Sealed In

by Druga, Jacqueline

  Andy was freezing; he didn’t think he’d ever warm up. He was glad to see the message from Richie, stating, :Thank you. Phone going off. If you don’t hear from me, I did not get sick. Text on the 20th.”

  Andy was confident Richie wouldn’t get sick. How could he? He really wasn’t exposed. Not that Andy knew.

  He blasted the heat in the truck as high and hard as he could and made the fatal mistake of driving through Lincoln on the way back.

  He just wanted to get back.

  The second he drove into town, Andy reached for the heat, shut it off, and closed the vents.

  It was surreal. Early afternoon and not a soul walked the streets. There wasn’t a track in the road, not a footprint. Bonnie’s was closed and so was every other business.

  No movement. It was eerily empty.

  Either Lincoln was scared and they hunkered down, or they, too, were hit with whatever Hartworth had.

  Andy didn’t want to think about the latter; he just hoped for the best and drove to Emma’s.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hartworth, Montana

  December 19th

  Never could he recall ever being too sick to move, yet Stew didn’t move from that chair next to Heather’s bed. By late afternoon, he was too sick to think. His stomach wrenched, and Stew swore he could feel the blood moving through his veins. It was thick and sluggish, and it burned. His skin was so itchy he wanted to rip it from his body.

  He was unable to contact Emma any longer. His phone died. However, he had a plan. To initiate it, he needed to rest. He hoped that would give him one more boost of strength. But Stew closed his eyes to sleep and didn’t wake up until it was dark. The clock read after midnight. How much time had passed, had been wasted? He wondered if he should even attempt his plan. As he reached his hand toward Heather, he heard confirmation that he should.

  Sobs.

  Stew didn’t need to see who was crying; he knew. It was Val, and he also knew the reason; Roman had to have passed away. Stew looked down to Heather. She was barely responsive, and Stew realized that she wasn’t far behind.

  With every ounce of strength he had, he slipped his hands under Heather and lifted her as he stood to his feet. Stew teetered. The weight of her body on his arms was like hot coals, burning, aching, and straight through to every nerve fiber in his body.

  Walking would be a chore, and he did so one step at a time. He swayed a lot, bumped into the wall, but Stew kept moving.

  His legs hurt like hell as he treaded toward the stairs. He prayed with every step he took that he wouldn’t drop his granddaughter.

  “Stew,” Val called out weakly. “Where are you going?”

  Stew glanced for only a second over his shoulder and moved for the staircase. “We’re both dying,” Stew said. “We’re going home.”

  The steps were the biggest obstacle. Using the walls as support, Stew glided down more than walked. He even stumbled twice. He imagined it was the last of his determination that kept him going. He just needed to get outside. Val would certainly have a car there, something, and then Stew could go back in for the keys after he got Heather in the car.

  He didn’t expect for Larry to pull up in the squad car.

  “Where ya headed, Stew? You look bad.”

  “I feel bad, Larry. I’m heading home. I’m taking my baby and we’re heading home to die.”

  “You can’t leave Hartworth.”

  “The hell I can’t. I can go home. My property is far enough away from Lincoln. I’ll go straight there. I’ll open the propane and once my girl passes, it’s done. But I’m not gonna die here, and neither is she. Not here.”

  Larry looked forward and then Larry stepped from the police car, leaving the door open. He walked to Stew. “Give me the girl.”

  Stew shook his head.

  “Give her to me, Stew. I’ll put her in my car. Keys are in the ignition. Just give me your word you go only to your house and you do just as you told me.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Then you take my car.” Larry braced under Heather and lifted her from Stew.

  The release of the weight was a relief, and Stew walked slowly to the driver’s side. As he slid in, Larry set Heather in the passenger’s seat, buckled the belt, and closed the door. Stew could barely grip the door enough to close it. Larry walked over.

  “Godspeed, Stew. Find peace.”

  Stew nodded. Then Larry closed the door. The car was running, and Stew drove off.

  Larry stood there watching until the police car drove from his sight. When he turned, Val stood there.

  Val didn’t wear a coat. His face was drawn, and he handed Larry the journal.

  “Why are you giving me this?”

  “To take it back to the fire hall. But I see you have to walk now.” Larry shrugged. “No big deal.” He inhaled as he took the journal. “My, uh, my work is done. You ok?”

  “No. No, not at all. But …my work is done, too.” After a heavy sigh, Val turned and walked back into his house.

  Holding that journal, Larry began his walk back to the fire hall. He was barely a block down the empty, quiet street when the sound of a single shot rang out. Larry stopped. He knew what it was and from what direction it came, but he still paused briefly to look over his shoulder, and then he kept walking.

  FLASH FORWARD

  Ground Zero – 9

  December 23rd

  Hartworth, Montana

  In the time it took for Edward to cross the street to the expedient lab, the forces had arrived. Massive numbers of vehicles pulled into town, and Edward instructed them to get situated and wait for his directives on the search. He knew the teams would search and retrieve as they combed through every square inch of Hartworth and beyond.

  But first, the town doctor.

  He had to be the one, Edward figured, who wrote the journal. It was too precise about too many things. Edward grabbed the journal on the way to the town doctor’s place.

  The doctor’s office was located on the bottom floor of the house; Edward’s initial team was there, all four of them. He went upstairs and entered the bedroom where Goldman waited. There were two single beds; the body of a younger man, decimated by the illness, was on one bed, and next to him was the body of an older man. He had a single gunshot wound to his head.

  “Makes no sense,” Goldman said. “The other bed shows signs that someone else was sick. There are syringes. Towels. The other bedroom as well. Yet, only the boy has the virus.”

  Edward stepped closer. “Do we have a name?”

  “Vladimir Paltrov. Russian immigrant, came to the US thirty plus years ago. He was an easy run, ran his name while waiting on you. He was under constant observation for about ten years. A doctor in Russia was always in contact there.”

  Martha entered the room and handed the journal to Edward. “Handwriting is a match on the charts downstairs.”

  Edward crouched down for a closer examination. “He has to be the one that brought it in. Has to be. But I thought Ebolapox wasn’t invented until the 1990s.”

  “No,” Goldman said. “Some say 1976. Remember, we have nothing. It was a paper study.”

  “This is our man. Not a sign of the virus,” Edward said. “The other patient may have been moved to the fire hall. Who knows? But this other guy … do we know his name?” He indicated the young man.

  “Roman Paltrov. Son.”

  “Also patient zero,” Edward said. “Look at the nose; it deteriorated from the disease. We haven’t seen a single victim like him. He’s the furthest along. Bet he was first. So he’s patient zero. This explains all the medical attention in this room.” Edward stood. “It’s sort of piecing together now. Paltrov had the bug here somewhere. The son found it. Released it. Paltrov knew it, and that explains why they shut the town down.”

  Martha interjected, “That doesn’t explain why the sheriff nor the doctor showed no symptoms.”

  “He’s easy,” Edward said. “He had an inoculation. Sure
ly, there isn’t an antidote or the son wouldn’t be sick. No, there’s a vaccine for this. Bet me. I can’t be sure about the sheriff. But him … this helps. If this is his, and this was, as we think, a Cold War bioweapon, then maybe the Soviets have an answer to this bug if it gets out of control or if it broke barriers.”

  “Hey, Ed,” Harold called out. “We got a problem.” He turned holding a wallet. “This belongs to the son. What day did you determine was the release date?”

  Edward answered, “December 16th.” He looked at Harold and extended his hand. “What is that?”

  “Concert ticket stubs,” Harold answered. “At eight p.m., he and someone else went to a concert in Billings.”

  “Don’t tell me.”

  Harold gave him the stubs. “December 16th.”

  Edward glanced at the ticket stubs, to the bed, and then back to the date of the concert. “Let’s just hope I’m wrong on the date. If I’m not, let’s hope this release happened after this concert.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Lincoln, Montana

  December 19th

  There were three sounds in Emma’s living room: the crackling fire, the sniffles of sadness, and the nearly silent shuffling of papers.

  Emma sat on a small footstool with a box before her, and next to that a stack of photographs. She looked at each one, and then placed it in the box.

  The hour was late, but she wasn’t tired. Cody slept on the couch. Emma ceased letting the child out of her sight. Andy just sat and listened.

  She hadn’t heard from her father all day. Last conversation, Stew called Andy. That was it. Emma had given up hope.

  “This is my life,” Emma told Andy. “I’m going to spend the rest of the night just writing the story of my life,” she spoke sadly. “That way, if someone finds it, whether they’re officials, people in the future, or another civilization, they’ll know. They’ll look at this and see people lived and were loved in this world. We just didn’t make it.”

  Andy reached out and grabbed her wrists. “It’s n … not over.”

  “Not yet,” Emma said. “This is the big one, Andy. People always think I’m crazy with this end of the world shit, but this is the big one. It took a town, now Lincoln is under. You said you called Bob in Mead; they have it there.” She shook her head. “Heather called me in the morning and she was sick. She went to Billings the night before. Now ... either she caught it in Billings, or she was sick when she went. In either case, it’s in Billings. Yeah … we may be fine for now. We may even be able to outrun it. Stay ahead of it. But eventually, it will catch us when we have nowhere else to run.”

  “May … may be-be a cure?”

  “Maybe,” Emma said. “But it could be too late. I bet in a week the West Coast is down. If it is in Billings, it’s made it out of Billings. Someone took it elsewhere.” She winced as if in pain. “Planes. One plane ride. But …” she sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I always thought it would. I always thought I’d care, that I’d want to survive. But honestly … my daughter is dying, if not already gone.”

  “Cody … n-needs you.”

  “What kind of life would it be?”

  “What … ev … ever you m … make it for her. R-Richie is not s-sick.”

  Emma nodded. Her eyes lifted when a light from outside flashed. She stood and turned to the window. “Headlights?”

  Andy stood and joined Emma at the window. The vehicle began to back from the driveway, flicking its lights. Andy and Emma rushed to the front door. As soon as they opened it, a squeal of feedback rang out in the dead silent dark.

  Then they heard Stew’s weak voice. “We’re heading to the main house,” he said over the speaker. “I’ll park out front. Dress warm and wear gloves and masks. We’ll be in the car. You can’t touch us. You can get near the car.” Pause. “It’s time to say goodbye.”

  The car backed up and pulled away.

  They rushed. They moved as fast as they could to pull on coats and hats, and scarves to cover their mouths. Emma understood she couldn’t hold her daughter or even touch her, kiss her, but she could see her. She could see her daughter and father. It was a gift. A sad one, but still a gift.

  They took Andy’s truck up the road to Stew’s house. The police car parked sideways out front with the lights blinking.

  Cody was half-asleep in Emma’s arms; she opened the door and stepped out with Andy. She could see the two figures in the car as she walked closer. She lost every bit of her breath and clutched Cody tighter when she saw her father and Heather. Her dad looked bad, really bad, but Heather … It crushed Emma to see her, and she felt her heart squeeze in pain as she ached out a cry that echoed in the night, a cry of pain that only a mother could make.

  Her daughter. Her poor, sweet little girl, a child that Emma tried to protect yet at that moment was unable to help her at all.

  “Hey,” Stew spoke through the speaker. “We don’t have much time. Heather … she doesn’t have much time. I’m glad we made it. We had to see you. I ...I had to see you, Em.”

  Another whimper slipped from Emma as she walked closer to the car. Heather leaned against the window, her eyes closed. Then Heather opened her eyes. When she did, it was as if the girl had renewed strength. Her hand lifted to the window and Heather burst into tears as her fingers scraped the glass as if to feel Cody.

  “My baby.” Heather’s muffled words carried from the car. “Cody, Mommy loves you. I love you. Mom, I’m sorry.”

  “No. No.” Emma shook her head. “Why are you sorry?”

  “For putting you through this.” Heather’s shoulders bounced as she cried, then her head went back as she breathed heavily.

  Stew extended the microphone to Heather.

  Squeal.

  “Mommy, protect my baby. Please. Protect my baby. I love you.”

  Emma handed the baby to Andy and raced to the car; she dropped to her knees and put her hand on the window. “Heather. Honey, I love you, baby. I wish I could touch you. Hold you. Take it away.”

  “It’s okay.” Heather turned her body and put her hand back on the window. She held it there.

  Emma raised her hand to meet Heather’s against that window.

  “Emma,” Stew said, his words breathy and weak. “I am so proud of you. Please know that. I have always been …. Always been proud of you. I … I love you.” He dropped the microphone and after a squeal, Stew turned in toward Heather placing his hand on the glass as well, next to hers.

  Emma positioned her hand between theirs, wishing with all her might she could touch them, hold them. It was without a doubt her goodbye to her father and her child.

  Then Heather’s hand slid down the window, and her head dropped to the side.

  “No.” Emma pounded on the window. “Heather. Heather.” She smacked the glass. “No!” She sobbed loudly as she watched her father grab and hold Heather, his strong body bouncing in his own anguish.

  With his free hand, Stew grabbed the microphone. “Go home, Emma. Be safe. Now. Andy, take them. I need to get in the house.”

  Emma cried out repeatedly as Andy grabbed hold of her.

  “Cody … d … doesn’t need this.” Andy told her. “Come. I’m s… so … sorry.”

  Emma, despite her efforts to stay, was pulled back. She finally gave in and got into Andy’s truck.

  “Gam? Mommy?” Cody asked groggily. “Mommy?”

  “Mommy’s with Pap.” Emma kissed Cody. Her tears fell, saturating her face. Her soul was weak; she could barely breathe, her emotions were so thick.

  Andy got into the truck as well.

  He put the truck in gear and started to back up.

  “Wait.” Emma grabbed his arm. “Let me watch them go in the house. Please?”

  Andy stopped the truck and nodded.

  Emma watched as Stew stepped from the car. She gave seeped a cry at the way he walked and moved. Stew opened the passenger door, reached in, and awkwardly lifted Heather with an apparent struggle. Emma realized her error in as
king to stay, when Stew toppled to the ground and Andy whipped open the door.

  “Andy?” Emma called his name.

  Andy shut the door, paused, leaned forward, kissed Cody, and then placed his hand on Emma’s cheek. “I love you.” He placed his lips softly to hers. “Be strong.”

  Before Emma could comprehend why he was saying it, the truck door opened, Andy stepped out, and closed the door.

  He took two steps, faced Emma, lifted his hand in a wave, then turned around and rushed to Stew.

  It was at that very second, watching Andy help her father that Emma knew that she didn’t just say goodbye to her father and child, she had just said goodbye to Andy, as well.

  FINAL FLASH FORWARD

  Ground Zero – 10

  December 23rd

  Hartworth, Montana

  For the first time in hours, Edward decontaminated and sat in his special office in the lab, an environmentally controlled area that he felt was safe from any ‘Hartworth’ air. His eyes shifted to the activity outside the lab. He monitored it through the computer screen while speaking to Bill Lange on the speakerphone.

  He knew he’d have to get suited up again. However, first he needed coffee. The eight hours there seemed like days.

  “The Secretary of State has already been in contact with the Soviet Prime Minister,” Lange said. “They’re working with the Soviet Weapons Commission to see if this is theirs.”

  Edward scoffed a tired laugh. “Of course it’s theirs. Christ. Dr. Paltrov, whatever his real name is, came from there. He worked there, constantly communicated with them.”

  “I know. But it isn’t our job to accuse the Soviet Union of withholding information or covering it up.”