by Samie Sands
Some praise the story—for example, ‘thank you for finally putting this out into the public domain’—whereas others clearly think it’s mental—‘wtf is this crazy shit?’ is probably the kindest of the negative remarks. Luckily none of them seem to focus on me, which is brilliant because I don’t know if my fragile ego could take it today.
As I watch the clip, I realise very quickly how good Jamie really is at his job. I mean, this is a completely bizarre and ridiculous story, but after the blunder—I can almost see it on the anchor’s face when Jamie is screaming at him—he’s got him delivering it in a really convincing way. Now I can see why he deserves his job.
I sigh to myself, sitting back in my chair. After practically a full day of research, I can see there’s a huge amount of belief in AM13, even from my own boss. But to be honest, it all just seems crazy to me. This hoax was seemingly massive online before any involvement from me, with a lot of copycat pranksters, and I may have just accidentally given it the platform to explode into something uncontrollable.
CHAPTER FIVE
I can’t sleep a wink during the night. I just lie there with my eyes open, thoughts whirling round and round in my mind. I need some kind of plan. I feel like I can’t just let this go on the way it is. I kind of know this story won’t just go away, especially now there’s been so much interest, and if the national newspapers print anything about this, it’ll spread like wildfire. It’s too much. It’s too mad. I need to put a halt to it now.
But before I know it, light is shining through the curtains, alerting me to another day. I groan because I know I need to get up and face the music back at work, the place I least want to be right now. I’m positive everyone must be bitching about me behind my back, because that’s exactly what working in an office environment is like. I’ve never been on the receiving end of it—as far as I know—and it sucks. To make matters worse, I’m not any further along with my supposed ‘plan.’
***
I feel all out of sorts on my way to work. I’m so incredibly tired, but my brain is still annoyingly buzzing. I pass a newsagents and try very hard to simply walk past, head held high, but it turns out I can’t resist going in to check. Just for my own sanity, to be absolutely certain there’s nothing about me or the stupid virus printed in any of the papers.
To my relief there’s nothing about it I can see straight away on any of the front pages—not even in the really trashy tabloids that usually pounce on any ludicrous story they can. They’re all focused on a silly political scandal I can vaguely remember someone discussing yesterday. With a smile on my face, I buy the first newspaper I grab and also some chocolate, just to get me through the day. Maybe I don’t need to do anything after all. I’ve just been paranoid and kind of vain to think anyone would be that interested in me. Maybe, just maybe, it’s all going to be fine.
I feel a lot lighter as I arrive at work. I really do think today is going to be a better day. With this in mind, the first person I spot in the office is Jake. Feeling uncharacteristically confident and brave, I walk over to talk to him, to maybe apologise for not saying anything yesterday and to try and gain some much-needed knowledge about how he’s feeling. But just as I reach his desk, his phone rings and he answers it, quickly turning away. As I amble back to my desk, gutted and trying to pretend I wasn’t even heading his way anyway, I realise I’ve not even acknowledged him, or even thought about him since all this craziness started. I’ve accidentally played it cool, which is not like me at all. I just hope I haven’t screwed anything up. His reaction towards me did seem stand-offish then, but I don’t know if I’m just reading too much into it.
Before I can make any more rash decisions, the office quickly buzzes with commotion. Even with a skeleton weekend staff, it always seems like a busy hive of activity here. On top of that, I’m not getting any special attention today, which suits me just fine. I much prefer being out of the limelight. Instead, I find myself sitting at my desk, feeling a little lost. I’m not really sure if I have a particular assignment to complete, and rather than go and ask Jamie like I normally would, goody-two-shoes that I am, I decide to just try and keep under the radar. I’ll just do my best to make sure I appear busy.
I start with all the usual social media checking—for research, of course—and when I get bored of this, I open the newspaper I bought. Although these are really out of date in our world, I figure it might just give me some inspiration, something to get me started.
The pages are all filled with stuff I can’t even begin to muster up any enthusiasm for. Stories that have been retold so many times, from every angle, that everyone has lost interest: a footballer’s affair, a politician misusing taxes, another food group that’s bad for us. Yawn. Until suddenly, I come across a very small article, on one of the middle pages towards the bottom.
I don’t know what draws my eye to it. Maybe subconsciously I suspect what it’s about, or maybe I glimpsed my name, right there in black and white. In a national newspaper, for the whole of the country to see. I hold my breath as I read.
It’s awful, so nasty about me. It calls me a ‘ditzy researcher’ who has conned my boss with a hoax. They actually have a picture of me, taken yesterday on my way home from work. I had no idea I was being followed, or photographed. To add insult to injury, it makes me look dreadful. I look really dopey in it, all spaced out as if I have no idea what’s going on around me. If I’d known this was going to happen, I would obviously not have worn my blue bobby jumper that makes me look almost homeless, which is made worse by my obvious hangover. It’s not very nice about Jamie either, saying he went along with it in a desperate ploy to up our terrible ratings, and now we’ve lost any integrity we had.
I can feel the heat rising through my body as I throw the paper down on my desk. I glance around the room with suspicious eyes, wondering if anyone else has seen this story and not told me. Suddenly every whisper and giggle is about me and I feel trapped. My throat feels constricted to the point I almost can’t breathe. All I know for sure is I have to get out of here immediately, so I grab my coat and run outside the building as fast as I can, without even a single glance backwards.
As soon as the fresh air hits my face, I start to calm down. Despite this, I continue to walk away because I know setting foot back in that building will result in tears. I’ve never cried at work before, and I certainly don’t intend to start now. I hope Jamie won’t be too bothered about me leaving; I wasn’t exactly achieving much anyway so I can’t imagine me not being there will really be noticeable. I do have to pull myself together a bit, though, or I’m going to find myself unemployed, and I’m not bloody job hunting again.
I start to repeat the same mantra in my head over and over again, attempting to convince myself. No one cares about some stupid paper; no one cares about some stupid paper. Anyway, most people who read that paper don’t even know me. Why should their opinions bother me?
Oh God, what about all the people I went to school with? My teachers, my uni mates, my parents. What if any of them see it? I’m going to be an inside joke forever. I’ll never be able to go to any reunions.
I decide the best thing to do is head home and crawl into bed. I think lack of sleep is making me take this much worse. A nap could be the answer to all my problems. I’ll be able to make more rational decisions when I’m more rested, at any rate.
***
This is the absolute last thing I need. My flat is surrounded by people, lots of them. What the hell is going on now? There must be a fire or something. I start running, panicking. Judging by the week I’m having, it can only be my house that’s burning to the ground! But as I get nearer I slow down. Something doesn’t seem quite right. There’s no smoke or flames, and the people outside my flat aren’t shouting or worrying. In fact, they’re all standing around calmly chatting. I actually think I might recognise one of them.
That’s when it hits me. Journalists. What are they doing surrounding where I live? Has someone been murdered? I always
thought my neighbours seemed like a weird couple, maybe not criminals, just a little off. Something I could never explain. I might get a good scoop here, something to justify me leaving work early. I’m just going to act casual, like I’ve been sent here to join in. We’re all professionals here, aren’t we?
My steps slow down more and more the closer I get. I just don’t feel like a professional. I feel out of my depth, a fraud. A frightened mouse about to head into a group of hungry lions. I’ve never done research out in the real world before. That’s for the super confident journalists who don’t mind asking all the awkward questions. I’m much better suited to the safety of hiding behind my desk.
“Hi.” I try to talk to one of the women at the back, to discreetly find out what’s going on without having to ask. She ignores me though. Everyone does. Before I get the chance to speak again, the guy I thought I recognised—Bill, maybe?—turns around and spots me.
“Oh my God, it’s you!” he shouts so loudly that everyone else turns to face me. Suddenly Dictaphones and cameras are shoved in my face, and everyone is yelling questions at me at the same time.
Everything starts to move in slow motion. I’m frozen in place. How can I tell them I’m not the one they want? I’m one of them, not the story.
Zombie.
Hoax.
Failure.
All these words are being thrown around me. As soon as I hear them, I feel the world around me shattering. It is me they want. This thought fills me with utter horror. It’s that paper, the story. Oh God, I don’t want to speak to them, and certainly not about that. How can these people honestly be interested in this?
My brain begins to unfreeze and I instinctively focus on getting as far away from these prying eyes as possible. This is why journalism never truly suited me. I’m not into pressuring people for information—even less so now I know how it feels from the other side. The only thing I can think to do is run, but where? All I want is to go inside, and I have a right to be in my own flat. If I don’t do it now, I’ll only have to face them again later, so I decisively begin to push past them to get indoors. It feels like I’m trying to move brick walls, it’s almost impossible. No one wants to move to let me past. Why are they treating me this way? I’m going to have to say something, but I know most of the time that only makes things escalate.
“No comment!” I yell. This always seems to work in films and I can’t think of anything else to say, but now I’ve spoken, the questions get louder and more insistent.
Eventually I find my front door. Luckily I already have my key out, so as fast as I can, I push my way in and slam it shut.
CHAPTER SIX
I can still hear them outside. Pounding on the door. Shouting. It’s safe to say they’re definitely taking the side of the story I saw in the newspaper. I’m the idiot that has damaged our show and might lose everyone their jobs. Fan-bloody-tastic. The tears that threatened to start earlier stream down my face as I slump to the floor, right next to the door, just so I can torment myself a little longer by listening to all that’s being said.
There really is no way this day could have gone any worse.
After a while, I can hear the patter of raindrops falling outside. Luckily this is enough to get rid of the journalists. Fortunately none of them care about me enough to soak themselves to the bone. I take a moment to be grateful I’m not famous—that nightmare must be their lives twenty-four-seven. I definitely couldn’t do it, even for the lavish lifestyle that comes with it.
With silence now surrounding me, I can calm down a bit. I pad slowly into the kitchen to grab myself a glass of wine to steady my nerves. My heart is pounding in my throat and I have no idea what to do. As if on autopilot, I switch on the TV in the way I normally do when I arrive home from work, but I instantly realise this is a bad mistake. There seems to only be news program after news program on every channel. Where’s all the trashy TV? Isn’t there always a bad sitcom on somewhere? Why can’t I find anything else to watch?
Suddenly I see the very thing I’m trying to avoid. My picture. That God-awful photograph and my name. I want to turn the TV off and ignore it, but I just can’t seem to do so. The anchor is talking about me, so I pause and slide down to a sitting position on the floor, expecting the absolute worst. I wait for the awful words that were yelled at me outside to be repeated.
Yet somehow this doesn’t happen.
I’m not quite sure what news programme this is; it isn’t one I’ve watched before. I know I should be up-to-date with all the competition, but that’s never been of interest to me. I’ve always been one of those people who only works whilst at work. As I listen intently to the words being spoken, I can’t believe my ears. Here is someone who actually agrees with Jamie, and discusses the virus in great detail. I’m not being shown as a deluded idiot, but as a hero for bringing this to the forefront, giving the world an opportunity to fight it—just in the way some people were doing online. The ones I’d thought were crazy.
I move closer to the television set, completely absorbed by this more positive perspective of me.
Wow, this show has really done its research. I recognise all of the early symptoms being discussed: acute tiredness, feverishness, sluggish mindset. It’s all written down in the notes I took whilst reading through the forums for information. Clearly the news researchers from this program followed the same online route I did.
It’s not-so-subtly mentioned more than once that the government needs to come up with a solution, which I can’t help but think is nuts. Do they really think the prime minister is going to care about some fake zombie virus? Whoever started this whole hoax must be absolutely wetting themselves with laughter. Not only did our show play out to their ideas, others seem to be following too. Even the people who don’t believe it will have a little niggle of doubt that it must be based in some element of truth.
Then, with an indestructible air about me thanks to that news show, I make a huge mistake and Google myself. Even as I type, I know it’s going to be a mistake. After all, it’s common knowledge you should never do that, isn’t it? I cover my eyes and peek through my fingers as the page loads. As I scroll down through the results, I’m terrified.
***
Well, it could have actually been a lot worse. At least half the websites I’ve looked at are suggesting that I’m great for bringing this story to the mainstream media. Of course there are a lot of posts with the opposite opinion too, but I’m choosing not to focus on them and their nasty words. Because I know there was a lot of belief and information about the AM13 virus online before any of it hit the news, I’m not too concerned it’s my fault people are afraid. Although I am very concerned about how seriously people are taking it. I wonder why they can’t seem to see just how absurd it is.
It is absurd, isn’t it?
I shake that thought out of my head very quickly. No, I refuse to be tricked as well. I know it was a joke; it was my fault it got passed on. Just because I’ve been reading so much about it, doesn’t make it any less ridiculous.
But what can I do? I can’t exactly write ‘hey guys, it isn’t real, you know?’ to the only people who aren’t calling me every name under the sun from ‘attention seeking bitch’ to ‘fucked up loser’—okay, I may have paid some attention to the spiteful comments posted. The things people will write from the anonymous position of behind their computer screens is unbelievable.
When I log on to Facebook and Twitter I have loads of new friend requests and followers, which is crazy considering I never have anything that interesting to say. Obviously people just want a piece of the action—which will only get worse if the video clip from YouTube ends up going viral. Or maybe people just want more direct avenues to abuse me.
With that sickening thought in mind, I steer clear of social media and choose the much safer option of my email. Unfortunately this is also filled with things about AM13—is there no escape? When I spot a communication from Jamie, I expect to be in trouble, and admittedly I do expe
rience a pang of regret for leaving work the way I did earlier. Instead, he’s just sharing some documentation he’s found and asking me to send everything I have for him too. Is he forgetting I said I wasn’t researching the virus for a story? He’s so focused and driven; he often gets like this when he gets his teeth into something juicy.
One of the emails details the American contingency plans for the infection. I originally only opened it by mistake, but the more I read it, the more I realise how good it looks. It’s admittedly set out really well, and if I didn’t know any better, I might actually believe this is a Presidential Initiative, but I can’t be fooled into thinking this prankster has gotten to the man in charge of one of the most powerful countries in the world. It states that America is in grave danger being so close to Mexico, where apparently it all began, so they need to act swiftly and efficiently to prevent the virus from becoming a massive issue. It then goes on to propose setting a strict time frame of two to three weeks, and putting everyone who isn’t infected—or showing any signs of carrying the infection—into quarantine. The most practical possibility to ensure things are done in a timely manner is to keep everyone inside their own homes. This negates the need for too much money to be put into the initiative. To ensure people don’t have any unmet needs during this time, members of the armed forces will be in charge if delivering food parcels door to door.
Whilst this is going on, others will be responsible for ‘rounding up’ and ‘taking care’ of the infected. There’s no details mentioned as to how they intend to do that part, which is slightly worrying. Especially when I remember the murderous details from the forums.