by Lee Beard
Two hours later, the passengers were getting very agitated. Most were well past due at their respective drop-off locations, many were exhausted, and all were tiring of the heat. Since he wasn’t sure how long they would be stuck in traffic and the bus’s fuel tank was low, the driver told everyone that he could only turn the bus on intermittently. The bus would turn on, blast everyone with freezing cold air for seven minutes, then turn off and roast the passengers for fifteen. The shades on the windows had long been lowered to try and beat the heat, but by 4 o’clock some of the passengers had had enough.
“I can’t take it anymore!” A very sweaty man in the middle of the right row stood up. “How long would it take to walk to the nearest town?”
“Well, ah,” the bus driver stood and took off his hat to scratch his bald head. “Tyler’s the closest, and that’s still fifteen miles out. I can’t let you attempt that in this heat, sir. You’re much safer in the bus.”
The man sat down hard, shaking the whole bus. Gina rested her head on the back of the chair, looking to the call buttons attached to the roof. She could swear the heat shimmered above her. She rolled her head to the right and noticed that she was no longer alone on the row: the fast-reading boy who had gotten on at the last stop was perched a few seats over. His dark eyes were abnormally large for his face, giving him the look of a perpetually stunned owl.
“Hello,” he said, smiling quickly. “I uh, just finished my book and was admiring your dog and just thought you looked a bit lonely sitting back here by yourself. But I guess you’re not really by yourself because your dog is here, too.” He blinked a few times in rapid succession. Gina’s face remained blank. “So um, my name’s Louis, what’s yours?”
“Gina.” She straightened her neck.
Louis nodded at Hank. “And who’s this?”
“Hank,” Gina replied.
“Like Hank the Cowdog?” Louis grinned.
“Yeah, I guess,” Gina said.
“That was one of my favorite series when I was younger,” he said. “Well, that and pretty much any scary story I could get my hands on. Gotta love those!”
“Interesting.” Gina leaned her head back on the headrest.
“So,” Louis continued, “Where are you two heading?”
“Alabama,” she replied absentmindedly.
“Visiting family?”
“Sure.”
“Me too!” Louis’ face lit up.
Gina looked at the boy from the corner of her eye. “Really?”
“Uh-huh!” Louis nodded. “My grandparents live just outside of Birmingham. My mom used to live in Alabama, but moved to Seattle for work where she met and married my dad. Fun fact, I was born while my parents were vacationing in Canada, so I’m technically Canadian. Eh,” he added with a grin. “But I do have a dual citizenship, so I’m American, too! My parents were just going to fly me to Alabama, but I thought it’d be more fun to bus it. You can see a lot more sights this way, and you can stop at all the iconic places along the route!” His voice had been growing progressively louder, ending the last sentence in an almost shout. “Am I talking too much?”
“Yes!” One of the passengers three rows up said exasperatedly.
“Oh. Sorry,” he whispered, ducking his head slightly.
The corner of Gina’s mouth twitched upward in amusement. “So, Seattle?”
For a while, Louis and Gina swapped stories. Louis did most of the talking, resetting his volume every so often so to not anger the nearby passengers. The conversation was sporadic, never lingering on one topic too long.
“…So yeah, I prefer sifting through my dad’s library instead of modern books and films. Everything nowadays just sounds the same,” he waved a flat hand dismissively, 30 minutes after beginning his latest monologue. His slightly-too-large head and jerky gestures reminded Gina of a marionette.
“Alright folks,” the driver’s voice echoed overhead, “Traffic’s started moving again.” A few of the passengers cheered as the bus jolted to a crawl.
Gina awoke the next morning to Hank’s whimpering. The bus was parked at a rest stop, so she grabbed the leash, her bag, and took the mutt outside to a nearby tree. After he did what he needed to do, Gina took him with her into the building. Inside was a small seating area with various vending machines, and the passengers of the bus sat around eating and chatting. Louis spotted her from his table against the wall and waved frantically for her to come over, looking a bit like a drowning man. Gina bought a sandwich from the vending machine and slid into the chair in front of Louis.
“Good morning, Gina!” Louis chirped. “Looks like we won’t be in Alabama until Friday night at this speed, but that should be fine, right? I mean, at least we’re moving.”
Gina unwrapped one of the sandwiches and gave it to Hank. “Why didn’t anyone wake me?”
“Oh, sorry, that was my fault,” Louis replied, “You were sleeping so hard and looked so exhausted yesterday that when the driver turned on the lights and most everyone left and you and a few other people were still sleeping, I didn’t want to wake you.” Gina raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, that sounded creepy, didn’t it?” Louis grimaced. “I didn’t mean for it to, I swear.”
The corner of Gina’s mouth twitched upward. “Could you hold him for a minute?” She held the leash out to Louis. “I’ll be right back.”
“Sure!” Louis took the leash and scratched behind Hank’s ear. Gina stood, picked up her bag, and made her way to the bathroom.
After washing her hands and face and reapplying deodorant, Gina stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her green eyes had dark circles beneath them and the spattering of freckles across her small nose seemed more prominent than usual. For the first time since leaving Treaten, doubt crept into her mind. What if the police find out I set the fire? What if they think I killed Dirk? What if they try to find me? What if Aunt Rita won’t take me in? What if… She shook her head, snapping out of it. Deal with those problems when and if they happen. Stepping into the main room, she could’ve heard a pin drop. Gina followed everyone's gaze to the glass door. Outside, the driver paced back and forth, talking into his shoulder radio.
“What’s going on?” Gina asked, sliding back into her seat. Louis’ lower lip was sucked into his mouth, his brows knitted together.
“The President’s ordered a national lockdown,” Louis stated, his eyes never leaving the driver.
“What?” Gina frowned. “Why?”
“There’s been some sort of virus outbreak, and he’s declared a state of emergency. Only fuel and food trucks are being allowed in and out.” Louis turned to Gina, his face grim. Hank put his head on Gina’s knee and sighed, earning a scratch behind the ear.
“Who’s he talking to?” Gina looked to the driver, still mumbling into his radio.
“His supervisor, I think.” The driver adjusted his hat, yawned, and glanced over his shoulder to the waiting passengers. He talked into the radio a bit more before walking back into the rest stop. The smile he offered looked forced as he wiped the dampness from his forehead.
"Alrighty, folks, sorry for the wait. My supervisor says that since we're inside the quarantine zone, there's really nothing we can do except journey on. I've been told that whoever wants to continue on the route will be welcomed to do so, and anyone who wants to stay will be refunded half of their ticket's purchase price. The President says that they're working on figuring out the problem, so I think we should just let them handle things-"
"Let them handle things?" One of the men spoke up, his face pale and sweaty. "How do we know that they didn't cause this? They're always doing who knows what with genes and stuff, who's to say they didn't create it just so they could make us pay them for a vaccine?" A few of the others muttered in agreement.
"I don't know." The driver looked calmly at the man. "I'm just telling you what I've been told, sir."
"I don't know about you all, but I'm sure as hell not getting back on that bus," the man folded his arms and settled i
nto the chair.
"That's fine, sir, the company is more than willing to reimburse you. But because of our schedule, I'll need to ask that anyone who plans on continuing the trip to board as soon as possible for departure in thirty minutes." The driver turned on his heel and went out the door.
People started whipping out their cellphones to contact relatives and friends and let them know of the change in plans.
Louis looked to Gina. "What are you going to do?"
It's not like I can turn around and go home. At this point, there were only two options; stay in whatever poor excuse for a town they were in or ride the bus to the end of the line.
Gina glanced at Hank. "I'm going.”
Chapter Eight
Yonkers, NY
Saturday Night, Week Two
The doctors and attending nurses tried for fifteen solid minutes to stabilize Housely.
“Charging… Clear!” Mitchell pressed the pads into the man’s chest. His body twitched as the electricity coursed through it, but the heart monitor continued to slow. “Come on!” Mitchell yelled in frustration as the machine flatlined. “Charging… Clear!”
Renshaw laid a hand on Mitchell’s shoulder. “Let it go, Steven. He’s gone.”
Mitchell stepped back, slamming the pads into the cart and glancing at the clock. “Call it.”
“Time of death, 12:14 AM.”
Mitchell wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve and left the room. The other doctors followed him out just in time to watch him slam his fists into the wall.
“It doesn’t make any sense! He was fine two days ago. What the hell could have done that to him?”
“There was something seriously wrong with him before he even got here.” Foster said. “Whatever this was, it caused his blood to thicken.”
“Coagulation? Like a clot?” Hill asked.
“No, it was like someone had drained all of his blood and replaced it with Jello.”
“What?” Mitchell put his hands on his hips. “That’s not possible. He would have died long before it could get to that point.”
“I know it’s not possible, but it happened,” Foster said, shaking his head. “Go see for yourself.”
The team went back into the room and tapped a vein. Sure enough, the blood was just as Foster had described. Mitchell transferred it into a vial and the team rushed it to the lab. When Mitchell got a sample under a microscope, even more red flags went up.
“He’s got a third of the white blood cells that he should, and more than three times the concentration of red blood cells.” Mitchell sat back in the lab chair. “The hell does this mean?”
“Who knows,” Renshaw yawned. “There’s nothing else we can do for him now. I think we should sleep on it. I don’t know about you all, but I’ve been running on overtime for the past five hours.”
“I’ll send the body to the morgue and order a final search for friends and family members,” Hill stated.
“You guys go ahead,” Mitchell rubbed his eyes. “I’m going to stay just a little longer.”
When the team returned to the hospital late Sunday morning, Foster found Mitchell asleep on one of the couches in the break room.
“Mitch?” Foster shook his shoulder. “Did you stay here all night again?” Mitchell rolled over slowly. He was uncharacteristically pale, his five-o-clock shadow and dark circles giving his face a sunken, ghostly appearance. Foster took a step back in shock. “Geez, man, you look like death.”
“I’m fine,” Mitchell sat up, blinking wildly. “What do we have on Housely?”
“Nothing yet.” Foster sat on the couch across from him. “Mitch, why don’t you go home? Take a couple days, spend some time with Audrey and the boys. We’ll call you if anything turns up.”
It took some convincing, but Dr. Mitchell did finally leave. But by the time he got home, he was too tired to do anything but sleep. On Monday, since no family had been located for the deceased, the team – minus Mitchell – ordered an autopsy. Shortly after the coroner started the procedure, the team was called down to the morgue. The coroner met them at the elevator, explaining as they walked that the body wasn’t acting like a normal cadaver. Instead of the blood settling, it had frozen. Somehow, the blood had hardened to glass. To add to the confusion of all present, the body seemed to be mummifying itself.
“Compare his skin to how it was when he first came down here,” the coroner licked his dry lips as the team stood around the autopsy table, “The skin’s developed wrinkles that weren’t there before. And more than that,” he adjusted his goggles and pointed into the abdominal cavity, “His internal organs are shriveled and drying. It’s as if all the moisture has evaporated from the body.”
On Monday afternoon at the Nanton house, Nurse Marianne was just waking up. On Saturday, she was so worn out from the reunion that she slept for 12 hours. Her husband tried to convince her to make a doctor’s appointment to see if her thyroid was acting up, but she insisted that as a nurse, she would be the first to know if there was anything wrong. He muttered that she should listen to him, and when Marianne managed to drag herself out of bed, she wished she had. She stumbled into her bathroom, and was shocked when she caught sight of herself. She called for her husband and collapsed onto the floor, unconscious. Mr. Nanton rushed her to the emergency room when he couldn’t wake her. They did everything they could, but much like Housely, it just wasn’t enough. Four days after contracting the disease, Marianne Nanton was dead.
Mercy Heart and the surrounding hospitals soon found themselves with an influx of anemic and jaundiced patients. Neither ailment was contagious, so it was just brushed off by the medical staff as coincidence. It was only after every person who came through with those symptoms died that anyone realized there was a serious problem. It took three days after that for anyone to alert the authorities, who then alerted the CDC, and on up the ladder to the WHO.
A month after the unwitting Housely landed at the California airport, it was over.
***
Watertown, NY
Thursday, Week Three
The next day, Zach was back at Holt’s. He clocked in as usual, dropped his backpack off at his locker, retrieved his hard hat, and was headed for the warehouse floor when the supervisor called him over.
“Carter! I told you to take a day off.” The supervisor was a red-faced man who always seemed to be carrying at least three clipboards.
“I did take a day off,” Zach replied.
“No, you called yesterday and I told you to take a mandatory bereavement day.”
“Yeah, and I didn’t come in yesterday, did I?”
“Grief-stricken employees make mistakes that we can’t afford to happen,” the supervisor said.
“Is that quote directly from The Supervisor’s Handbook?” The supervisor’s eyes narrowed and Zach sighed. “I really need the hours, Mr. Flannigan. Please.”
The supervisor’s face softened for a moment before toughening back up. “Fine. But if you screw up…” He let the threat trail off, presumably to let Zach imagine what might happen.
“Got it.” Zach turned on his heal and headed for the floor. There was a new shipment to unload at the far end on the warehouse, and it was Zach’s job to unpack the crates from the even bigger crates.
“Hey, Zach!” Zach looked to the left to see Garret Jensen jogging toward him. Garret was shorter than Zach – at 5’3 only coming to his chin – and armed with muscles far too bulky to belong to an 18-year-old. “Heard about Oleson.”
“Yeah.”
“Look, if you need a day off or something, I can cover your shifts…”
Zach shook his head. “Nah, man, it’s fine. It’ll get my mind off it. ‘Sides, I’ve got boots to replace.” He halfheartedly grinned, slapped Garret’s arm, and continued toward the awaiting boxes.
“Yeah, okay,” Garret nodded, following alongside.
Around 11 o’clock, the emergency alarm suddenly sounded. Zach immediately set down the crate he was carryin
g to stack on the back of a truck and headed briskly for the front door along with everyone else. Once everyone was gathered outside, the alarm shut off. The 30 men began to talk amongst themselves.
“What’s going on?” Garret appeared at Zach’s elbow. Flannigan stepped forward from the crowd, holding a clipboard and wearing a somber face. A hush fell over the crowd.
“I think we’re about to find out,” Zach replied.
“We’re closing up early today,” Flannigan began. “There’s been an outbreak of some sort and the President has told everyone to sit tight until the CDC finds a solution to the problem. Mr. Holt called me ten minutes ago and told me to send you all home early.”
“What about our pay?” One of the men asked. “We’ve got families to support, man.”
Flannigan nodded with a yawn. “I know, and Mr. Holt is fully aware of that, so that will be dealt with next payday. However, until he tells me otherwise, we’re shut down.”
When Zach got home, the car was gone from the driveway. He went inside and dropped his backpack on the couch. “Mom?” He walked down the hall, but her room was empty. “Huh.” He glanced at the fridge to see if she’d left a note, but there wasn’t one. “Must’ve gone to the store,” he said to himself, glancing at the pile of dishes in the sink. Retrieving his lunch from his backpack, he sat on the floral couch and flipped the TV to the 24-hour news station. An overly-tanned brunette was mid-sentence when Zach finally found the correct channel.
“…having to turn people away because there simply isn’t enough room to keep up with the influx of patients. Coming up next, what exactly are the symptoms of this pandemic, and what can you do to avoid exposing yourself to it? Later on, we’ll list the top ten germ-killing cleaning agents, and how to use them.” Zach looked out the window beside the TV and ate his sandwich as a pair of poorly-animated CGI lions tried to convince him that their toilet paper was better than their competitors’. He glanced at the clock on the wall, unsure of what to do with the foreign amount of free time. His eyes wandered around the room absentmindedly, stopping on a basket of laundry at the end of the couch. He stuffed the remainder of the sandwich into his mouth, dusted his hands off on his pants, and reached for the basket.