by Ralph Gibbs
“Thank you, Meredith, for that informative interview,” Wolf said as he turned to the camera. “My guest today was the well-known Greek historian Meredith Johnson.”
“Thank you, Wolf. Please feel free to call on me anytime,” Meredith’s voice said from off-camera.
“Now, we are going to continue with our on-the-street interviews,” Wolf said. “Later this hour, we are also going to discuss the rumors that the president has relocated to NORAD. Now, though, let’s take you live to Lynda Alexander on special assignment on the outskirts of Columbia, South Carolina. Lynda?”
Lynda showed up on the screen wearing a professional blue and beige pantsuit, standing next to a large, fat white man dressed in jeans and a dingy wife-beater. The man wore a scruffy brown and gray beard and carried a rifle slung on his shoulders. There was also a pistol tucked into his waist. As soon as he realized that Lynda was starting the interview, he smiled, showing off several missing teeth.
“Great,” Danica said. “Every time the news interviews a person from the south, it’s like it’s a requirement for them to find someone with missing teeth.”
“Wolf,” Lynda said, her words muffled by a surgical mask. “I’m on the street here in Waxmill, South Carolina, which is about twenty-five miles west of Columbia. We were investigating rumors of a local militia group active in the area when we ran into Aaron Simmons, one of the leading members of the Sons of the Loyal South. He and several of his friends have been walking the city streets since before the president’s speech, and as you can see they’re heavily armed.” She turned to Aaron. “Sir, can you tell me what you and your friends are doing?” Lynda put the microphone to his face.
“We’re just patrolln’ the neighborhood keepin’ it safe from looters,” he drawled, in a thick southern accent. As much as he wanted to be interviewed, Danica could see the microphone intimidated him.
“Have looters been a problem?” Lynda asked.
“Not yet, but with the po-lice busy elsewhere, we fig’re it’s only a matta of time.” Aaron patted his rifle. “But we’re ready for ‘em.”
“What do you and your friends think of the government’s response, so far?” Lynda asked.
“The gov’ment?” Aaron said. “The gov’ment’s f’d up as usual.” Danica could tell Lynda had hit the man’s sweet spot. He livened up at the question, becoming more animated. He had probably waited his entire life for someone on television to ask him that question. “The gov’ment’s been fucked up ever since that nigger got elected to the White House.”
Danica’s eyes widened in shock. Something was wrong. Television normally bleeped out that sort of language. They were usually on a delay just for that reason. Lynda yanked the microphone back and hesitated and then continued with the interview.
“Sir, you know that President Obama hasn’t been in office for many years now?” Lynda said, hesitating to let the man speak again. When he started talking, she relented.
“So?” Aaron said. “Ever since he left, nigger-lovin’ and fag-lovin’ liberals have ruined this county. But now, the South is about to rise again and string up any nigger and faggot we see. Nigger lovers like you liberal media types.” At that, Aaron pulled his pistol and shot Lynda once in the chest. There were screams off-camera, both from people near the interview site and inside the CNN studio. Lynda’s microphone fell to the ground at Aaron’s feet, but her body thankfully fell out of camera view. Aaron pointed the gun at where her head would be and pulled the trigger twice more.
“Oh, my God!” Danica yelled, grabbing Matthew into her chest and shielding his eyes.
“I can’t see,” Matthew shouted. Danica watched in shocked awe as the gunman pointed his weapon at the cameraman. Instead of dropping the camera and running as any sane person would, the cameraman increased the angle to get a shot of all the men in the group. It was as if he wanted everyone to know who was responsible for his and Lynda’s murder. Danica couldn’t help admiring his courage, but courage wasn’t a shield. Aaron fired three rounds, and the camera hit the ground, bouncing twice before coming to rest, revealing the cameraman’s blue and red tennis shoes.
The television cut back to the CNN studios to show a shocked and speechless Wolf. Danica swept up the remote and pressed the power button.
“I think we’ve had enough of that,” she said. She was going to check on her brother when her cell phone received a text.
“Calling fm unk # - Dad.” A few moments later, she received his call.
“Dad?”
“Hello, honey.”
“Thank God,” she said, excited to hear his voice. “I’ve been trying to call Mom.”
“The CDC confiscated everyone’s phones.”
“How did you call then?”
“They put me in charge of taking the phones.”
“Why are they taking away phones?”
“Beats me,” he said. “It’s not as if people don’t know what’s going on. Personally, I think it’s part of an outdated playbook. They probably came up with their operating procedures before the president went live, and because they live and die by protocols, they are incapable of changing without a serious discussion. I’ve seen it before. Faced with an unknown situation, they fall back on procedures, even if the procedures don’t make sense.”
“I just watched a man kill two people on live TV,” Danica said and then explained what she saw.
“It’s getting chippy out there, that’s for sure,” her father said. “We’ve had three shootings here, and I don’t doubt we’ll have a more. The National Guard’s been called out. Frankly, I don’t know if that will make it better or worse.”
“Are you okay?” she asked, growing concerned.
“I’m fine.” Danica could tell he was lying. “Listen, I want you to go into the basement, open my safe, and arm yourself. You remember the combo?”
“Is it that bad out there?”
“Yes, and people are taking advantage of the situation. There’re reports of riots and looting in some parts of the city.”
“Are you and Mom going to come home tonight?”
“Probably not, honey. This place is like the roach motel. They let you check-in, but once you’re here, you’re not going anywhere. You’ll have to watch over your brother.”
“I think Bailey may have caught this thing that’s going around,” she said on the verge of tears. “He’s running a fever and has what looks like a small rash on his chest.” Her father didn’t say anything. “Dad?”
“How are you feeling?” he finally asked. Danica could tell he was trying to keep himself together.
“Okay so far,” she said, trying to remain calm.
“In the bottom safe, along with the guns, are some emergency supplies,” her father said. “Inside is a bag of antibiotics. Give two pills to your brother and take two for yourself. And then—and this will be the hard part—I want you to bring your brother to the hospital.”
“That’s not so hard.”
“I want you to drop him off and go home.”
“I want to be with you and Mom,” Danica pleaded.
“I know you do honey, but this isn’t the best place to be. You’ll catch whatever this is for sure.”
“I’ve already been exposed.”
“Not necessarily,” he said. “The CDC said some people seem to be immune. I don’t know if they were blowing smoke up our ass to keep the panic level down, but he was probably telling the truth. It’s also probable Bailey’s not contagious yet. I know this is hard, but I need you to do this.”
“I’ll get him ready,” she said, resigned to follow her father’s orders.
“One other thing. Take my cruiser.”
“Your cruiser? Why?” she asked, sounding confused. She’d never driven her father’s patrol car before.
“I don’t want you to get caught bringing in your brother, or they’ll force you into the hospital as a precaution,” he said. “Also, put on one of my uniform shirts. Just tuck it into a pair of jeans, p
ut your hair up and put on my spare hat. You’ll look like a trooper, and you have the attitude to pass for one easy enough. You’ll find an extra badge in my top right drawer. If people think you’re a trooper, they’ll be less likely to bother you.”
“Won’t you get into trouble?”
“Shit, at this point I don’t think it matters.”
CHAPTER 8
Agent Paris Ishida, dressed in her black and gray pantsuit, leaned back in her government-issued chair, feet propped up on the desk, flipping through a fist-size stack of mail, ignoring the ringing desk phone. When it didn’t stop, she finally answered hoping it wasn’t another person reporting someone naked staggering through their yard. The pools in Kentucky were filling up with naked people. She had already fielded nearly a dozen such calls today. Each time she had to tell them it was a local police problem.
“What do I pay my fucking taxes for?” most of them yelled.
“Federal Bureau of Investigation, Agent Ishida, how may I help you?”
“Hello . . . Paris,” a soft-spoken male voice said. “Your mission, should you accept, is to travel to Mammoth Cave, Kentucky, and find Dr. Gunilla Olofsson, a well-known Swedish virologist. If she is not there, you’re to track her down and escort her to Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado. Should you be apprehended, the US government will disavow your existence. Good luck, Paris. This message will self-destruct—”
“—Never, you old fool,” Paris said slamming down the receiver. She stared across the room at the only other agent in the building. “For God’s sake, Cleveland, do you have to do that every time?”
By default, Cleveland was the senior agent in charge, and her partner, at the Hopkinsville, Kentucky, field office. They were the only two agents left at the office, and she was only a year removed from the academy. Cleveland was a twenty-two-year veteran of the force.
Cleveland’s real name was Phillip Latham. It was a tradition at the Hopkinsville office, going back to when it first opened in the late sixties, that agents were given nicknames based on where they were from. If the name didn’t roll off the tongue, such as in the case of the former agent from Poor Farm, Vermont or if the name was a human resource incident waiting to happen, then exceptions were made. Being from Beaver Crossing, Nebraska, Paris was the HR exception. Lucky for her, with a name like Paris, she came with a readymade alternative.
“Oh, come on,” Cleveland said. “Let an old agent on his way to forced retirement, have a little fun.”
“You don’t know that,” Paris said with a hope that it wasn’t true, but a realization it probably was. At nearly sixty, Cleveland was considered past his prime as a field agent, but something in his past, something he never talked about, warranted his retention. Despite his annoying antics, which he said were to get her to lighten up, and maybe because of them, she liked the old fool. He contradicted everything she ever thought the FBI was supposed to be. He was like the grandfather every child wanted: adventurous, outgoing, overly giving, and funny. If Cleveland had grandchildren, she had no doubt he would have retired and spoiled them into rehab. But, that was not to be. His one son from his only marriage died in a car accident, and his marriage died along with his son.
“Please, if they were going to transfer me they would have done so months ago,” Cleveland said. “They’ll wait a few more months before shipping me off to the Old Agents Home.” Paris considered that in light of the recent recession and cutbacks, he was probably right, but they would wait to see if the two of them survived.
“At least you had a career.”
“Stop worrying. You’ll be fine. I promise.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“I’d say something about young people always in such a hurry, but I was the same when I was your age.” What he didn’t tell her was he already knew her fate, and his. The agency was going to let her go, but he made a deal to keep her on. Part of that deal was that he would remain her teacher for three years. At the end of the three-year term, he would retire. The head of the agency strongly disliked him but owed him a favor, so she jumped at the chance to see him removed from the active rolls. Though most of Paris’ training was technically complete, there was just one more thing he needed to teach her: how to have a life outside the agency.
“What’s the assignment?” Paris asked.
“I already told you,” Cleveland said, feigning exasperation. “We’re going Mammoth Cave to find a Swedish doctor.”
“After all that’s going on in this city, we’re going on a retrieval mission? Shouldn’t we be out there helping? The news is reporting rioting at pharmacies and grocery stores.”
“That’s the job of the local police.”
“They’re decimated. They need our help.”
Cleveland grabbed his keys. “Two more won’t make a difference. Besides, we have our orders.”
Paris gave up. “Picture?”
Cleveland plucked a piece of paper off the fax machine, photocopied it and handed it to her.
“Holy shit, she’s an Amazon,” Paris gushed.
“No, she’s Swedish. How are you ever going to make a competent agent if you can’t remember what I told you just moments earlier?” She ignored his jibe. Cleveland sighed. “Come on Paris, lighten up.”
Not taking life too seriously was the last thing he wanted, and needed, to teach her before he hung up his badge. It’s a job, not a life. He wished someone had taught him that when he first started. Maybe if he had, he would have spent more time with Scott.
Paris’ problem was she was stuck in the Hollywood stereotype. She thought she had to act tough to be successful in the job and for the other agents to respect her. The problem was that he knew it was all an act. When she thought no one was around, she would sometimes smile or laugh, lighting up her eyes. Both turned a room into a celebration of life.
Somehow, in the few months left to him, he needed to convince her to drop the Dirty Harry persona and let her real personality shine through. She would be happier for it.
Paris studied the photo of Dr. Olofsson. The woman was over six-foot-tall, with blue eyes and shoulder-length blond hair. She had angular facial features and an elfish build that gave her a cover model look, but there was a rugged quality to her that suggested an underlying toughness that a casting agent for any of the latest action flicks would love to discover.
“I’m driving,” she said, holding her hand out for the keys.
“I don’t think so,” he said, opening his desk drawer and taking out his surgical mask. He handed a mask to Paris. “If this flu, plague, whatever the hell it is doesn’t get me, your driving will.”
CHAPTER 9
Wade Harrington was pressing the raw hamburger meat flat when he heard the sharp ungreased shrill of the garage door announcing the arrival of his wife, Ivory. Wiping his hands, he moved to the living room and waited for her on the couch. Trying to appear casual, he put one arm over the back cushions and pasted on the alluring smile he had spent years perfecting.
“Hello honey,” Ivory said as she came in and dropped her purse on the small black antique table that once belonged to her grandmother. She began to remove her long white gloves. “This bug going around is putting a crimp in fundraising, so my day was pretty shitty.”
It was vintage Ivory to be so concerned with the plague’s effects on her fundraising efforts that she failed to grasp the full implications of what was happening in the world. And the public thought people like him were the monsters. Getting up from the couch, Wade wordlessly sauntered toward his wife, his alluring smile almost turning to a sneer.
“Oh,” she said, misreading his intentions. “Look who’s frisky.” Pleasantly surprised, as she was the one who usually initiated intimacy, she smiled and opened her arms to take him into a loving embrace. Wade punched her in the face, cracking her jaw. She fell back onto her grandmother’s table, smashing it as she dropped to the floor. Blood dribbled from her mouth, ruining one of her white gloves.
Donavan Bishop, a r
egistered sex offender from two blocks over bounded down the stairs two steps at a time. “Damn. One punch,” he said. “You should try the knock-out game. It’s fun.”
“You finished?” Wade Asked.
Donavan smirked. “It’s ready.”
“Grab her legs.”
The two of them carried Ivory upstairs, ripped off her clothes and stuffed a rubber ball gag in her mouth. As he watched Donavon chain Ivory to the bed, Wade felt neither regret nor relief, only indifference. When he and Ivory had married more than a decade ago, many considered her a trophy wife. Now she was pudgy, wrinkled and her naturally large breasts, once the object of envy and leers, were now saggy and deflated with age. However, her looks weren’t why he had married her, and her fading beauty wasn’t why he would kill her, or more accurately, have her killed. When he married her, two qualities drew him to her: she was rich and easily manipulated. Her inheritance, though, was drying up, and as a result, he could no longer live as comfortably as he wanted. She was even throwing around subtle hints that he needed to find a job. He’d never held a job in his life, nor was he about to start. Thus, it was time to make a change.
Once chained to the bed, Donavan, a virgin with women he didn’t call mom, frantically removed his clothing. With his penis gorged and ready, he climbed on top of Ivory. After several failed tries, Donavan screamed in frustration. He ran to the bathroom and found a bottle of baby oil. Hastily squirting it on her thighs, he cried out in triumph as he slid inside her. Ivory groaned in pain as she started to come awake. Wade decided to finish making his hamburger.
“I thought you were going to watch,” Donavan said, disappointed to see Wade leave.
“I want to wait until she’s fully alert,” Wade lied. “It’ll only be good for me if she’s awake.” In truth, sex did nothing for him. A discovery he made after trying sex with multiple men and women, including his drugged-up twin sister. Not once did it give him a moment’s pleasure, let alone satisfaction. For him, sex was a manipulation tool.