“Addy, have you seen my phone?” Taylor asked.
“No,” Addison paused around a large mouthful of food, “Have you already lost it?”
Taylor bristled and Peter stepped in quickly, “Forget phones and tablets, girls, and give your dad a few hours of one-on-one time.”
Bree rolled her eyes at Addison, “You know she lost it, she’s like a little kid. Always setting things down and forgetting them.”
“I didn’t set it down,” Taylor screeched, “I’m not some stupid baby!”
“Yes, you are, and now you’re whining like some stupid baby.”
“Girls!” Their argument momentarily silenced, Peter slapped more pancakes down on their plates. “We will play Monopoly and eat popcorn today.”
His three daughters stared at him.
The thirty-five-day incubation rate had fallen to twenty-seven days, then twenty-three days and then the really crazy, scary stories started coming out. A coroner who had performed an autopsy on an EMT drank formaldehyde, instigating a particularly hideous death. This was the biggest piece of news until his stash of kiddie porn was revealed. That occupied the news for a day or two until it was replaced with a police chief who died after eating a large portion of his collection of antique coins.
Peter Satler had, after hearing that disturbing update, insisted that everyone remain inside away from possible contagions or dangers. The family could hear gunfire and sirens coming from the center of their small South Carolina town a few miles away. Peter had lived in New York for most of his childhood. There were always sirens or traffic or people yelling there. Cities, with their higher populations compacted into small spaces were rife with it - there was no escaping that fact.
But a town of 15,000? It was rare to hear a siren more than a handful of times each year. When the two grocery stores in town had closed their doors, unable to get deliveries due to the current travel ban, a formerly friendly, easygoing town had suddenly become a rather frightening place.
They had plenty of food at the house. Gina, Peter’s wife, had been quite the do-it-yourself type. She had cajoled Peter into buying a house in the country, with acreage no less, and turned a dyed-in-the-wool city boy into a gentleman farmer cum cattle rancher. They had a small herd, just twenty-five head, and treated the creatures more like pets than food. Gina, who had grown up on a farm, had planted a large garden plot, raising all manner of crops and spent weeks canning each summer.
“We don’t need to worry about anything except toilet paper, Sweetheart,” she had told him, her round, tanned face smiling up at him.
And they hadn’t, she had cooked better than any meal made in a restaurant and was the cornerstone of her family’s existence.
That is, until the world had gone crazy. Soon after the stores closed, a virus-addled lunatic had smashed through the front gate on his all-terrain vehicle, running Gina Satler over and killing her instantly as she worked in her garden.
Addison, Taylor and Bree were still staring at him. “I’m not kidding girls, go get the Monopoly board.”
It had been three days since the funeral. By now, he had grown accustomed to his daughters alternating between sobbing and screaming, or doing both at the same time. Take teenage hormones, add a dose of “Sorry kid, some asshole ran over your mother,” and factor in the world going to shit with some crazy virus that will kill everyone. Take all of that, mix it around, and you have hysteria, mania and more.
He herded them all into the family room and pulled out the board, “We are going to play Monopoly.”
“Now?” Bree looked rather shocked as if it had no place in this house of sadness.
“Yes, now.” Peter’s tone brooked no argument.
His stomach churned, “Addison, will you pop some popcorn for us?”
He began organizing the Monopoly board, placing the cards on Community Chest and Chance, before moving to the real estate section.
“And Taylor honey, you can be banker.”
Taylor had recently delved into official teenage status with her 13th birthday nearly a month before, although Gina had remarked several times in the past year that Taylor had the teenage angst part down pat by the age of ten.
After the popcorn had been popped, the tokens were chosen, and the game begun, the Satler family were happily distracted for hours. They were distracted enough not to realize that they had eaten all of the popcorn, along with two quarts of homemade salsa and the last two bags of tortilla chips. After that, another run to the refrigerator cleaned them out of hot dogs, an enormous jar of pickles, and two stacks of fresh tortillas.
They had been running low fevers and had elevated appetites for several weeks before the anchor of their family had perished in her beloved garden. The virus had slowly crept into them, and in the waning hours of the day with the sun long sunk past the horizon, the virus activated fully. The Satler family, already staggering from the loss of a beloved mother and wife were squarely in the eye of the hurricane.
Bree, the oldest, a few weeks shy of seventeen, screamed in frustration as her piece landed on Park Place, which had a bright red hotel sitting on it, a property owned by Addison. Bree and Addison were often in competition, and the game of Monopoly was only one example of how fierce the competition between the two girls, born just eleven months apart, could be. Her stomach was twisting in hunger, interfering with basic addition as she struggled to count out the $1,500 she owed to her sister.
Addison, who had scraped her bowl of popcorn clean of salt, seasonings and even the un-popped kernels of corn, eyed the money greedily. As her sister handed over the money, Addison’s thoughts did not appear to be focused on the game. Maybe just a bite or two would help this awful hunger she felt.
As it slid down her throat, she gagged a little, the paper bunching against the back of her esophagus, sticking to the skin. She swallowed it down, reached over to her side, where the bank sat between her and Taylor and grabbed a fistful more. Taylor yelled for her to stop, but Addison ignored her, clearing out the $500 and the $100 slots before Taylor covered the rest with her hands.
Peter, in his own virus-induced fog, ignored them both as he tried to cram several sharp-edged houses and hotels down his throat. They hurt, a lot, but he was so hungry. It was a deep, grinding hunger. It wasn’t something to be ignored, or dismissed. In fact, it never occurred to any of the virus victims to fight it, even if they could think past the immediacy of it, past the demands of the disease which promised to kill them.
As the two girls squabbled over the Monopoly money, eating their spoils, Bree eyed the squares of real estate, grabbing first one, then another, stuffing the hard, stiff paperboard into her mouth, the corners of it stabbing into her cheeks and gums, and then into her throat as she swallowed them down.
It wouldn’t take long for the Satler family to down the remainder of the Monopoly game, slowed only by the board itself, which was too large to swallow whole and resistant to tearing teeth.
Major Tom
“This is the first age that’s ever paid much attention to the future, which is a little ironic since we may not have one.” – Arthur C. Clarke
Date: 06.21.2099
Juniper Supply Ship
“Can you hear me, Major Tom? Can you hear me, Major Tom? Can...you...hear...me?”
Amy’s voice was clear over the Comm in his quarters. Captain Thomas Sydan rolled his eyes, how many times had he heard that joke? That damned old song always came up when he did a run with new crewmembers.
He couldn’t help but smile at the thought of the voluptuous, and oh so attractive Amy Jenkins, even if she was spouting corny old worn-out jokes. She was Pacific Islander, with a voluptuous, impossibly tan body. Who could look at a woman like that and ever want some skinny chick again?
“Captain?” Amy’s concerned voice came over the comm.
“Major Tom here, Amy, what can I do for you?”
He could almost hear her relief over the comm.
“Mathers is on Communications
, Cap. He says he has a TP from the PLC, Captain’s eyes only.”
Amy’s hair was jet black and she kept it long but braided. He had to resist the urge to tug on it when he passed her in the corridors. They had met two weeks ago, a good week before departure from the Ptolemy Lunar Colony, and hit it off instantly. This was Amy’s first run to Mars on the Juniper and his second. The crews were constantly changing, especially now with all of the craziness going on down on good ole Terra Firma.
“You copy Captain?”
Less than a week ago, a state of emergency had been announced in the Reformed United States. By then, Tom had left the Chinese mainland heading for Gan De, the old international space station orbiting Earth, and then on to Ptolemy Lunar Colony a few days later.
He hit the comm link on his uniform.
“I’ll be there in half a tic. Save me a seat in the galley, I’m starving.”
The Juniper had left the colony yesterday, embarking on the long voyage to Mars.
The reports had been frightening, citing everything from isolated reports of cannibalism to a virulent form of pica. That one had been especially bad, although no one was knocking cannibalism, there had only been two reports of that, compared to the crazy pica on steroids that had killed at least 3,000 victims in the past three weeks.
“Will do, Cap!” Amy sounded chipper, back to her old self.
Tom’s stomach rumbled. He had put on a few pounds and, despite the extra workouts he had been packing in, he wasn’t losing them and he felt hungry all the time. Keep this up, old boy, and they will retire you under the Roly Poly clause.
There actually was a strict weight requirement, not that he was anywhere near being in danger of being in violation of it. Still, as the captain of the ship he needed to set a good example.
The first manned trip to Mars in 2066 had included bourbon shots at one-week intervals, beginning with the day of departure. That had set the tone for all missions that followed. Astronauts, much like sailors of old, were a superstitious lot. It wasn’t discussed, and a blind eye was turned when a bottle was smuggled on board. Even now the bourbon shots served as a tip of the hat to spaghetti westerns and the “olden days” when men were men and women were scarce.
Last night, warmed by the bourbon, Amy had teased Tom into a lively debate over the necessity of knowing how to fly and land a spaceship so easily controlled by computer automation. At one point, she had put her hand on his. The sparks had been there, sizzling between them, distracted only by a particularly bad joke being told by one of the other crewmembers, something involving a battery and a bar.
Perhaps he could figure out a way to invite her to his cabin after shift. He slipped on his ship shoes and headed for the command center.
A few minutes later, and despite the growling of his cavernous maw of a stomach, Captain Tom Sydan read the transmission packet.
Transmission Packet
PLC to JSS
/BEGIN TRANSMISSION
quarantine on Earth has FAILED. hundreds of Thousands dead, millions infected. Quarantine came too late – PLC and Gan De Space Station also showing signs of illness.
Speculation that incubation period of the virus is much longer than initially thought and that quarantine has been ineffective. Low-grade fever and elevated hunger are the only symptoms of infection. No other warning signs until virus activates. Death after activation occurs within 24-48 hours. Virus 99% infectious, 99% mortality rate. God be with you.
/END TRANSMISSION
Death after activation occurs within 24-48 hours.
Those words continued to scroll through his brain, even after he closed his eyes.
Low-grade fever, hunger.
Now he understood the increased appetite.
The spot in the galley seat, with the voluptuous Amy Jenkins, was forgotten.
“Cap?” Mathers was looking at him with mounting concern.
He had known Adam Mathers for over a year now. The man had a family back on Earth, two young kids. He had told Tom about them, adding that he was going to request Earth-side assignments after this.
“A year is too damned long time to be away from your children, no matter how good the pay is, Cap.” Adam had said as they watched the Moon rapidly dwindle in size in their viewports.
Tom had agreed. When and if he ever settled down, he would trade in his wings for tickle fights and a steady nine to five. Kids needed both parents.
“Get Sick Bay on the comm, Adam, tell them to suit up and prepare for full decontamination and isolation protocols. Stat.”
He resisted the urge to touch his skin, or anywhere else.
Virus is 99% infectious. God, Amy had touched his hand last night!
“Tell them I’m infected, share the transmission with them. I’m transferring command of the ship to you until Max is on deck.”
“Wait, Captain, wait!” Adam scanned the transmission, terror on his face. “We were all in that room with you together.”
As Tom turned to leave, Adam reached out and grabbed his arm.
“Tom! If you are infected, so are we. We shared that shot glass. 99% infection rate? Shit. We all have it by now. Hell, maybe we already did.”
There were eight crew members on the ship. And within minutes, it was confirmed. All of them were registering low-grade fevers ranging between 99.1 and 99.3. It wasn’t high enough to even be considered a fever for most. Something one would barely think twice about. They all confirmed elevated levels of appetite, some for more than two weeks.
Hours later, Tom looked around at his crew filling the galley. Yesterday they had toasted to a safe flight through the darkness of space, and now, they were receiving reports from the Earth and the Moon filled with ever-increasing doom and gloom. The group was solemn, quiet, and they were all looking at him for guidance.
The follow-up transmissions, arriving within minutes after they had confirmed the presence of the ESH virus, were grim. This was a death sentence.
In the cargo holds below decks were 30 Mars colonists. Eight families, with children, in Cryo. They had been in Cryo since leaving Earth nearly six weeks ago. Before things had gone to hell, before anyone knew just how bad this virus was.
Tom stared at the people he would spend the last days of his life with. Amy, Adam, the others.
How long did they have, really? Days? Weeks? Or mere hours? His stomach clenched in hunger.
“I’ve been feeling hungry for days,” remarked Matt, one of the lab techs, “Maybe more than a week now.”
“Perhaps we should we turn back?” Brett asked, he was barely out of his teens but a stellar navigator. This was his second mission to Mars.
Adam Mathers spoke up, his face haggard, “There’s no going back. We have it, all of us, they would never risk us landing and possibly infecting people who have escaped the virus so far.”
Amy put her face in her hands, “And we can’t risk infecting Mars.”
“Mars is dead if we don’t bring them their supplies,” added a short blonde.
Tom’s brain felt full of sludge, but he finally remembered her name was Sarah. She took care of the ship’s environmental systems.
“Mars is dead no matter what. Where are they gonna get any more supplies?”
The kid was speaking again. His eyes were swollen and his skin was blotchy. Then again, most everyone had had a crying jag by now, or it was imminent.
“We take this day by day,” Tom said, “keep communicating with Earth and the Moon and learn as much as we can. Mathers, you’ll collect the reports, give them to me, and we will have a meeting for all hands at 1800 hours each day.”
He paused and made eye contact with each of them in turn.
“We need to stay the course of this. There might be some treatment, some alternatives we aren’t aware of quite yet. Hang in there, everyone. Stay strong.”
Later, alone in his cabin, Tom thought of the last message he had sent his sister Sam. The transmission packet was a year or more away from being delivered s
ince the ship was currently in warp, shifting between the seams of space, pushing the barriers, there and not there.
He had been accepted for the Kepler mission, excited about the green light he had received to make a trip to another star system like his little sister was doing at this very moment. It wouldn’t have been the same, it couldn’t be, the Kepler system was over 1,400 light years away. The ship was being built in orbit around Earth now and was three times the size of Calypso.
The plan had been to fill it with nearly 1,000 colonists and crewmembers. Operating with a skeleton crew and self-automated, it would make the trip in just under 50 years although, for most, little or no time would pass at all.
He would never see it. None of them would. He knew it, deep within his soul, that there was no escape clause from this particular problem. Further transmissions from Earth had revealed that their greatest fears had been realized. The ESH virus was complicated, infectious, and viciously lethal.
Tom was a walking dead man, as was every other member of his crew. The only thing they could hope for was a relatively swift death.
If the poor souls in Cryo were very, very lucky they would not be infected with the virus. The ship would land, on auto-pilot, long after they were all dead. If they were able to keep themselves contained on the crew deck, the Mars colony could safely retrieve the colonists and the supplies from the floors below.
His wall comm beeped, indicating someone on the other side. He opened it, not at all surprised to see her. He didn’t say a word, simply took her hand and pulled her gently inside.
“Cap?”
“Just Tom.”
She managed a small smile, “Major Tom?
He smiled back, “No, just Tom.” And then he kissed her.
And two weeks after that...
Transmission Packet
JSS to MHO
Gliese 581 Page 22