Death Watch

by Jack Cavanaugh

  Hunz held up an email printout.

  “Nearly forty-eight hours ago, I received notice that I would die at 8:47 a.m., Pacific Standard Time. I’m not the first to receive a death watch notice; many have received notices with an announced time of death earlier than mine. To the best of my knowledge, without exception, they are now dead. Death Watch has proved itself frighteningly accurate. The night before last I witnessed one man’s death, a victim of Death Watch. Although he was surrounded by emergency personnel at the time of his death, nothing could be done to save him. Which means I have every right to believe that within"—he checked his watch—"thirty minutes, I will be dead.”

  Sydney checked her watch too. Thirty-one minutes, fifteen seconds, to be exact.

  Hunz continued. “Between now and the appointed time of my death, I will share with you the thoughts of a man who has been abruptly reminded of his own mortality. But, for now, back to the studio.”

  A teaser to keep the viewing audience tuned in.

  The voices in Sydney’s earpiece picked it up from there.

  “Carol, that must be tough,” said the male anchor, “to be suddenly aware of the time of your death, and to know nothing can be done to save you.”

  “You’re right, Hal. And the precision of the timing I’ve heard that death watch sentences—for that’s what they are, aren’t they?—are carried out at the exact second. Chilling.”

  From behind the cameras, a voice: “The Hugo quote was a nice touch,” Dorian said.

  “Thank you,” Hunz replied.

  Sydney leaned close. “Hunz? Before we go back on the air, I want to talk to you about. ”

  Hunz fiddled with his earpiece. He took it out and stepped toward the lights. “Excuse me a minute, Sydney. Dorian, can you take a look at this? It was cutting in and out during the last segment.”

  10:25 a.m., local time.

  More prepared clips were aired between the live segments, recorded segments of world leaders reacting to Death Watch. The Prime Minister of Great Britain said the earth was “on the edge of Armageddon.” President Hu Jintao of the People’s Republic of China declared the Death Watch—which had hit his country hard—to be a Western plot to overthrow the Chinese government. As evidence, he cited the number of death watch announcements that had been transmitted via modern communication devices: computers, faxes, cell phones. He likened Western technology to the Trojan Horse.

  All around the world, combative nations blamed each other for Death Watch, in many cases launching retaliatory strikes.

  A second prepackaged segment documented theories of who was behind Death Watch. The theories ranged from Death Watch being a prelude to an alien invasion, to nanobots that had formed an intelligence and declared war on human life-forms.

  Hunz and Sydney were standing on their marks—masking tape Xs on the carpet—ready for the next live portion of the show, though Sydney didn’t know why she was needed, since Hunz would do all the talking on this segment.

  It was Dorian who told her to get into position. Another directive from the powers-that-be? Were they concerned Hunz might keel over before his time, possibly from a heart attack brought on by the anxiety? But then, if that were to happen, couldn’t they just cut back to the studio? Maybe they were hoping she’d provide some good old-fashioned female hysterics.

  To make a splash.

  If that were the case, she could certainly oblige them the way her pulse was racing. She felt like she’d downed a dozen cups of coffee, her nervous system caffeine-charged even though she’d only sipped her latte.

  The live feed was passed to Hunz.

  “It’s difficult to describe to you the range of thoughts and emotions that have crossed my mind in the last forty-eight hours,” he said to the camera.

  “From thinking it was a prank, or a mistake; to getting angry and desperately wanting to track down whoever was behind this; to the realization that the mortality rate for Death Watch was 100 percent, yet still believing that a solution or cure would be found; finally, to realizing that I was soon to go the way of all men and there was nothing I could do about it.”

  All men die, Sydney.

  But not like this, Sydney thought. Hunz wasn’t dying. He was being executed.

  Hunz continued. “More times than I care to admit within the last forty-eight hours, the universal cry of the victim has escaped my lips: Why me? What have I done to warrant death? Am I a random victim, someone who walked into the wrong restaurant at the wrong time and sat next to a man with a bomb strapped to his chest? Or was I selected? Marked for death?

  “And not just me. What of Lyle Vandeveer of Pasadena, California, who lived long enough to see his wife and daughter die when a commercial air flight plummeted to the ground, only to die while tinkering with his model trains? To whom was he a threat?

  “Or Cheryl McCormick, who even now lies in a hospital bed not far from here at Prentice Women’s Hospital. A compassionate woman, mother of a beautiful three-year-old daughter, heavy with her second child, hoping to deliver before her time runs out and she dies. A threat to whom? What kind of man would dispatch a death watch notice to Cheryl McCormick? What kind of monster would deny little Stacy and her unborn brother or sister their mother?”

  Hunz’s voice grew husky with emotion.

  Had she been asked, Sydney would have been willing to bet that never once in his career had Hunz Vonner come close to losing control of his emotions on camera. He was close now.

  “I am one of thousands of death watch victims,” Hunz said. “Together, we cry out with a single voice: Why? To be sentenced to die is one thing. But not knowing why is cruel and inhuman. Every death watch victim lowered to his grave will have one word on his lips. Why?”

  The show was once again transferred back to the studio.

  “Hunz, we have to talk,” Sydney said.

  He dropped his microphone onto the sofa and pulled out his earpiece. Squaring his shoulders, he looked at her. The weariness he would never show on camera revealed itself now. His eyes sagged. His shoulders slumped.

  “Sydney, could we do this later? I’d really like to be alone right now.”

  It was a plea, not a directive.

  “Sure,” she said.

  It wasn’t until he’d crossed the room to the bedroom and closed the door that she realized Hunz Vonner didn’t have any “later” left.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  He said your name, Mommy!”

  “Yes, he did,” Cheryl McCormick said, staring at the screen in disbelief.

  Stacy sat on Josh’s lap as they watched the television in the hospital room. The program went to a commercial following Hunz Vonner’s segment. On the screen a white duck attempted to shout the name of an insurance company. His attempts were repeatedly thwarted by various loud noises at an automotive repair center. Stacy thought the duck was funny.

  “Can you believe it?” Cheryl said.

  “I didn’t know,” Josh replied.

  Josh was in Cheryl’s room courtesy of Dora Evans, LPN. Upon learning of Dr. Isaacs’s threats, the opinionated hospital worker—who’d lost a son to Death Watch—conspired to keep Josh in the room.

  “Kick a good-lookin’ hunk like you off my floor? Not on my watch, child,” Dora had said.

  She kept watch in the hallway for Isaacs’s return. Calling the doctor’s name was Josh’s signal to slip into the closet.

  The plan went off without a hitch. Dora called. Josh hid. Isaacs poked his head inside the door, looked around, grunted, and left.

  Now, Dora stood in the room, having watched the first segment of “Countdown to Death” with them. According to her, every television in the hospital was tuned to the program.

  “You sure you want her watching this?” Dora inclined her head toward Stacy.

  “We know Hunz Vonner,” Cheryl said solemnly. “We met him last night.”

  “Hunz, like the ketchup,” Stacy said.

  Dora and Josh laughed. It lightened the mood.

>   “Stacy! Where did you hear that?” Cheryl asked.

  “Hunz told me. Hunz, like the ketchup.”

  “Mr. Vonner and Stacy hit it off,” Cheryl explained. “He was very good to us. Arranged to get me back here to the hospital on the station’s corporate jet.”

  “Really?” Dora said, surprised. She glanced back at the screen, even though Hunz’s image was no longer there. “He doesn’t look the type, you know what I’m saying?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  10:39 a.m., local time.

  Sydney stood on her mark, microphone in hand. She stood alone. Hunz had yet to come out of the bedroom with less than a minute before the studio would switch over to them for the final segment. Once they did, Hunz would have seven minutes of time to fill, and to live.

  Dorian knocked on the bedroom door a second time.

  “Mr. Vonner? Thirty seconds.”

  He pressed his ear to the door.

  “Mr. Vonner?”

  Sydney wasn’t concerned about Hunz missing his cue. Veteran television newscasters were adept at handling time. It wasn’t uncommon for an anchor to emerge from his dressing room—often in a coat and tie and Bermuda shorts and tennis shoes—make his way onto the set, take his place behind the news desk with less than a second to spare, and launch into the first news story without missing a beat.

  Sydney glanced at her watch.

  It was dead.

  A blank gray face stared back at her. No numbers. No time. Nothing. She pushed the buttons on the side, hoping to stir it to life. She got nothing. The battery. It had to be.

  All her attempts to have the precise time had been wasted.

  “Fifteen seconds,” the cameraman said.

  “Mr. Vonner?” Dorian said to the door, louder now. Veteran or no veteran, anxiety was creeping into his voice.

  “Ready on the set,” the cameraman said.

  Voices sounded in Sydney’s ear. The anchors were preparing to hand the show to Hunz, and he wasn’t there.

  “No, not ready on the set!” Sydney said.

  “Mr. Vonner?” Dorian shouted.

  “Try the doorknob!” Joanna suggested.

  “I did!” Dorian hissed back at her. “You think I’m stupid?”

  “Five seconds,” the camera said.

  And at the Hilton Hotel at O’Hare International is Hunz Vonner, veteran newscaster and victim of the death watch terror. We’re switching live to him, where he has just seven minutes left to live.

  “Four, three…,” the cameraman was counting down.

  Let me remind our viewers that this is the first live network airing of a death watch death. Hunz, are you there?

  The cameraman cued Sydney.

  “This is Sydney St. James,” Sydney said, using her on-the-air voice. “A short time ago, Hunz Vonner retreated into the bedroom, closed the door, and has yet to return.”

  Sydney? This is Carol. Did he give any indication why he was going into the bedroom, and when he would be coming out?

  “Apparently he wanted to be alone for a while, Carol. At the time, he gave no indication he would not appear for this segment as planned.”

  Hal here, Sydney. Has anyone attempted to communicate with him?

  “Yes, Hal. As a matter of fact, at this moment, a member of WBBT is attempting to communicate with him through the door.”

  Maybe he fell asleep, Hal’s voice said, presumably to his coanchor. Sydney? Do you think we could get a camera shot of the door?

  The bedroom door opened. Sydney couldn’t see it, she heard it, along with Dorian chastising Hunz in stage whispers.

  “What have you been doing? We’re on the air!”

  “Hunz Vonner is coming to the set now,” Sydney said.

  While Hunz fitted his earpiece in his, Hal made a lame on-the-air comment about being glad Hunz didn’t die prematurely.

  As for Sydney, she was just glad Hunz’s arrival was taking the camera off her. She was angry he’d hung her out to dry like that on national television, and if he wasn’t about to die in six minutes, she would have wrung his neck.

  Now that she was off camera, she motioned to the lights that her watch wasn’t working. Joanna appeared from the bright haze. Off to the side, she turned the hotel alarm clock—the one Sydney had turned to the wall—so that Sydney could see it. Sydney nodded in thanks.

  10:43 a.m.

  “With hard evidence to go on,” Hunz said, without apology to the audience that had tuned in to watch him die, “at this point in time, the best I can give you regarding the origin of Death Watch is this reporter’s observations.

  “First, it’s obvious to me there is intelligence behind Death Watch. Whether it’s a singular or collective intelligence, there are not enough facts to determine. We do know, however, that the messages are composed and delivered, both in print and audio format, to select persons. We also know that, whether directly or indirectly, the source behind these notices can pinpoint a person’s time of death. Do they cause every death? I can’t say that with 100 percent certainty. But I do know this: They can determine the time of death, and to know that and to make no attempt to prevent it, in my mind, is equally criminal.

  “Second, we know that whoever is behind Death Watch has vast resources. Even with our most sophisticated communication technologies, no one has succeeded in tracing a death watch notice to its point of origin. Yet those who transmit the notices have done so in virtually every country in the world.

  “Third, whoever is behind Death Watch has a plan. For reasons unknown, they have remained silent and hidden. Dwelling in the shadows, they strike and retreat before anyone can see them. This darkness in which they dwell is the home of serial killers, stalkers, murderers, and thugs. Hidden and silent, they strike fear in the heart of every being on this planet. For we have yet to see evidence that any of us is protected, that any of us is safe. Maybe this is their plan. To step out of the shadows, to identify themselves, would invite dialogue, and possibly bring an end to their killing.”

  10:45 a.m.

  Two minutes remaining.

  Hunz’s breathing grew erratic. He blinked several times.

  All of a sudden, everyone was shouting at Sydney at once. From the studio, the voices in her ear—

  Hunz, are you all right? Sydney, help him out. Get him something. Water, or something. It looks like he’s having trouble breathing.

  From behind the lights—

  “Step closer to him!”

  “Grab his arm!”

  “He’s going, he’s going! Sydney, take it!”

  Sydney didn’t need instruction. She went to Hunz’s side. Her microphone lowered, she whispered, “Are you all right? Do you want to sit down?”

  “I think so,” he whispered back.

  “Into the microphone!” Dorian cried. “Speak into the microphone! ”

  Sydney helped Hunz onto the sofa.

  This is ridiculous, she thought. Whose idea was this in the first place? She was a heartbeat away from yelling at the crew to turn off the camera, turn off the lights, and if they didn’t, she would.

  Seated, Hunz seemed to rally.

  He reached for the microphone.

  “My final observation—,” he said.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Sydney whispered.

  He gave her one of those looks—one of those bullheaded, testosterone-charged, male looks—that told her it was something he had to do.

  “—is that behind the Death Watch there is cowardice. Everything about it reeks of cowardice. The slinking, chickenhearted, bullying strike-and-run tactics are all the evidence we need to evaluate the true character of whoever is behind Death Watch. I was taught that a true man could look friend or enemy in the eye. That he took responsibility for his actions. That his friends could count on him, and while his enemies may not agree with him, they knew where he stood.”

  10:46 a.m.

  “And so—”

  With effort, Hunz stood. Sydney stood with him.

 
“—as I face the final minute of my life, I choose to stand and face whoever, or whatever, would strike me down and kill me. If there is any manhood in him, or them, I challenge them to come out of the shadows, stand like men, and show their faces.”

  Hunz lowered his microphone.

  He faced the camera resolutely.

  Sydney! Say something! This is dead air. Say something!

  Sydney pulled the earplug from her ear. It dangled on her shoulder. She could still hear the voices. They sounded far away.

  She stood next to Hunz.

  “Thirty seconds,” Dorian said behind the lights.

  Hunz Vonner stood tall. There was no fear. No sign of regret. He didn’t tremble. He had the appearance of a man resolved to his fate.

  “Fifteen seconds.”

  “Hunz. ”

  Sydney wanted to say something, but the words weren’t there. She wanted’to tell him that over the last couple of days, she’d come to admire and respect him, that when she thought of him she’d remember him holding Stacy and the way she clung to his neck like he was her father, that the last few hours they spent together talking at the table had meant so much to her, that

  “Ten seconds.”

  But there wasn’t time. There was only time to say—

  “Do not be afraid of those who kill the body,” she blurted.

  Hunz turned to her. Their eyes met in silent communication.

  “Five seconds.”

  “Four.”

  The verbal countdown made Sydney angry. This wasn’t a rocket launch. This was a man’s life!

  “Three.”

  “Two.”

  “One.”

  Hunz’s eyes closed.

  No one breathed.

  At Prentice Women’s Hospital, nurse Dora Evans turned away from the television to Cheryl.

  “Do you really want her to see this?” Dora asked.

  Stacy’s attention was diverted between coloring in her Wonder Woman coloring book and her friend Hunz—like the ketchup—on television.