by M. D. Massey
“What in tarnation?” Dean mumbled. The pharmacy’s line stretched all the way down to the cosmetic aisle, maybe twenty people or so, coughing and sniffling and fidgeting in the wavering line.
Don’t have time for this bullcrap! I could forgo the shot and get some Airborne tablets instead. That stuff usually does the trick. He decided to see how fast the line moved and distracted himself by mentally planning his first outing on the Twinkle Me Mary, named after his late wife, Mary.
The line wasn’t moving. Dean grasped the fact that the news media wasn’t over-sensationalizing for once. From what he’d overheard, most of the people were there for the new vaccine. The Super Summer flu was hitting Woodland with a vengeance. It made him wonder what it was like in the large cities like Sacramento and San Francisco.
The person in front of him, a lady wearing a thick, atrocious-pink cardigan, turned around in the line and stared at Dean with vacant blink-less eyes. To his astonishment, the woman’s bloodshot eyes bulged out of their sockets. The lady opened her mouth to say something to him; instead, a ferocious sneeze spewed out. Dean cringed when the minuscule droplets of her saliva misted his face.
“Christ on a pony.” Dean turned his head in disgust and dug around his pocket for a handkerchief. The lady in the atrocious-pink cardigan began twitching and left the line in a stupor. Guess I’ve just been exposed to it. And for cryin’ out loud, why’s she wearing a sweater in August? Must be dern near a hun’erd degrees outside.
If I didn’t have the flu, I sure as hell have it now. It got him pondering how many days in advance the flu shot needed to be administered in order for it to be effective. Forget it. Airborne will do me just fine. The honest truth was, Dean could not stand waiting in line another second after the wretched lady in the atrocious-pink cardigan sneezed—on him.
Since I’m here, might as well pick up a carton of ice cream. He turned down the ice cream aisle. A man squirmed around on the shiny, buffed floor. “You all right?” Dean asked, looking around for a clerk. “Sir?”
The man jerked about in a series of peculiar positions, almost as if standing on two legs was a new thing for him until he finally straightened his buckling legs. Dean was about to help him to his feet but was flabbergasted by the man’s bulging, bloodshot eyes. His pupils swirled, dilating from L.A. roadmap-red to black oily-like marbles.
The sick man appeared to be in a stupor—like the lady in the atrocious-pink cardigan. Unexpectedly, the man pounced at him. Dean, typically quick on his feet and always fast to react, dodged him. The man crashed headfirst into the frosted-glass doors of the Dreyer’s Ice Cream case. Then he crumpled to the floor and twitched around like a severed electrical wire.
Might want to forgo the ice cream today. Didn’t my doctor just blatantly announce I’m in the High-Risk Category? Come to think of it, what in blazes is a High-Risk Category? Dean pondered while rushing down the next few aisles until finding a clerk.
“There’s a sick fella in the ice cream aisle,” Dean reported, concerned for the man.
“Haven’t you heard—everyone’s sick.” The clerk stomped off, leaving Dean befuddled with the clerk’s rude behavior.
Sure must be hard to find good help these days. Dean shook his head in disbelief and decided to get the hell out of the store. No time for a flu shot, ice cream, or Airborne. It wasn’t worth the hassle. As he walked out of the Rite Aid the intercom announced, “We apologize for the inconvenience; however, no more flu shots are available today. We expect a delivery on Friday.”
Dean paused at the front entrance, momentarily blinded by the afternoon sun’s glare, and reached for the sunglasses in his front shirt pocket. From out of nowhere, a thunderous crash ripped at his ears. He jolted back as a wave of heat rushed over his entire body. Flames erupted from under the hood of the white SUV that had just slammed into the metal bollards protecting the store’s entrance. A foot closer and Dean wouldn’t need to worry about catching the Super Summer flu.
Dean hustled to the driver. “What in tarnation?” No one was in the SUV.
With his sunglasses on, he had a clear view of the shopping center’s parking lot. The place was a frenzy. Some people ran toward the store, others ran past the parking lot toward the car-stalled intersection, while some just aimlessly wandered about as if they had no place to go at all. Even more puzzling, several people sprawled out on the hot pavement and convulsed about in circles like the man in the ice cream aisle.
Dean snapped out of his gaze-of-disbelief when a young girl about three or four years old, dove to the pavement. The girl latched onto a man’s ankle—apparently with her teeth. The man, wearing a pair of khaki shorts and muscle T-shirt, was obviously furious. He yelled and kicked the girl mercilessly.
“Hey! Stop that!” Dean’s shouts were drowned out by the madness. Nobody seemed to hear him. Nobody seemed to care.
He decided to check on the girl whose face looked like it might be bashed-in, but something juddering on the crosswalk grabbed his attention: a cell phone. In all the craziness, someone must have dropped it. I should call the police! He knelt to pick up the phone. His eyes did a double take. A souped-up sports car plowed through the crosswalk a few feet in front of him. If he hadn’t stopped to pick up the phone, he would have been smashed to kingdom come! What’s happening?
Dean stood calmly on the sidewalk, analyzing the mayhem. Everywhere. It was then he realized the most inhumane thing of all. The few people who weren’t buzzing about like a flock of crazed loons, held their cell phones in the air as if they were possessed by the damn things. Don’t tell me they’re recording this? “What’s wrong with you people?” Dean grumbled.
Whom should I help first? Dean took a step toward the young girl. The girl spontaneously jerked up from the pavement as if she had suddenly risen from the dead. Snarling like a rabid creature with blood trickling down her mouth, the girl gawked at an elderly woman. The woman stopped dead in her tracks and dropped her shopping bags. The girl started howling like a crotchety ol’ hound dog. The woman’s keys fell to the pavement. She looked down at the keys and then at the rabid girl. A look of sheer terror spread across her face a second before the rabid girl tackled her. Next thing he knew, they rolled about on the blistering-hot pavement.
Dean fiddled with the newly-found cell phone until finally figuring out how to use the darn thing. He tapped the 9-1-1 keys. An old familiar tone rang in his ear followed by, “We’re sorry. All circuits are busy now. Please try your call again later.”
“What in tarnation?” He hadn’t heard that phrase in ages—not since the 20th century.
Sirens shrieked. Paramedics and police forced their way into the shopping center. Dean took his cue and headed for the hills, or in his case, his cabin in Winters. Enough is enough. He decided to tell ole Frank it was time to start meeting in Winters for their monthly get-togethers. He couldn’t handle city life anymore.
3
An amber-orange glow flitted through the partially closed blinds and lingered on Scarlett’s face, gently prodding her to get up. She turned over on the bed and reached for the alarm clock. It can’t be 8:30—in the evening? Still not convinced of the time, she traipsed around the condo, searching for her cell phone. Jeez Louise, where did I put it this time?
Scarlett stopped in the hallway, recollecting her thoughts; the last thing she remembered was Cyndi driving her home. And those ghastly nightmares! She grimaced. The dreams had been so vivid it was as if she’d dreamt in 3-D. Horrid, grotesque creatures growling and clawing her. Ugh! She tried shaking off the creepy feeling, but the dreams continued disturbing her.
Cyndi will make me feel better. She always does. Better find my phone. Cyndi was probably worried sick. She hated it when Scarlett neglected to call her. She checked the usual places: her purse, all her purses, under the sofa cushions, the dresser drawers, and the kitchen cupboards. She had been so out of it, no telling where she had put the phone.
It was getting late. I should probably check the ma
il. A short walk and fresh air sounded fantastic. She quickly slipped on a pair of jeans, donned her Sketchers, and then scurried out the front door. The iron gate to the condo’s courtyard stood wide open for some reason; she assumed a solicitor had been by. She took in a deep breath of fresh air and almost choked. I smell a fire. She casually strolled to the complex’s mailbox center and caught a glimpse of the sun dissolving like a giant ice cube, melting pinkish-orange streaks into the horizon.
When she walked by Building C, her crazy hermit neighbor was wrapping a rather huge chain around the iron gate enclosing his courtyard. He must be really tired of the solicitors, she mused, dismissing the neighbor’s irrational behavior. Since he happened to be the first person she’d seen in several days, Scarlett shouted a cheery, “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”
He stared at her as if she were an ax murderer and dropped the chain. It clattered onto the walkway. She eyed him with amusement when he ran inside his condo, slamming the door behind him. Not exactly the response I was hoping for. Scarlett chuckled. Jeez, I must look a fright. In her rush to check the mail, she hadn’t bothered to change out of her bloodstained pajama top, speckled with dried blood from the gauze pads used after the oral surgery. She hadn’t even bothered to brush her hair. Uh, I’d slam the door on me, too! At least I threw on jeans. She laughed, ignoring the sense of uneasiness drifting in the back of her mind. Something didn’t seem quite right.
No mail? She made her way back. For some reason, she remembered tossing the phone in the laundry basket. Jeez, why’d I put it there? A rustling sound caught her attention. The hedge of decorative bushes along the sidewalk quivered in the windless evening. She glanced back. In the fading rays of the setting sun, she made out three figures walking rather clumsily toward her.
“Glrrrrrrr—” The eerie groaning made the skin on the back of her neck crawl. Another voice joined in, “Glrrrrrrrrr—” She picked up the pace. All three of them groaned in slightly different guttural tones, not quite in unison. She glanced back again. They staggered toward her in an awkward gait—as if they wanted her.
Instinct took over. And she ran. And she did not stop until she was inside her condo. She slammed the door, locking it instantly, and then leaned back heavily against the door. She gasped with relief. Really? She hadn’t been that scared since she was twelve. When her annoying friend (What was her name?) had locked her in the bathroom, refusing to let her out until she had shouted, “Bloody Mary” three times. The whole Bloody Mary thing had been rather creepy. Of course, it was a silly urban legend. For a fleeting moment, she felt that same irrational-adolescent fear. She forced out a laugh. The uneasiness remained. Common sense told her it was her imagination working overtime, or perhaps those painkillers had left her feeling a bit psychotic. A foreboding sensation swept over her. Thinking about it, those people resembled the shadowy figures in her dreams. The people with no faces!
Scarlett needed to talk to someone, Cyndi or Maggie. Or Kevin, her mind whispered. No, not Kevin, you idiot. She dashed to the closet relieved to find her phone. Unfortunately, it was in dire need of a charge. At least, she found out it was Friday. Was it possible to lose track of time for five days? The low-battery icon flashed. Shrugging off her disappointment, she connected the charger.
Really, five days? She checked the bottle of antibiotics. Only two of the seven pills were left. Apparently, she had eaten four cans of soup the past five days as she checked out the kitchen. Guess I was sleepwalking and sleep-eating. The place was a mess. She tried remembering the past few days, but the more she tried, the more her head throbbed. So, instead of a comforting chat with Cyndi or Maggie, she cleaned her condo at 9:30 in the evening, which provided a much-needed distraction from the creepy feeling haunting the back of her mind.
Her head pounded, begging for another painkiller. She refused. Instead, she focused on positive thoughts, like how excited she was to start her new post at Roseville Elementary, teaching math and physical education to fifth graders. She bullied herself into thinking she didn’t need Kevin. He snored. He didn’t want children, and he always had to have things his way. Unfortunately, the “positive thinking” trick wasn’t working as random thoughts of Kevin kept bombarding her. Utterly hopeless and heartbroken, she couldn’t shake the feeling of doom consuming her. The tears came. Again.
She grabbed the cell, knowing it was too late to call anyone. “Wow!” she exclaimed. She had sixty-seven texts, but none from Cyndi: zero, zippo, zilch. That’s so unlike Cyndi. Her sister usually texted her ten times a day—a very annoying habit of hers.
“What?” Why had Kevin texted? The nerve of that man! He must have returned from the Bahamas with his supermodel girlfriend. He probably wanted to pick up his things. Well, he can wait. Scarlett wasn’t ready to deal with him. In a moment of anguish, she threw the cell on the sofa, which she instantly regretted. The phone bounced off the rose-colored cushion, slid across the hardwood floor, and then crashed into the fireplace hearth. An unmistakable crackling sound followed.
Scarlett plopped onto the sofa and pouted like a two-year-old while fidgeting with the television remote. The TV swarmed in a chaotic mass of black and white scratchy static.
4
It was almost sunset. Time to bring her in. Dean sighed disappointedly and slowly glided the boat toward Markley’s Cove. He had finally finished rebuilding the six-cylinder motor and had taken the boat out to Lake Berryessa this morning. He was having such a pleasant day and wasn’t ready for his first outing on the Twinkle Me Mary to end.
In no hurry, he let the boat drift toward the cove, lost in a daydream of Mary. How he missed her. He turned the bend only to catch up to the long line of boats queued ahead of him. Looks like I don’t have to end my day just yet, after all. Dean smiled and pointed the boat toward the shoreline. Rather than waiting in the long line, he’d wait it out by the tree-lined shore.
It was going to take a while, a good half-hour or so from the looks of it, and he didn’t mind waiting, not at all. He reached into his blue Igloo cooler and pulled out a Spam sandwich and a Diet Coke. He sure didn’t drink beer like he used to. It was probably a good thing. Basking in the cooling evening breeze, he gazed at the rippling water, not really seeing it; instead, he found himself thinking about the first time they had taken their son, Kyle, fishing.
A commotion at the launching area disrupted his pleasant daydream, and he reluctantly returned to reality, such as it was. Screaming? It sounded like someone was in a heap of trouble. More screaming. Crazy—hysterical screaming. He pointed the Glastron toward the cove, thinking he should probably check out the situation.
As he entered the cove’s NO WAKE ZONE, he noticed mass confusion at the boat launch area. A gunshot rattled through the air. His Diet Coke can went flying over the side of the boat. “Hell’s bells!” Did someone just shoot at me? Something was going on. More gunfire peppered the early evening, and he automatically ducked in self-defense mode.
With one hand on the wheel, he groped through his pack for the binoculars. Peering through the Bushnells, he spied people running around all helter-skelter like. Then he saw a lot of red. Blood-red! More screaming. It was like a Friday the 13th movie, and he most certainly didn’t want to play the part of a disposable extra.
The outlandish scene reminded him of the Rite Aid incident a few days before. Not here! He figured he was safe on the lake, away from the city. The flu outbreak had escalated into what the CDC called a full-fledged epidemic. Dean figured he could ride out the flu-panic if he stayed away from the cities. He probably should have waited until next week to take the boat out, but the boat was ready. What if next week never came?
More gunfire riddled the area. “Dad-blast-it!” Why today, of all days? He ducked again, unable to spot the shooter. From what he’d seen, there were an awful lot of bodies on the ground. Or had they just dropped to the ground to take cover? So many mass shootings. What’s this world coming to?
Feeling like a target, he turned the boat around
, then surveilled the scene from a distance. The setting sun dipped behind the Vaca Mountains, distorting his view to a glaring golden haze. He caught a glimpse of something peculiar. Naw, that’s not possible. He hastily wiped the binocular’s lenses and tried again. He zoomed in as best he could. Several people at the launching area crawled on their hands and knees. A fellow appeared to . . . It can’t be. Dean refocused the Bushnells to no avail. He waited. Better safe than sorry, somehow hearing the voice of his dear ole granddaddy warning him.
Dean remained huddled in the boat, convincing himself he couldn’t have possibly seen what he thought he had just seen. It had been an illusion of sorts, the sun playing tricks on the lenses and his eyes. He tapped his chest lightly, relieved he wasn’t the hysterical type. Yep, it was someone administering CPR. That’s all it was. Not the other thing his brain had seen—something disturbing. Of course, that would have been impossible.
Dean waited for the authorities, but nobody showed up. He glanced at his watch again. There hadn’t been any gunshots or screaming for the last thirty minutes. Someone must have subdued the shooter. That’s what I would’ve done. He tried the Bushnells again, but it was dusk, and all he managed to get was a shadowy view of people walking about aimlessly, more like jerking about than walking. Despite all the people milling about, the entire launch area was inordinately quiet. Calm. He pulled the boat back around and headed for the dock again. A smart man would get his boat loaded onto the trailer before it was too dark. Someone standing at the end of the dock waved him in, giving him the all clear. Dean was relieved.
As his boat drifted closer to the dock, Dean shouted, “Did they catch the shooter?” It was almost too dark, and he fretted over his trip home; it was going to be a long trip home on the winding, narrow, country roads for his old eyes. The young man, a teenager, waited for him at the end of the dock. “Could use a hand here,” Dean said, somewhat perturbed, wondering why the teen just stared at him, not bothering to lend a helping hand. The teen cocked his head to the side in what looked like a very uncomfortable position. He started growling, of all things. “Say, what’s this nonsense about?” The teen didn’t answer. He twitched about like he was smack dab in the middle of a swarm of hungry mosquitoes. A loud splash followed, and the teen floundered about in the shallow water.