The Flu 1/2 (14 page)

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.”

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.