The Flu 1/2 (13 page)

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

Winston Research Center

Weston, Virginia

August 29
^th

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.”