by Mike Chen
Part 3:
ENEMIES
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Krista
The last time news of an outbreak and government-mandated restrictions went public, panic had carried through the air. Who needed a killer virus to ruin things when people let themselves devolve into sheer assholes? From the third story of the shared Brooklyn townhome Krista lived in back then, noises had spiked through walls: breaking glass, car horns, and bursts of yelling. Between Krista’s ankles, then two-year-old Mick didn’t seem to be bothered by the noise, his tail curling up and around her legs as he did figure-eights, a reminder that the dying boyfriend in the bed shouldn’t preclude her from opening a can of cat food.
Krista hadn’t loved Anthony. She knew that, and had no intention of staying with him long term, but in those college-graduate days, she had found him a total palate cleanser after Jas: nice and attractive, charming at times, and the sex was good, but he was more of a passing fad, a trend, a fond memory tucked away for later. The best part about him? He didn’t matter.
At least until the last few days, when he’d fallen ill, first with sniffles, then a fever that topped out at a hundred and eight, and then his sweat-covered body convulsed, his mouth uttering unintelligible sounds, coupled with the occasional whimper. Had she not seen the rapid deterioration with her own eyes, Krista would have never believed such timid, sorry noises could have come from a former college hockey player.
Anthony wasn’t long-term material but that didn’t mean that she wanted him dead. Krista dialed 911 again, only to hit the brick wall of a busy signal.
Downstairs, the front door slammed, reverberating through the house. Had the looters finally gone past the markets and shops and attacked the neighborhoods? Beneath her T-shirt-turned-germ-mask, sweat trickled down her cheeks and she cut the lights, shooing Mick away for the moment. Her fingers reached to the nightstand next to Anthony’s barely breathing body and wrapped around the metal form of a rusty box cutter, thumb pressing down to slide the blade open.
Beneath them, most likely on the second floor, a door shut. Whoever it was failed the subtlety test. Krista flipped the box cutter so it sat blade down, like she’d seen in so many spy films. She grasped the doorknob when a voice broke through the silence.
“Wai Lin? You here? Come on, we got to go.”
Male voice. And Wai Lin was the guy with the room across the hall. Krista opened the door and stepped out, shutting it behind before Mick could wander into the hallway. “He’s not here,” she called out behind her mask, knife behind her back.
Footsteps echoed as the silhouette of a man trotted up the stairs to meet her, and though the light was dim, his details still came through. She must have gotten used to seeing in the dark after a few days of candlelight and unstable power. Deep bags set under his eyes, and he looked like he had a naturally skinny frame and dark skin. If this had been two weeks ago, he probably would have been fashionable, his jagged haircut styled up, his body at a healthy trim size, lean and fit. But the man who stood before her looked dialed down several notches, from the tired eyes to the slanted chunk of dirty hair that poked out from underneath his hood. “You his roommate?” he said, the r curled in a Puerto Rican accent.
“Yeah. I moved in two weeks ago. Met him like twice.” Krista glanced behind her, her fingers flexing against the box cutter’s handle. “Haven’t seen him since this all began.”
“Me neither.”
“You his friend?” she asked him.
“Sometimes. Sometimes more. Sometimes less.”
“Well, he’s not here. I think,” she said, adjusting her posture to appear taller, “you should probably go. We’re holding things down here.”
“Go? That’s what I’m trying to do. The buses for the Staten Island quarantine are scheduled. Running hourly out of JFK. Who knows when the next quarantine block will be? Could be tomorrow, could be weeks.”
“You can’t get there now. The road’s blocked. It’s been chaos. This is what happens when a pandemic coincides with a stupid pop concert.”
“No, you don’t drive. You run there.”
JFK Airport. That was six or seven miles across normally quiet neighborhoods, though the past week had been anything but quiet, including the fires at Ozone Park—the last area she’d heard riot reports from. “You can’t run through there. You’ll get killed.”
“You can. If you know the way. I’m heading there now.” The man pulled back his hood, his unkempt hair swishing in a bunch of directions, though it couldn’t hide the bloody gash across his scalp. “I’m Alejandro.”
“Krista.”
“Look, I know Wai Lin was mad at me last week, but that shit doesn’t matter anymore. I’m grabbing anyone on the way and getting to quarantine before la monga kills me. Or the people. They’re worse.” His shoes scuffed against the floor, toes kicking into the thin carpet. “You alone?”
The blade remained behind her, though trembles started to take over her arm. She couldn’t actually use it, could she? “No.”
“More roommates? Friends?”
“My boyfriend.”
“Get him. Let’s go. I’ll show you how to get to the quarantine buses.”
Krista knew how to read bullshitters. She’d seen them her whole life.
Alejandro was honest.
“I can’t.”
“He doesn’t want to go to quarantine?”
“No. That’s not it.” She lowered her mask, its sweaty knot resting now against her neck.
“La monga. Sorry, ‘the flu.’ How long?”
“Fever hit two days ago.”
Alejandro groaned, low at first before becoming loud enough to bounce across the small hallway, his head shaking the whole time. He looked up and locked eyes with her. “It’s too late. You should come with me.”
“What do you mean it’s too late? They said stay in bed, stay hydrated. It’s not necessarily fatal. Some people break out of it.”
“Some. Not many. They’re trying to stop panic. Like, people-killing-each-other-in-the-streets panic. You really believe it? You honestly think he has a chance?”
Krista closed her eyes, picturing Anthony’s purple lips and pale skin, drained of color even by candlelight, the only sounds coming from the occasional blood-sputtering cough or unintelligible gibberish.
“Death toll’s already at two billion worldwide. You won’t hear that on the news, but it’s true. Asia, Eastern Europe are decimated. I’ve heard rural China is basically gone. Like totally gone. Think about where you were two months ago when this was just a thing in the news. And now, look around. It’s coming in waves and each wave is getting bigger. Look at how fast it’s spread. Look at him.” Alejandro pulled his phone out of his pocket, briefly illuminating the hallway with its clock before putting it away. “Quarantine. It’s the only safe place to go. They say everyone is welcome but that can’t be true. There’s only so much space. Punch your ticket now.”
Behind her, Mick’s meow came through the door, followed by a quiet scratching sound. Alejandro didn’t appear to hear it.
“Look, you don’t have to trust me. I’m just offering you a way out. Stay with your boyfriend if you want. I’ll get going.”
The scratching intensified, a rhythmic push-and-slide against the door’s thin wood. “How do you know that I don’t have it?”
“You’ve been around your boyfriend for two days and you don’t have a fever. You’re good for now. Don’t ask why, just say gracias dios. Because if you don’t go to quarantine, you might get it later. I’ve seen it.”
They stood in silence, the only noise coming from Mick’s incessant door-scratching and a sudden screaming outside. Alejandro looked down the stairs, then at her, then back down. “All right. Good luck, Krista.” He turned without hesitation and trotted down the stairs, his legs going from zero to sixty instantly.
&nbs
p; “Wait.”
Alejandro’s silhouette stopped halfway down.
“Give me a minute.”
“You saying goodbye?”
“No.” Krista opened the door and picked up Mick in one motion, shoving him face-first into the cat carrier sitting in the corner of the room. She tossed a stack of wedding magazines off her backpack—not material for life with Anthony, but research for her job at a lifestyle web magazine—and unzipped the top pouch. She stuffed in an extra pair of jeans, some T-shirts, her phone charger, and a few bottles of water. She dumped kibble onto the floor in a rattle, shrinking the cat-food bag to about half-full, just enough so she could roll it up and force it into her backpack. She threw open a desk drawer and grabbed her wallet. Underneath sat a small pile of emergency cash, and as her fingers wrapped around the bills, she wondered if credit cards would work in quarantine.
Probably not.
Across the room, Anthony mumbled in his delirious sleep, nonsensical words coming out through his raspy throat.
She’d figured it was just a fling. But knowing this would be the last time she’d see him, that the world would see him, the very notion took hold of her, frightening her in a way that she hadn’t felt in years. The urge to scream and cry battled to release, and she stood, hands shaking at her side, shoving it all downward as quickly and thoroughly as possible.
From the corner, Mick started to meow in his carrier. She closed the box cutter, put it in her back pocket, and grabbed the cat carrier’s handle. Her other pocket buzzed, a reminder that the world’s satellites still worked, and she took a moment to check.
A text.
From Jas.
The world is going to shit. I wanted to make sure you’re not going down with it. Let me know you’re OK. Things are better with Krista Deal running the show.
Her fingers had moved reflexively on the phone’s screen, powered by the relief of knowing that Jas was still out there, still thinking of her. I’m here, she typed, going to quarantine. Make sure to bring some good music.
She hit Send on her phone, but a big red X kept flashing—no signal. She didn’t know it then, but that would be the end of cell phone calling for some time, the infrastructure for commercial communication would also pause. In the moment, though, all she could do was resist the tears born out of frustration. Crying was weakness, vulnerability, giving the outside world—or her family—the upper hand.
But the feelings welled up. Not looking at Anthony. Not contemplating his mortality, or the fragile nature of the outside world. But Jas checking in with her when chaos was overtaking everything—that was enough to trigger something in her, even for a blink.
Krista closed her eyes, waiting for the moment to pass. Then she shoved the phone into her pocket, made sure Mick’s carrier was locked, and headed down to meet Alejandro. That night, they ran, Alejandro leading her through roads and alleys filled with torched cars, smashed storefronts, and street brawls, all toward the quarantine buses, the black sky capping a glowing orange from the ravaged city skyline.
It had been the start of chaos.
Tonight’s outbreak was more civil. The world seemed to be on much better behavior, at least from the view of the Donelly living room.
“They’re just repeating the same thing now.” Krista adjusted her weight, her left leg and her butt asleep from sitting on the floor. Nearly three hours had passed since they’d sat down together, Rob and Moira on the couch and Krista on the floor, knitting the bulky yarn she’d had in the car. Sunny came and went, heading upstairs to play before coming back down and finally crashing, her head in Krista’s lap. Perhaps the rhythmic clinking of the knitting needles put her to sleep.
“West Coast states haven’t made a statement yet. Maybe that’s a good thing?” Rob said.
“Or the feds are withholding information. Trying to take back some level of authority. I bet all five political parties are in on it.” Moira’s governmental disdain came with surprising tangibility in tone, though when Krista looked at her, she just leaned back into the couch and stretched, face betraying nothing.
“The local Family Stability Board has set up emergency intervention hotlines in hopes of preventing any Greenwood-type incidents. And we’ve got breaking news,” the TV anchor said. He’d been on the air for about two hours without commercials, in addition to however long he’d worked before they switched the TV on, and even the magic of lighting and makeup couldn’t conceal the layer of sweat forming across his bald dome. “The Center for Disease Control is making a statement. Now let’s send you to the CDC’s Laurie Martinez.”
The screen cut to a woman standing behind a podium, the sound of cameras clicking in the background. A muffled voice came over the TV, asking an incomprehensible question. “The appropriate response is to limit travel there,” she said. “This new strain, which we’ve identified as MGS 96, works slower than the original virus.” The woman frowned, then adjusted her microphone. “We’ve seen it in action, and the reason we believe travel lockdowns are appropriate is that the symptoms appear within 24 hours and can be easily identified, though death occurs in fifteen to twenty days, much longer than the 85 strand. If someone had it, they wouldn’t be able to travel.”
“Well, that’s good news,” Krista said.
Rob looked her way and huffed out a sigh. “This is no time for jokes.”
“Who’s joking? We know that none of us are infected because we’re sitting here and not suffering from an impossible fever. Isn’t that good to know?”
“She has you there,” Moira said. Krista leaned over to nod at Moira, but she didn’t even notice; she was too busy nudging Rob with her elbow.
“Is it true that federal agencies have known about a potential outbreak for months? Possibly years?” a reporter asked.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“First Miami, now all over—”
“I can’t confirm that they are all directly related.”
“The Chicago Metro’s website network was reporting a number of cases there before all traces of the articles were removed. Has the federal government assumed control of each regional Metronet?”
“I won’t comment on rumors or speculation.” A clamor of questions created a wall of voices, which finally stopped when the woman held up her hand. “I’m going to turn this over to my colleague on the phone. Dr. Dean Francis is one of our leading researchers and is working on a potential vaccine with an international team.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Krista said, jolting upward. “Not this asshole.”
Both Rob and Moira straightened up. “Krista!” Rob motioned toward the sleeping Sunny in her lap as he shot off a disapproving groan.
“Sorry, sorry. That’s my uncle. He’s an ass—he’s a jerk.” Krista stared at the screen, as if she could reach through and slap Uncle Dean via electronic signal. Maybe she’d even probe him to see if her mom was alive. Purely for informational purposes.
“Jerk or not, he’s working on a vaccine.”
Uncle Dean’s voice came over the TV, and the woman at the podium was quickly replaced by a stock photo of him. Even there, he seemed like an asshole. “We are working with medical teams all over the world. We’re all sharing data as I speak. Internationally, governments—including ours—have granted us access to high-speed satellite networks for this. We’re moving much faster than what you experience on your home computer.”
Sunny stirred, possibly from Krista’s movement a second ago. The little girl stretched, blinking away her sleep. “What’s going on?”
“Sorry, Sunny. My uncle’s on TV,” she said, pointing to the screen.
“...and keep in mind, my staff in Seattle are some of the finest—”
“Oh, god, will he ever shut up? Turn it off, please.”
“Krista, I really want to see this,” Rob said.
Moira nodded in agreement, and both o
f them watched the biggest jerk in Krista’s extended family, at least until a vibrating sound got their attention and Moira pulled out her phone. “Oh.”
“What is it?”
“I’m...” Moira’s mouth offered a pleasant smile, though her eyes offered something different, almost hesitation. “It’s good news. I guess everything happening motivated Frank. He’s agreed to the civil ceremony.”
“Okay, then,” Krista said. “That’s in two days. There’s not too much to these things. I mean, you don’t even really need me unless you want me there.”
“My dad is in town. With the travel lockdown, he might be around awhile. I could use the second set of eyes,” Moira said in an almost deadpan tone.
So Moira would be getting the stability and new identity she wanted, and Rob should be happy for his coworker/kind-of friend. Really, Krista hadn’t quite figured out why they were so chummy—but maybe they did a lot of corporate bonding exercises together. Yet instead of being celebratory or at least a mild high-five, they turned back to the TV, both looking like they smelled something terrible.
There was, though, the whole world-imploding business going on, but somehow Krista figured their reactions weren’t quite about that.
“We’ll talk tomorrow, then. After I help Sunny out with her school project.” The knitting needles clinked again as Krista cast off the final row of her impromptu scarf. “Hey, look.” She held up the short blue-and-green scarf she’d knit in one sitting. “I made it for you. You can wear it to our class presentation.” Sunny took it, her eyes still while examining the wool creation in her hands. “Pretty cool, huh?” Krista nudged.
“I like blue.”
“Awesome. Well, there you—”
“But I don’t like green,” she said, putting it on the floor.
“Oh.” The words came out with a frankness typical for seven-year-olds, but something about it stunned Krista. In fact, that short sentence seemed to carry more weight than all of the words coming out of the TV in that moment.