The Flu 1/2 (42 page)

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.”

“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.”