone.”

“Emptiness might be good.” Mick gave a firm shake to Lars’ hand.

After lifting a wave to Rose and Tom, Lars walked off.

Tom exhaled as he stepped to Mick. “Take care.”

“I will.” Mick looked into the vehicle and tapped in the window. “Chris, buckle up. And get Tigger buckled tighter.”

“All right, all right,” Chris whined.

Mick looked back to Tom. “They’re in good hands with me, Tom. Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Mick asked.

“No. You guys need this.”

Mick nodded and embraced Tom. “Watch my mom.”

Tom smiled at the ridiculous notion of anyone having to watch Rose, then he gave a tap to the window, a wave to his grandsons and stepped back.

Mick walked to the driver’s side and opened the door, glancing at Rose. “You aren’t saying goodbye.”

“I don’t agree with this,” Rose said, approaching the door. “You know that.”

“It’s not for long,” Mick said and opened his door. “I’ll be back.”

“Mick, I know you feel you have to do this. It’s a big empty world right now—”

“And me and the boys need that.” Mick kissed his mother on the cheek. “We have to get away from Lodi, get our heads together. It’s too painful here. We’ll be back.”

“But are you staying?”

“Don’t know. Does it matter?”

“Yes,” Rose argued. “Yes, it does. These people need you, Mick.”

“And these boys need me more.”

Rose exhaled. “The boys can have you here in Lodi. You are the lead—”

“Right now,” Mick cut her off, “I can’t deal with leading anyone but these kids. I can’t. I have to concentrate on being a father. I want to concentrate on being a father. That’s all that matters to me.” Sliding into the truck and closing the door, Mick gave a ‘ready’ nod and smile to Chris and Tigger. When he got their agreement, he smiled again in nervous excitement and wound down the window as he turned over the ignition. “Mom, think about this. People in Lodi, they’re in good hands. Lars can handle things I got started. Tom’s here, too.”

“Yeah, they can handle it until you return. But the people here, they have to know you’re coming back. And for good. They need that. They need you,” Rose spoke soft. “You are the hero around here.”

“Good.” He smiled a little with upbeat arrogance. “And like the hero always does, I’m gonna…” Mick shifted gears and pointed at the windshield, “I’m gonna ride off into the sunset, right now.”

And Mick did.

About the Author

Jacqueline Druga is a native of Pittsburgh, Pa. She is a prolific writer and filmmaker. Her published works include genres of all types, but favors post-apocalypse and apocalypse writing. Currently she is in production of her third full-length feature film in which she has written and is producing.

A single mother of four, Jacqueline is also a musician. She resides in a small town outside of Pittsburgh with her family. Of all her accomplishments, Jacqueline is most proud of being a grandmother. Her grandchildren reside with her and are the light of her life.

Jacqueline welcomes emails. You can reach her through her Author Services at greatoneas@gmail.com

MORE TITLES FROM PERMUTED PRESS

Copyright

The Flu

Jacqueline Druga

Published by Permuted Press at Smashwords.

Copyright 2012 Jacqueline Druga.

www.PermutedPress.com

Content

Jacqueline Druga
THE FLU

Acknowledgement

FOREWORD

THE ONSET

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE OUTBREAK

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ABATED HOPE

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

WALLS OF JERICHO… TUMBLE

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

About the Author

MORE TITLES FROM PERMUTED PRESS

Copyright