For a moment, after the car was shut off, they all sat in silence looking at the building. A long smear of bright red near the stairs marred the building.
“Do you think it’s safe in there?” Alex asked tentatively.
“I think it’s safer in there than it is out here in the open.” Eric threw his door open.
Colin stepped out of the car, his keys clutched tightly in his fist. Eric ran around the back of the car and opened Rotna’s door. She looked dazed as she stepped out, like her mind had taken her elsewhere.
“Come on,” Colin said nervously. “Let’s just get inside.”
Though he wanted to run, Colin forced himself to walk towards the stairs, waiting for the others to collect themselves and follow.
Colin hurried up the stairs with the others, their feet pounding against the cement stairs. On the second-floor landing, someone pounded on the inside of the apartment door, the quick hard thuds resonating up and down the concrete stairs.
He wanted to be inside. He wanted to be away from all of this. He wanted to be home with Liv and Elli. He wanted to pretend none of this had ever happened.
“Sammy!” Colin called out as he reached the third-floor landing and began to knock frantically on the front door. “Sammy, it’s Colin! Open up.” He wasn’t sure if Samuel was home. As a firefighter, he often wasn’t home for long stretches of time.
No one answered the knocks.
Colin jammed the key into the lock and pushed the door open. The inside of the apartment was dark. Colin quickly fumbled for the light switch and flicked it on. The apartment was a small one-bedroom, perfect for someone who was single and hardly ever home. The front door opened into a small living room. At the far end was the bedroom. Around the corner were a dining room and a small kitchen.
The group rushed in and Colin quickly closed and relocked the door.
“Sammy!” This was Samuel’s childhood nickname. Almost no one called him Sammy anymore. But Colin had never been able to shake the habit.
He flicked on the bedroom light and looked around, but it was empty.
Colin’s fingers tapped against the edge of Samuel’s laptop as he stared daggers at the infuriatingly password-locked screen. He had no idea what the password was. As children, he and Samuel had been inseparable. But as they grew up they slowly drifted apart as they developed different likes and personalities. Colin had made a few halfhearted attempts to guess the password, but they didn’t work.
Samuel had played football in high school while Colin went to concerts. Colin had developed a love of video games, while Samuel spent every spare minute at the gym. Colin preferred to hang out with a few close friends while Samuel went to large, loud parties. They still saw each other at every major holiday, but now they rarely saw each other any other time.
Samuel still hadn’t come home. He might have been out running errands, but more than likely he had been at the firehouse earlier. He was probably busy trying to help the city.
Colin finally snapped the laptop closed. He desperately wanted to speak to Liv. To know that she and Elli had found someplace safe to hunker down. To hear her voice. To see the words on the screen.
He looked up at the television. The news stations had taken over the channels.
“Widespread rioting continues in St. Louis and Chicago tonight,” announced a female newscaster with pristine blonde hair and a plum-colored suit.
“Chicago?” Colin asked, startled. He hadn’t been entirely listening to the news while he tried to unlock Samuel’s computer.
Eric nodded. “The news is calling it rioting, but by the looks of it, whatever is happening there is the same bullshit that’s happening here.”
“Residents are advised to stay inside, lock their doors, and avoid contact with strangers.” The newscaster had a small smile plastered to her face, and Colin wanted to shake her. He had never cared for the nightly news. The stories were normally quick, sensationalized blurbs with few real facts. The woman was infuriating as she discussed the events unfolding with a well-practiced smile, as if discussing something more pleasant and not the brutal deaths that were occurring across St. Louis.
“We now go live to our reporter, Ken Wallace.”
“Thank you, Susan.” A man in a gray tie and white button-up shirt nodded to the camera. “I’m standing here”—he gestured towards a massive building behind him—“in front of Mercy Hospital in Creve Coeur. This hospital, usually known for bringing lives into the world, has today seen a torrent of badly injured and brutally attacked patients and with them has come its fair share of death.”
Colin gripped the edges of the laptop. Mercy was known as the Baby Factory. More babies were born at that hospital in any given year than all the other hospitals in St. Louis combined. Elli had been born there.
“As the city became a battleground today,” Ken Wallace continued, “the wounded flooded in. Now we have received reports that the fighting that has occurred on the streets has carried over into many of the areas hospitals. In fact, we are not being permitted to enter. Security guards and police officers have turned away dozens of concerned family members just in the short time we’ve been out here, with little explanation as to what is happening inside.”
The cameraman panned over the reporter’s shoulder towards the large front doors, where a group of people had gathered around a barricade. The camera panned back to the reporter.
“We tried talking to the officers standing outside the doors a bit earlier, but all they would say was that fighting had occurred inside and that the patients and staff were being well guarded by other officers already in the building.”
A loud crack cut the air and the report ducked, his eyes going wide in surprise.
“Ken?” the blonde woman’s voice said uneasily. “What was that? Is everything alright?”
“Uh.” The reporter had turned away from the camera, remaining crouched and low to the ground. “There appears to be an altercation at the…uh, front doors between the police and perhaps those trying to get in and see their loved ones.” Two more shots rang out and the reporter’s hands flew up over his head as he tried to make himself ever smaller.
“Ken?” the anchorwoman called again.
A barrage of gunfire erupted. Screams rose between the thunderous cracks. Shrill screams of pain and fear and deep guttural roars. The camera suddenly began to shake and wiggle around as the cameraman moved. Heavy breathing could be heard over the microphone that had been clipped to the reporter’s shirt.
“Ken?” The anchorwoman’s voice was shaky. “What’s going on? Are you alright?”
“Uh, a bunch of people just…uh, burst out the doors. Shit!” The camera hung down and the reporter was no longer in view, but his voice was still clear, only broken by his heavy breathing. “They were covered in blood and screaming…like I’ve never heard before.” His voice wavered. “The police started shooting at them.”
“Are you alright, Ken?” Sincere concern filled the anchorwoman’s voice.
“Dave and I are retreating back to the…uh, news van. Goddamn it!” Keys appeared on the ground in view of the camera, and a hand quickly scooped them back up. “I don’t think it’s safe for us to be here. Dave!”
The camera swirled for a quick second and came to an abrupt stop parallel to the pavement. A scream overpowered all other sounds on the microphone.
“Ken!”
A pair of dress shoes and slacks shuffled into view, followed too closely by bare, bloody feet.
“Ken!” The woman’s voice grew more distant as she presumably covered her microphone. “For the love of God, somebody cut the goddamned feed!”
Another scream rose but was almost immediately cut off. The two set of feet stumbled and Ken came into view once more as his face hit the ground. A patient in a hospital gown, bathed in blood, fell on top of him.
“Oh god!” The feed suddenly cut back to the blonde anchorwoman. Her smile was gone. In its place was sheer horror and disgust.
&
nbsp; “I…” She looked past the camera to the crew for guidance. Tears welled up in her eyes. “What the hell just happened?”
The scene cut away to another pair of reporters, who sat uneasily but composed at their desk.
They couldn’t take their eyes off the television screen. The images that played across it were horrific. People covered in blood ran through the streets chasing others who tried desperately to escape. Others who all too often failed to escape. The news stations were even trying to censor the violence. The cameras didn’t pan away.
The city burned. The few breaks from the violence and death were shots of the cityscape. Massive plumes of smoke dotted the skyline, blacking out the sky. Buildings crumbled from where explosions had ripped them in two. Cars stood derelict in the streets.
The police were nowhere to be seen. The firemen were not fighting to control the flames that lapped at the burning buildings. The EMTs were not trying to save people.
The images reminded him of articles he had read about the war raging in Aleppo in Syria. This wasn’t a distant war, though; this was his home. He was sitting in the middle of a warzone.
The live newsfeeds from around the city had cut at one point to a man. His white long-sleeved button-up shirt was wrinkled and untucked. His red-stripped tie hung loose around his neck. The man had attempted to comb what was left of his silvery hair over the large bald patch on the top of his head.
Behind him hanging on the wall was a large simple clock. Four large black dots marked spots for nine, ten, eleven, and twelve. The white face of the clock was decorated with a faint outline of the globe. The big hand sat on the dot marking twelve while the little hand rested just above the eleven.
The press still talked between each other in their seats. Their voices creating a quiet din. The man stood and without waiting for the room to silence walked to the clock.
Then he turned and walked to the clock. When he reached for it, his hand shock slightly. He pushed the minute hand to the twelve. The room erupted in shouts as reporters jumped to their feet and began to ask questions all at once. The man just stood there for a moment.
A flash of anger crossed the man’s face. “Shut up!” he bellowed, his voice surprisingly strong. “What the hell are you all doing here?” The reporters were stunned into silence as he glared down at them, his eyes wide and wild. “This is the end of days.” He emphasized each word as he spoke.
Once again, the crowd of reporters erupted, their voices drowning out all other noises as they tried to shout questions over one and other.
“I am Dr. Joseph Lister with the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists. For decades, we have tried to spread knowledge about our world and how the actions of humans have impacted it for the better…or far too often for the worse. It was all for naught. When the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists was founded back in 1945, we feared it would be our own work that would unravel the world.” Dr. Lister looked down, pinching the bridge of his nose. “While it is not bombs that will be our end, the end is here all the same.”
“Don’t you understand?” the man roared. “This is it! We are all going to die.” He looked over the crowd with disgust. “And yet here you sit.” His voice softened as he rubbed his hands over his face. “Why aren’t you with your families? Is your job really so important that you’d rather spend your last moments working than with your family?”
“Why are you here?” A reporter’s voice rang through the now quiet room. “Where’s your family?”
“Gone. Thankfully.” The man smiled. It wasn’t a comforting smile. It was sad. Hopeless. “This is our extinction event, people. This is it.” His voice was calm and quiet. “The clock has finally struck midnight and it is our misfortune to bear witness to it. This is the end.”
The man reached behind his back and pulled a small silver handgun from the waist of his pants. Cries rippled through the crowd of reporters stepped away from the man. The man didn’t point the weapon at the crowd. He brought the weapon to his forehead, the same sad smile still plastered across his face.
A single shot rang through the room. The reporters erupted into a frenzy. A few rushed to the man, crouching over him, most ran away.
The feed had finally cut back to the newscasters at their desk.
For a long time, Colin sat in silence, pondering what they had just watched.
This is the end.
A man had committed suicide on live television. It had happened before, but he had never seen it. This man had been so overwhelmed by what was happening, so sure that this was the end, that he had taken his own life.
This is the end.
Maybe they were fools for thinking they could survive.
This is the end.
Maybe they were fools for even trying to survive.
This is the end.
The only sounds in the room were the voices of the anchors and reporters on the news. Nobody had spoken since the first report. The only sound that escaped their lips was the occasional gasp.
“We have interrupted reporting in St. Louis to bring you a press release from the University of Chicago.”
Suddenly, the shot changed to a conference room. A long white table was set up at the head of the room on a raised stage with five seats facing a small gathering of reporters.
Only one chair was occupied. A man with gray hair cropped close to his head to minimize his receding hairline sat slumped in the middle chair, poring over papers. His glasses slipped to the end of his nose, and he leaned forward for a closer look at the papers. Deep lines in his face made him look exhausted. His sea-foam green button-up shirt was wrinkled and untucked.
After a few moments, the reporters began to quiet down, and he looked up from his notes. With a sigh, he heaved himself out of his chair and stood for a brief moment as the audience fell silent.
“My name is Doctor Ivan Semmelweis.” Colin’s chest tightened. The memories from the last scientist were still fresh in his mind. “I am…” His voice broke and he took a moment to collect himself before continuing. “I am the last surviving member of my team.”
One of the reporters raised her hand but didn’t wait to be acknowledged. “Dr. Semmelweis, what do you mean you are the last surviving member of your team? What happened to the rest?”
Semmelweis pushed his glasses up and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Three days ago we received tissue samples contaminated with an unknown pathogen. For three days, my colleagues and I studied and attempted to identify the sample.” He looked out over the gathered reporters. “But we failed. We found out almost nothing. This new disease holds traits similar to rabies: fever, nerve damage, confusion, and delirium—and aggression. But it is not a form of rabies we have ever seen before. It has mutated.”
The doctor took a deep breath as he stared down at his notes. “What we did discover was only done through great sacrifice. The sacrifice of Doctor Bobby Koch. Without him, we would know nothing.”
He stopped, staring at the floor for a long moment. Finally, he cleared his throat and continued. “This disease is responsible for the violence we are seeing both here in Chicago and in St. Louis. It infects a human host through the exchange of all forms of bodily fluids. At first, we attempted to infect mice, as well as monkeys, with the sample we received to study it further, but we were unsuccessful. But what we did discover was that the disease is highly infectious and the most virulent one I have ever seen. Just a drop of infected bodily fluid can transmit the disease. The only good news is that it is not airborne.”
“Could it become airborne?” one reporter blurted out.
Before the doctor could respond, another reporter raised his hand but didn’t wait to be called on. “Is there hope for a cure or a vaccine?”
Dr. Semmelweis heaved a heavy sigh. “With the proper resources and a few years, perhaps. But we have neither of those. Our best-case projections showed that this disease would spread worldwide in less than a week.” He looked at the audience somberly. “That within six months th
e uninfected human population would drop to a maximum of twenty-five percent of today’s population.”
A quick succession of pops was audible in the background. Dr. Semmelweis jumped back from the podium. The reporters turned in their seats to look back at the camera, a few murmuring quietly among themselves.
Another round of quick pops made the audience shift uneasily. A loud crash resonated from behind the camera.
“It seems,” Dr. Semmelweis said dismally, “that we are out of time.” The reporters leapt up from their seats. Their voices rose into distressed cries.
A final loud crash rang out as the pops suddenly grew into thunderous cracks. A deep guttural moan rose above the cacophony from somewhere off camera. The room erupted into chaos as people tried to scramble away from the doors and onto the stage.
Day 2
It had taken a long time for Colin and the others to fall asleep. The slightest sounds from outside stirred them into wakefulness. At one point, a shrill scream rose from the parking lot only to be abruptly cut off.
The television remained on. Its dim light cast flickering shadows around the room as the pictures and stories on the news changed.
Rotna was curled into a ball on the couch. Eric slept on the floor, his back pressed to the base of the couch. He had made himself Rotna’s guardian. All night he had cared for her as she sat in her stupor, encouraging her as best as he could to eat and drink. Colin lay between Eric and the coffee table he had pushed away from the couch. Alex had fallen asleep in the reclining chair.
Colin hadn’t been able to contact Liv. Samuel’s laptop remained locked, and the apartment didn’t have a landline. Nobody did anymore. He couldn’t help but wonder where Liv and Elli were. He wanted to know that they were safe.
Death & Decay (Book 2): Divided Page 3