The Pandemic Sequence (Book 1): The Tilian Virus (2 page)

“Mr. Allard,” came the soft voice of Michelle Lafkin, a junior from his fifth period American History II class. She was the type of student every teacher dreamed of: studious, engaging, genuinely interested in learning, and not the least bit pretentious. She came from an impoverished home where the mom had long since run out, leaving Michelle’s father to raise her and her two younger brothers. She had the intelligence that all but guaranteed a full-ride scholarship to college, which would be the only way she could afford a post-secondary degree.

“Good morning, Michelle. What’s up?” Mike replied, happy to turn away from the barely decreased stack of ungraded work.

“Well, I was wondering if there was any way you could give me the assignments for the next few days? My brothers have the flu, and my dad can’t afford to take any more time off work, so I’m going to have to stay home with them for a bit.”

It was a very unusual request from Michelle. Since Mike had been teaching at John Moore, she was known to have one of the best attendance records. He normally was not a fan of the “take-out” style of education for absentees, but Mike knew that if this particular student made the request, the need must be genuine.

“Sure. Let me run and make copies of my notes and the worksheets for the next few days. It should only take a minute.”

“Thanks. My dad’s waiting in the car. I’ll just tell him I’ll be out in a bit.”

As the petite blonde hurried out of the room and towards the exit, Mike gathered his notes binder and made his way to the copy room.

As he approached the room, Mike thought he was in luck as the usual line of teachers making last-minute copies was nowhere to be seen. The spreading smile just as quickly faded when he saw why there were no teachers waiting for the copier.

Copier Out of Order
stated the hand-written sign taped to the top of the ancient machine. Unlike some teachers, Mike had not gotten in the habit of making copies at local office stores due to the copier’s fickle operational status.

“Son of a bitch,” he exhaled through gritted teeth, and returned to his room to find Michelle waiting.

“Bad news…the copier’s out again. But, how about this? After school I’ll make some copies at the library and drop them off at your house?” Mike offered.

Either out of embarrassment of her low-income home, or not wanting to have her teacher go out of his way, Michelle politely refused.

“No, you don’t have to do that, Mr. Allard. I can just catch up when I get back to school.”

“Nonsense. I pass your neighborhood on the way home. Besides, I owe your dad for the work he did on my truck. I’ll be there around five this evening.”

One of the benefits of teaching in a small, blue-collar town is the willingness of parents to offer their trade skills at ridiculously low prices. In this instance, Mr. Lafkin had repaired Mike’s muffler free of charge. Dropping off school work was the least he could do to return the mechanic’s kindness.

Beaming with gratitude, Michelle thanked her history teacher and rushed back out to her waiting father. As he turned back to his desk, the five-minute bell sounded through the halls.

Students began shuffling in, chattering about whatever Monday night television they had watched the evening before. The majority of the girls in this sophomore class were all too serious in their discussion of which woman had been given a rose and which had been sent away by the reality star du jour.

Though not much older than his students, Mike shook his head and smiled with amusement.
If only they could get into World War II the same way,
he thought. With a knack of tying popular culture into his lessons, his amusement grew as he began picturing a scenario in which Chamberlain hands a rose to Hitler to explain appeasement.

The late bell rang and the students took their seats. It always amazed Mike that students chose to sit it the same seats day after day, yet they would have balked if he assigned them seats. He greeted the class and began to take roll.

After sending the office his list of absentees—four in total—Mike continued his lecture notes on the Treaty of Versailles from the day before. For the next forty-five minutes, the class scribbled away in their notebooks. All too soon the bell rang and the students dispersed, quickly replaced by his second period World History class. The day rolled on, and the end of fourth period came quickly, which meant Mike had a lunch period to recharge before the final two classes of the day.

Opting not to trust his luck with the cafeteria’s culinary creations, Mike instead raided the vending machine in the teachers lounge. Today, unlike most days, the faces in the room belonged mostly to strangers. Mrs. Holigan had indeed had to call in back-up substitute teachers. Easing into one of the cushioned chairs around the conference-style table, he took in the lunchtime conversation.

“I just hope my kids don’t end up catching it. My husband just got over the flu. Last thing we need is another round of it.”

“Oh, I know! I heard at the middle school there was one class with only five kids.”

“I haven’t had a full class all day. Of course, all the delinquents managed to show up.”

This from the security guard turned substitute, who clearly disliked most teenagers, yet eagerly accepted any call to sub. As the conversation dragged on with teachers comparing class absences, Mike nodded and mumbled agreements in between bites of his strawberry Pop Tart and thought about his own classes. Yes, there were kids out sick, or claiming they were sick, but he usually had a few out each day. Third period was the only class that really stood out with eight kids absent. From the Northeast originally, Mike noticed that when the flu struck down South, it struck hard.

Spring break was next week, and he hoped he would not get sick. He had not been home to see his family since Christmas and was eagerly looking forward to the mini-vacation. With lunch almost at an end, Mike headed back to his classroom for the last two periods of the day.

* * *

Making the copies of his notes took less time than expected, and Mike was in his truck heading to the Lafkins. Michelle’s home was in a small, make-shift trailer park on a back road off the main thoroughfare. The five or six trailers that made up the park were placed close together and were connected by clothes lines. On most days, the view out of the brown-stained windows of the trailers was the dripping laundry of a neighbor.

Mike pulled into the gravel lot and parked in front of Michelle’s home. A minute or so after tapping on the screen door, a tearful Michelle appeared.

“Hi, Mr. Allard,” she said with a muffled voice.

“Michelle, what’s wrong?”

Stepping out onto the small landing at the top of the steps, the tired looking girl explained that her dad had taken one of her brothers, the younger one, to the hospital because his fever was quite high. She was home watching her other brother, who also seemed to be getting worse. A voice behind him interrupted Mike as he was about to offer help.

“Excuse me, can I help you?” asked a graying woman, in what looked to be her mid-fifties.

“Grandma, this is my teacher, Mr. Allard. He’s dropping off some work for me since I missed school today.”

With a kind smile, she said, “Not enough teachers like you these days…making house calls.”

“It’s on my way home, and Michelle is one of my star students. She told me about her brother. Is everything all right?” Mike asked.

The older woman’s face faltered slightly with the question, the concern was clear in her eyes, and he could hear the lie behind her words. “Ryan should be fine. They just had to get that fever down.”

After another minute or two of small talk, and an offer of help should they need it, he was back in his truck on his way home. He felt sorry for Michelle and her family. They had so little and he knew that a hospital visit was going to be very costly for them. The girl had all the potential in the world, but it seemed like the world was working against her. He smoked another cigarette while the truck sat in his driveway.

Gazelle was, as always, bouncing with excitement when he walked in the door. After feeding and walking her, Mike sat on the couch and began to flip through the channels. His appetite had waned during the ride home from the Lafkins. With nothing else of interest on, Mike settled for the local evening news.

…
to Vanessa Mitchell with more. Good evening, Vanessa.

Good evening, Chris. I’m here at Vanderbilt Hospital in Nashville, where administrators say they saw a surge in emergency room visits today from people complaining of the same flu-like symptoms. One doctor I spoke with said it is unusual for the flu to strike this widely, this late in the season. Across town at Methodist Hospital, the staff says they are facing the same crisis.

Vanessa, we have information coming in from our affiliates across the country with similar reports. Are you able to confirm that a flu outbreak is occurring in the middle Tennessee area?

Yes, Chris. A source at the Tennessee Department of Health confirmed to me that several cities across the country are scrambling to accommodate a veritable flood of emergency room patients.

All due to the flu?

Yes, patients are reporting symptoms which are concurrent with the flu. This is Vanessa Mitchell live from Vanderbilt Hospital. Back to you, Chris.

Thank you, Vanessa. That is certainly a story we will be keeping an eye on. Up next, how to protect your family from germs.

As a commercial began to play, Mike flipped over to one of the cable news channels:

…
from London and Rome with similar increases in flu cases.

To another:

…
has said it is rare for the flu to spread globally with such speed.

And to another:

…
already with more cases than the avian and swine flu combined.

Mike’s appetite did not return that night, nor in the early hours of Wednesday, as he sat glued to the television screen. Each hour passed with less and less actual new news. Most reports just repeated another; cities across the globe reported massive cases of the flu. It was during the 3:00 AM newscast, however, that something new was announced. The flu now had a name:

The Tilian Virus.

“Number fourteen’s dead. Mike? Umm…Mike?” came the voice from the shadowed figure in the doorway.

“Yeah.”

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, number fourteen’s dead.”

“Yeah, I heard you, Paul,” Mike Allard replied with frustration, finally lifting his head from the mound of maps and lists that covered the small work table. Like the table, the room was cramped, worn down, and too small for his needs. The camp was compact, as it needed to be for security, and therefore afforded very little privacy.

“Well, I’m just saying, the doc is gonna want a new one.”

“Well, maybe the doc should get off his fat ass and get the next one himself,” Mike exclaimed as his fist slammed on the desk, his eyes angry and glaring, locked with those of Paul Jenson’s.

Paul stood silent for a moment, letting Allard’s anger fill the space between them.

“
Can I
please
tell him that?” Paul eventually asked, the sarcasm evident.

With the bark of an unexpected laugh, Mike chuckled, “Yeah, how well do you think that will go over?”

Immediately the tension that had occupied the room seconds before was replaced with humor. That was Paul Jenson’s gift. In his late-twenties, older now than Mike had been at the start of the outbreak, Paul served as his second-in-command in the small refugee camp. Mike had bonded quickly with the former park ranger when they met on the road four years ago. With an aptitude for knowing the land, the young man had proven his worth early. Now, years later, Mike had grown to rely on Paul more than any other in the camp, and considered him not only his chief advisor, but also a friend. It was only due to his experience with mountain farming and land development that the refugees were able to set-up the high altitude camp.

Paul took the open seat by the work table and proceeded to brief Mike on any potential questions or situations that might be brought up in the council meeting. Each week, the core leadership team met to discuss and plan for the camp community. Paul had taken it upon himself to make sure Mike knew as much as he could before going into those meetings.

Shortly, the two men exited the scant warmth offered by the small room and headed into the chill wind of the Appalachian Mountains of Eastern Tennessee. The camp, which sat on the western face of the ridge, was composed of closely situated wooden structures and the occasional tent. Nestled in a small valley a third of the way to the peaks, the height offered a clear view of any approaching threat from below and ensured no risk from above.

The refugees had established the mountain camp some three years ago, at the end of a mild winter. Paul Jenson had helped them select the secure location, create small pockets of arable land, and build structures that would survive the strong winds of the mountains. The ragged community had survived its first winters in the mountains and was now preparing for a fourth.