The Flu 1/2 (36 page)

“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.

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.

Lodi, Ohio

September 29
^th

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.”