Ferryman

by Jonathon Wise

  “Have you seen what’s going on down in Mexico?”

  She pushed her hair back behind her ears and put her hands on her hips. “Yeah, I saw it earlier today.”

  “This is big shit. How come you didn’t call and tell me what was going on?”

  “Because I’ve got work to do and last time I looked—it wasn’t getting done by itself.” Then she spun around and stomped back down the hallway.

  For a moment, all he could do was stare in disbelief. His wife didn’t act like that. He shook it off and chased after her. She was standing next to the bed with her back to him, staring down at a pile of clothes fresh out of the dryer. When she slowly turned and raised her eyes, he could see her thoughts were somewhere else. He stepped over and pulled Becky in close. “Take a break, the laundry can wait. Come watch the news with me.”

  “I can’t…” she whispered into his ear as he felt the moisture of a tear against his cheek.

  “You can. Come sit with me. They haven’t said anything about any people collapsing here in the states.”

  She squeezed him again as she rose up on her toes. “They did earlier in the day, while I was eating lunch. They said people were dying in California and North or South Carolina―I can’t remember which.”

  Chuck rubbed her back as he remembered the article he read over the weekend about the adventure group. It said three kids had died. One was definitely from North Carolina. “Did they mention anything about an adventure group?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’d they say?”

  He felt Becky’s chest flutter as she took a deep breath. “The news said they were dead. All of them!”

  “Fuck!” Chuck gasped, as he pulled her in tight. How could it go from three kids to all this in a matter of a few days? After a much needed moment to steady his own nerves, he said, “Let’s go see if this is anything that we need to be concerned with.” He supported her and headed back for the living room.

  He sat her down first before taking a spot on the sofa next to her. CNN was trying to pull in a live feed from a hospital in San Luis Potosi. But for the first few seconds all you could see were images of mass chaos. The hospital was overrun. Doctors raced by the camera in biohazard suits while the strong arm of the military tried to maintain order. Then the camera swung around and settled on a field reporter who was interviewing a member from one of the medical units of our National Disaster Medical System. The detail along the bottom of the screen indicated that he was a doctor from Philadelphia and that his unit had been one of the first on the scene after the earthquake. It was a live feed shown through picture-in-picture, but apparently the information had already been cleared for broadcast because as the doctor started reviewing the known symptoms, CNN already had the detail in graphic form. The doctor said, “Those infected first exhibit signs of exhaustion followed by disorientation. We have conflicting reports, but based on the majority of data seen so far, this period may last between six and twenty-fours before complete incapacitation and death.”

  The reporter asked, “Has a source or cause been identified yet?”

  The doctor started to answer, but then jumped back against the brick wall of the corridor as the camera feed bounced and jarred while a stream of on-duty hospital staff rapidly wheeled a train of five or six gurneys between the doctor and the camera crew. After they passed, he stepped away from the wall and repositioned his headset. Then as the camera stabilized on him again he said, “Based on the timing of the first fatalities, and our investigation of the area surrounding the initial outbreak at Aquismon, we think that we may have located the origin point of the outbreak.” The doctor stopped and stared at the ground like he was waiting in concentration for the next question.

  The reporter asked, “Can you elaborate on the origin point?”

  Without looking up he said, “At this point in time we haven’t been able to collect conclusive evidence to support our assumptions―as soon as we have that information it will be made available.”

  “What is causing the deaths?”

  Two more gurneys wheeled by the doctor and this time he followed their passing with his eyes before turning back to the camera. “Field autopsies have provided evidence that the loss of life is due to an unknown airborne pathogen which results in hypemic hypoxia for the host.”

  “Can you comment on the reports we’ve heard that the loss of life has crossed over to include livestock and domesticated animals?”

  “Yes…the pathogen has been found in livestock. It is not restricted to human hosts.”

  “I see you’re needed, but please one last question. Do you believe the outbreak is contained?”

  “The efforts expended by both the governments of the United States and that of Mexico have successfully quarantined the affected regions, both here and along the coasts of the United States. There is no reason to believe that as tragic as this has been already, we will not be able to put a quick resolve to the situation.”

  “Thank you Dr. Robinson for taking the time to speak with us. Please pass on our prayers for our good friends to the south.”

  The doctor nodded once then looked back in the camera and said, “I’d like to pass on my love to my wife, Kelly, and my son Jonathon. I love you!”

  The shot of the CNN anchor expanded to full picture. “Once again as Dr. Robinson emphasized, the outbreak has been contained. We have to break for a moment, but our extended coverage of this most tragic of days will continue after this.”

  Chuck was still caught in an open-mouth stare when an advertisement for the Wall Street Journal came up on screen. He slowly fell back against the sofa with his wife. He wasn’t sure that he actually believed it, but he said it anyway. “See, everything is going to be alright.” He pulled back to where he could see Becky’s face. She was still worried. He brushed her hair back with his hand. “Come on now, CNN said we we’re going to be alright.”

  She lifted her face and exposed the pain in her eyes. “When they showed it over lunch…they showed an entire town dead.”

  “Aquismon. I saw it too.”

  “Aquismon? No, they showed pictures of some small town in North Carolina. Rocky Mountain or something like that.”

  Chuck’s heart skipped a beat.

  “They were showing pictures of dead dogs and cats…” her voice started to shake, “…and they showed pictures of people lying dead on the streets.” Her eyes started to gloss over and root out in red veins. “It was horrible!”

  He tightened his grip around her. “Was everybody dead?”

  Becky started to whimper but still managed to say, “I don’t know.”

  As he started to think about the implications of an entire town dying, he found it difficult to swallow―so much so that when he finally did it was audible. The sound announced the anxiety growing in his stomach that would quickly make it impossible to sit still. “Come on, we can’t keep sitting here. It’s not doing us any good to think about it any longer.” He pulled away again, but this time he grabbed her upper arms and shook her mildly. “Come on, were getting up.” He stood, pulling her up with him, and then supported her while they walked around to the kitchen. “You need to get your mind off this.”

  She glanced up as the life started to return in her face.

  “That’s it.” He let go of her arms and started rubbing her shoulders as he looked into her eyes. “It’s contained! No more people are going to die.”

  She looked down and started to nod in half-hearted agreement. “No more people are going to die.” She looked up, met his stare and then said again, but with more confidence this time, “No more people are going to die.”

  “That’s right.” He forced a smile. “Now why don’t you finish up your laundry and then get started on supper.” He let go of her shoulders and started to leave.

  She immediately reached out to him. “Where are you going?”

  He paused with his back to her. “I’ve got to go back down to the store and stock the shelves.” He turned.
“Remember…we’re fine. I’ve got work to do and I’m going to go do it. Why don’t you push supper back to around eight—I’ll be home by then. Okay?”

  He waited for Becky to nod before heading toward the door. Truth was that he had to get out. He needed to feel the numbing effects of alcohol in a friendly environment—someplace where he could take his mind off of what he just saw and heard. Someplace where he wouldn’t see or have to deal with the fear he saw in her eyes. The place for that was Stan’s. As he stepped out the door, he took a quick glance back to the kitchen and saw her still standing in the same spot—still staring at him. For a second the flush of shame overcame him and he felt his hand start to shake on the doorknob. Then he closed his eyes, tightened his grip, and pushed on out the door.

  Chapter 8

  Margery caught Chuck off guard when she opened the door. It wasn’t so much that it was her and not Stan who answered, as it was the lack of expression across her face. Margery never tried to hide the fact that she didn’t care for Chuck. In fact she gave him the distinct feeling that she blamed him for anything and everything that went wrong in her marriage. If Stan forgot to set out the garbage—it must have been Chuck’s fault. If Stan wanted to go out drinking—it was that worthless Chuck that put the idea in his head. Over the years he had grown accustomed to the stone look of contempt that she always directed his way. That’s why it felt so peculiar when she answered the door with that soft, lost look on her face.

  “Stan around?” Chuck asked cautiously.

  Margery stepped aside and let him in as she motioned once with her head. “He’s in the basement.” Then without another word, she turned and slowly walked back to the kitchen.

  Chuck closed the door and shadowed her through the living room. When she stopped to open up the refrigerator, he veered around her and slipped through the door to the basement.

  Stan’s basement wasn’t finished, but that didn’t keep it from being the perfect hangout. Over the years the two of them had wasted countless afternoons getting drunk and shooting pool below ground. It served the same function that a tree house would for a child. It was a place for them to escape. Besides, it wasn’t that bad. They painted the cement floor a dark gray to contrast with the off-white paint on the concrete block walls. Simple bulbs with pull chains hung from the floor joist at the corners of the basement and provided the necessary light, while a couple of worn lawn chairs provided seating. The pool table was at the far end, away from the foot of the stairs and the piles of storage boxes. This wasn’t done just to ensure an added moment of privacy should Margery suddenly come down unannounced—it was also the only place far enough away from the metal stands that supported the floor joists, to allow sufficient room to maneuver one’s pool cue.

  Chuck plodded down the stairs into the dim light of the basement. As usual, the only bulb on was the one over the pool table. He walked over, glanced at the billiard balls scattered across the felt and Stan’s lucky cue resting upright against the edge of the table. Stan was sitting in a lawn chair, holding a beer and staring through the dark at the cinder blocks along the far wall. “Hey buddy.”

  Stan looked at him for a long second before any recognition set in. “Hey Chuck. What brings you over?”

  Chuck didn’t respond. Instead he wandered over to the end of the pool table and grabbed the orange, number five ball. He squeezed it and then started rubbing it against the felt as if he were trying to work a stain off of it. Stan got up and took a drink of beer as he walked out of the shadows and leaned up against the table. There was no need for Chuck to ask. He could tell by Stan's face that he had seen the latest news of the outbreak. He rolled the orange ball down the length of the table and watched it drop into the far corner pocket. “Any more beers?”

  Stan kept his eyes on the table as he raised the half empty in his hand and pointed to the dorm size refrigerator between the two lawn chairs. Chuck grabbed a cold Miller from the stash, twisted the top off and took a long, soothing drink.

  Stan spoke up as Chuck joined him in a lean against the table, “Have you been to Wal-Mart today?”

  Chuck wiped his mouth. “I try to stay away from the stores and let Becky do the shopping.”

  Stan met his eyes. “You wouldn’t have believed it…it was a mad house. I mean people were buying supplies like they were gearing up for a winter storm. And I’m not just talking about food…they were buying up all the batteries and camping equipment they could get their hands on.” He paused and walked around the corner of the table to where he was within arm’s reach of Chuck. “They were buying up the shotguns too.”

  Chuck didn’t even realize that he had started shaking his head. “I can’t believe this is actually happening.”

  Stan drained his beer and while he walked over to the refrigerator for another, he said, “You see on the news where some of those guys in the biohazard suits are dying? Even ones that had been wearing them since the get go!”

  Chuck started to shake his head, but then jumped as a heavy crash hit the floor upstairs.

  Stan looked calmly up at the floor joists while he motioned for Chuck to hold his ground. After a moment of silent stare, he gently shook his head and whispered his wife’s name. “Either they don’t know shit or they aren’t telling us shit. One or the other!”

  “You want to check on her?”

  “Nah, she’s dealing with it in her own way.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  Chuck let his concern drift away as he glanced up at the joists again before slowly taking a seat in one of the lawn chairs. After a drink he asked, “Do you think it’s really contained?”

  Stan plopped down in the other chair and took a quick sip. “I don’t know. I’d like to think so. It’s one thing taking out the spics south of the border or the niggers in North Carolina, but those guys dying in the biohazard suits are white.” He took another sip. “This ain’t the Lord’s doing.”

  Chuck stared at the floor and held his tongue. A second later he looked back at his friend. “Becky is taking it pretty hard too.”

  “I bet! Anything like Marge?”

  “No, not yet anyway, but I still had to get out of there,” Chuck confessed with an air of remorse as he pictured Becky staring at him from the kitchen. After a moment of reflection, he drained his bottle, sat the empty on the floor and grabbed a fresh one out of the refrigerator. “What about you, are you doing anything…you know, just in case?”

  Stan perked up and nearly boiled over as he leaned toward Chuck. “Hell yes. That’s why I went to Wal-Mart in the first place. It was a scramble but I made sure that I got everything I thought we’d need. Some son-of-a-bitch thought he had the last twelve-gauge—that is until I jerked the sucker right out of his hands.” Stan spouted a devilish grin and added, “I could tell he was one of those guys who never owned a gun. He started to call out for the department manager, but I smacked him in the jaw with the stock—sent him flying over the counter.”

  “You hit some guy?” Chuck asked, as his thoughts shot to the two hunting rifles back home in the closet, as well as the shotgun he kept behind the counter in the store.

  Stan took the mindless question with a grain of salt. “Shit man I told you it was a mad house. It wasn’t just me. Fights were breaking out all over the fucking place. I almost got to see two broads go at it over a few cans of stew, but then some guy yelled that there was more food in the storage racks back around the dock.” Stan suddenly pushed out of the chair and motioned with his head. “Come on over here.”

  Chuck followed him over to the shadows under the stairs and waited while Stan fumbled around in the dark. A second later the light came on and he found himself surrounded by boxes of canned food and five-gallon jugs of water. Stan pointed to the shotgun resting up against one of the stair risers and grinned. Then he stepped over a couple of boxes and pulled off a tarp. “Bought car batteries too.” He threw the tarp back over the batteries and started picking up boxes one at a time. �
��I’ve got a CB radio, two cases of twelve gauge shells, first aid kit…”

  Stan continued to gloat over his bounty as Chuck slowly began to feel overwhelmed by an empty nauseous sensation. He and Becky were grossly unprepared if matters took a turn for the worse. His stomach started to knot up as he pictured the empty shelves at the Wal-Mart. It would be like that everywhere. Without realizing it he started creeping back out from under the stairs.

  Stan broke from his recital when he saw Chuck leaving. “Hey buddy, where are you going?”

  Chuck didn’t know how he got there, but he was at the stair railing. Then before he could answer his friend, he was stepping up the stairs. “I’ve got to go.” He was halfway up before he turned and looked down at Stan staring up from the foot of the stairs. With a face lost in thought and deep concentration he said, “You take care of yourself and that wife of yours.”

  Stan hoisted his beer. “You too!”

  Chuck opened the door to the kitchen and saw Margery sipping iced tea while staring out the window over the sink. “You take care of yourself, Margery.”

  She glanced over just long enough for him to notice the puffiness around her eyes and see the trails of dried tears on her cheeks. She took another sip of tea and turned back toward the window without saying a word.

  He suddenly felt like he couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He shuttled around Margery and immediately stepped into standing water. The entire kitchen floor was wet, all the way over to the carpet. He grabbed the counter and scanned the linoleum. The scattered pieces of broken glass weren’t hard to find. It was Margery’s sun tea jar. That’s what he heard in the basement. He looked back at her. “Margery?”

  This time she didn’t budge. She maintained her frozen stare at whatever it was in the backyard as she took another sip of tea. Denial was her way of dealing with it.

  Chuck shook his head and headed for the surefooted crunch of the living room carpet. A second later he was catching his breath behind the wheel of the truck. In that surreal chain of events, the hard vinyl of the bench seat felt like a safe haven to him. He was going to get out of there, but he wasn’t going home. Not yet anyway. He needed to see what was happening in the rest of Madison. So he took a left on Michigan and headed downtown.