The Beginning of the End (2 page)

“If your truck is so
great, then why don’t you jump that pond with it?” the fat kid
goaded, as his arm swung around pointing to a small pond just a few
yards away. It wasn’t the biggest pond on the golf course, and it
wasn’t the smallest. At the widest point, it only spanned twenty
feet. For Matt and his ego, it was too late! The gauntlet was thrown.
Matt slowly turned in silence facing the pond. His eyes glistened as
he crossed his arms. He took in a deep breath and released it slowly,
“No problem chubby!”

“You’re crazy,
Matt!” I laughed.

“I can make it. My
truck can do it.” Matt mumbled under his breath. His brows lowered
in deep thought. He began calculating his approach, speed, and
landing. I rose from my timber seat, and walked around to the front
of Matt, breaking his stare.

“If I approached from
the other side and hit that bunker’s ridge, it will act like a
ramp. Look at it! It’s got to be an eight-foot drop to the other
side. What’s the worst that could happen? I’ve shagged balls out
of that pond. It can’t be more than two or three feet deep. Even if
I landed in the middle, I probably wouldn’t even get my feet wet!”
He turned around and I heard him say, “It’s perfect!” as he
disappeared into the darkness.

Kids were already
spreading out to give Matt a wide birth. Some others worked on
clearing the strip where Matt’s Chevy would inevitably crash and
break up into a thousand pieces.

I chased him into the
night and caught him as he was opening the truck door, “Buddy, this
is stupid!” I said, but Matt was already hopping in his truck. Matt
took a second to look down at me from the truck’s window, “Don’t
worry Ty, I’ve got this.”

Before I could get a
word in edgewise, Matt was racing to the other side of the pond. The
loud roar of the truck was deafening as he pulled away. The truck’s
tail lights looked like red eyes as he drove to the 10th tee box to
set up his approach. The truck turned facing us. The lights seemed
almost too bright, momentarily blinding me when Matt hit the high
beams. The truck’s mammoth engine began revving to what seemed like
too many RPMs, and fell to a slow idling hum.

Excitement took over!
It was intoxicating. The crowd began to chant, “Matt! Matt! Matt!”

The chanting gradually
sped up, then from a distance the truck’s engine rumbled to life.
The headlights grew larger as they came closer and bounced on the
ruts in the fairway.

The crowd fell silent
with anticipation, half hoping for success while the rest waited for
a spectacularly gory conclusion. The truck’s lights jumped almost
out of control as a silence fell over the spectators. The truck,
going too fast to stop now hit the sand trap, and lifted off the
ground with the aching sound of flexing metal. The crowd held their
breath. Was he going too fast? Too slow? The truck soared over the
pond, and only a single scream was heard. “FUUUUUCCCCKKKK!
YOOOOUUUUU!” echoed from inside the Chevrolet’s cab. The truck
cleared the pond and another twenty feet. A cloud of rust whiffed
from the truck's frame as it bounced on the oversized tires. Once,
twice, three times. It reminded me of playing with a super ball on
the sidewalk when I was a little boy. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Each
time higher than the last. The truck went up on two tires. It was
about to flip! Without enough momentum to turn over, the truck came
to rest on all four tires! Matt emerged from the driver’s seat.

“Holy shit! He did
it!” The crowd erupted in a simultaneous cheer! Seconds later, Matt
was immersed by his new fans, fist pumping, and high fiving anyone in
arms reach.

Summer vacation ended a
few days later. We returned to start our senior year of high school.
After that summer, Matt had achieved legendary status and would never
again be remembered as Matt Matthews, the goofy kid on the football
team. He would forever be known as, Chevy! The guy who jumped a pond
in his truck.

October 10th 5pm

“Ty, will you please
shut up, and turn on the fuckin’ Xbox! I want to shoot some
zombies!” Chevy was bouncing up and down on the couch giving me his
version of a tantrum.

“Yeah, okay! You know
you can’t get through life killing zombies on the TV?” I said as
I dropped my ass on the floor grabbing a controller.

“I’ve got to go to
Hell in a little while. I’m on the schedule for work tonight. I
haven’t been there in two weeks. I don’t really feel like going
in. I’m thinking of ditching work and calling in sick. Do you think
anyone would care?” I asked Chevy hoping he’d give me his vote of
confidence.

“Ha! It sucks to be
you! I haven’t worked since last weekend, and I’m not scheduled
until next week.” Chevy spun around on the couch with a serious
look on his face, “You know Ty, shirking your responsibilities will
get you nowhere in life. Now you can go to work like a good little
taxpayer, or you can stay here with me. I’m going to be busy
though. I’m planning on staying here, getting drunk, and playing
Xbox all night!” Chevy teased. It took me about ten seconds to
decide on staying home with Chev! I’m not really worried about not
showing up to work.

The place is run by
college kids, and customers are always looking to help out for a free
drink. Plus on any given night, we had an abundance of staff. Chevy
and I work at the same place. We're both bartenders at a local
college bar called, Hell. Yes, it’s really called Hell. We had both
tried our hand at college, but found it more exciting to sit at home
and do nothing. We didn’t want to go to school. We majored in
skipping class and going to the college parties.

By December, we had
flunked out of school and decided to put one hundred percent of our
focus on beer, women, and Xbox. Not necessarily in that order.

We only bartend a
couple of days a week. That’s enough to pay the bills and keep some
food in our bellies. Chevy uses our job as a way to stay active in
the college community. He always knows where and when the party is
going to be, and which one has the most sorority chicks. Chevy is
good with the girls.

One thing I didn’t
mention about Chevy is that he’s a pretty boy. He has rock hard
abs, blonde hair, blue eyes and looked like the kind of guy you’d
find modeling a pair of underwear in a magazine.

Unfortunately for me,
I’m the complete opposite. I wasn’t blessed with god-like genes.
I’m a little chubby and have dark brown hair like everyone else.
The only thing that makes me stand out is Chevy. I am, for lack of a
better word, average. I don’t even have a cool nickname like Chevy.
My name is Ty. Ty Daniels, and my friends call me Ty.

October 11th 12:00pm

After a long night of
drinking, I woke up with my head pounding. “How much did I drink
last night?” I rolled over in my bed and was struck in the face by
the heat of the midday sun. I squinted my eyes, and it made my head
throb even more. Five minutes later, I was able to flop my feet onto
the floor. I slid down to my knees and rested my head against the
coldness of the bed frame. When I was sure my stomach wasn’t going
to heave, I made my way out to the kitchen. I staggered in, shielding
my eyes from the sun with an open hand. I yanked the fridge open
while my head rested against the cool metal of the freezer door. I
leaned back and looked in, “Dammit!” There was no Mountain Dew in
the refrigerator.

I stumbled back to my
bedroom and slid on my jeans. My hand dove into my jean’s pocket
and pulled out a pile of crumbled up one-dollar bills. I guess I
haven’t worn these jeans since the last time I worked. I looked at
the wad of dollars in my hands, “Well, that’s enough for a soda!”
I threw on a T-shirt and worked my way down the hall to Chevy’s
bedroom.

After a few raps, I
hollered through the bedroom door, “Chevy, are you still asleep?
I’m going across the street to the store. Do you want anything?”

“Fuck off! I’m
sleeping!” Chevy grunted from beyond the door.

“I guess that’s a
No!”

I headed towards the
front door, not forgetting to grab my sunglasses as I walked out.
When I opened the door, I was assaulted with a fetid smell that
almost dropped me to my knees. Someone must have left out a trash bag
full of bad meat. I tried to blow the stink out of my nose and
switched to mouth breathing.

I worked on
straightening my dollar bills, still thinking about that rancid
stench, when I realized there were no cars on the road. The usually
bustling street was empty. There were no moving cars. There were no
kids playing on the street and the only sound I heard, was one of
those annoying car alarms from the nineties. You know the ones that
cycle through seven different obnoxious tones before the system
resets.

By the time I got to
the store, my curiosity began to peak. Where is everyone? And what is
that nasty odor?

I pulled on the store’s
door only to have my hand slip off the handle. It didn’t open.

“It’s locked?” I
queried.

What’s going on here?
It’s only noon, and they’re supposed to be open until midnight.

I yanked on the door a
second time, trying to help my mind grasp the fact that the store was
closed, and I would not be rehydrating with my precious soda. I stood
there staring through the shop’s glass door, running other options
in my head, when I was startled by a scream. It wasn’t the kind of
scream kids make playing outside. It was the kind that made the hair
on the back of your neck stand up. I spun around with my arms up and
stood in silence. I panned the street with my eyes. My ears perked
up! Nothing but silence. No more screams, no sounds, and no people.
Not even a breeze to blow away that dead, stale, smell of rotting
meat.

All of a sudden, a
sensation came over me. I had that feeling you get when you visit a
strange city and walk into a neighborhood where you certainly don’t
belong. It sent me into a mini panic, as if I was walking up the
stairs of a creepy basement. Movies have taught us that evil things
never attacked people in cellars, only once they’ve started up the
staircase.

I double timed it back
home, raced inside and slammed the door behind me. I peered through
the peephole as I reached for the lock, sensing I had been followed.
I didn’t realize how long I had been staring out of the peep hole
until I felt my eye drying out from not blinking. I pushed off the
door and ran down the hall screaming for Chevy. I swung open Chevy’s
door, still screaming. He sat straight up in bed staring at me.

Before I could catch my
breath, Chevy gave me a cautioning look. Like he was trying to warn
me of certain inherent danger. Was there someone behind me? Had I
been followed, and were they about to strike me down, attack me?

Chevy’s lips began to
move and my mind raced, should I run, or turn and fight? What is it?
Spit it out Chevy! What? What was Chevy trying to say?

October 3rd 8:00am

This was the second
time in thirty years of service Bob had been summoned to the White
House, and he didn’t like it. He could have done with less of the
bureaucracy and more time in the field. Too many gold leaves, bars
and stars. How he’d love to be back in Iraq or Afghanistan. Most
people would call them two of the worst places in the world, but
while he was there, Bob felt oddly comfortable. Almost like visiting
a second home. Commanding troops on the front line and digging into
the dirt with his men gave him a sense of purpose.

Now, that was no more.
He found himself on too many domestic details that made him consider
retiring and finding a nice cabin in the Rockies.

There was a woman
sitting behind the desk, wearing a telephone head set. She looked too
young to be a White House secretary. She would have fit in more if
she was strolling across one of the numerous university campuses in
the D.C. area.

“Hello Sir, may I
help you?” she said covering the microphone on her headset.

“Colonel Robert Aiken
here to see General Strong.”

“Yes, Sir. He’s
expecting you. Go right in.” With a smile, she motioned Bob to the
door, and went back to her phone.

The office was covered
with maps and books on military strategy. The General was standing
looking out the window, admiring the early crowd that had already
formed beyond the black iron White House fence.

“General Strong,
Sir.”

The General turned from
the window and shot Bob a smile, “At ease, Bob. Thanks for coming.
Have a seat.”

“Thank you, Sir.”
Bob sank into the hundred-year-old chair as an aroma of leather
tickled his senses.

“Bob, I’m sure you
know why you’re here. I need more information about this Palo Alto
situation.”

“I wasn’t aware it
had become a situation, Sir.”

“You know what I
mean, Bob.”

General Strong leaned
back in his chair and released an exaggerated sigh as he reached for
his pipe. It must have been a gift from his wife, decades ago,
judging from the worn briar wood bowl. As he lit the pipe, Bob’s
senses were overwhelmed with a bouquet of cherries and molasses. Five
or six short puffs, and the tobacco took on an orange glow, “Tell
me about the Ebola Bob.”

Bob fidgeted in his
chair, but couldn’t seem to find a comfortable spot, “Well, Sir,
it’s not good. As of now, our sources say Patient Zero began with
signs of a fever on the plane. Everyone on that plane is a possible
patient!”

The General spoke
through a ring of smoke, “How many passengers were on that plane,
Bob?”

“There were 414
passengers and six crew members.”

“Do we know where
they are now, Bob?”

“Sir, they’re
spread out across the US. To be honest, we’re not sure.”

“What!” the General
bellowed as he slammed his pipe on the desk.