The Jakarta Pandemic

by Steven Konkoly

  “Do you always talk to yourself in here?” Kate asked from the doorway to the office, startling him by her sudden appearance.

  “Jesus! What is it with all of you people scaring the shit out of me?” he asked.

  “Who’s ‘you people’?” she asked, walking over to the desk.

  “You and that son of yours.” He swung the chair around to face her.

  “Did you see the storm warning?” she asked him.

  “Yeah, I hope it’s just a snowstorm. An ice storm will take down the power.”

  Kate was staring past him at the article on the screen. “What’s that all about?” She was squinting to try and read it from where she was standing.

  “Some nutbags are planning to barricade the bridge.”

  “What about the Route One bridge?”

  “I don’t know. What, do you want to be on their planning committee?” Alex joked.

  “Someone has to keep the refugee situation under control,” she said.

  “Yeah, somehow I think that’s a job better suited for the Army Reserves or National Guard, not a bunch of gun-toting nuts who believe they are the reincarnated spirits of the Lexington and Concord Minutemen.”

  “Who do you think makes up the Guard and Reserves?” Kate asked.

  “I have several friends in the Guard, and they run a quality operation.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just saying that regular civilians from all walks of life make up the Guard. Same people who are part of that group.”

  “True, but either way, an untrained and undisciplined gaggle of armed civilians barricading a bridge is a recipe for major disaster,” he said, turning back to the screen.

  “Yeah, but I can’t help thinking I’m glad they’re doing something to keep these people from creeping into our neighborhoods.”

  “I know. I feel the same way,” he agreed.

  “Speaking of the Guard, they fully mobilized all Maine units. Same for New Hampshire, Massachusetts and the rest of New England. I think there was a national mobilization ordered by the president. I caught a bit of it on the TV in our room a little earlier,” Kate said, lingering in the doorway.

  “I didn’t see that. Hold on.” He started a search. “Jesus, you’re right, it was a presidential order. Christ, they’re talking about the deployment of units to areas outside of assigned states.”

  “Can they do that?” she asked, stepping back in to the office.

  “Do what? Fully mobilize or send units out of state?”

  “Both.”

  “I’ve never heard of them mobilizing every single unit, but I know units travel out of state to augment disaster efforts, like major floods, or something like the disaster in New Orleans. Still, I’m pretty sure that’s usually authorized by the state governor as a courtesy. I can’t imagine any of the state governors volunteering to send any units out of state. This is unprecedented as far as I know.

  “The president or the secretary of defense must have taken control of the National Guard. Not sure how, but I can guarantee this’ll just add to the mess out there,” Alex said worriedly.

  “I wouldn’t show up. Not with my family’s safety on the line. I’m gonna take a shower,” Kate said and left the room.

  Alex mumbled agreement, though fundamentally, he didn’t agree with her sentiment. He felt no qualms ditching his job at Biosphere, but military service was a different story. He could never refuse an authorized and legitimate call to duty, which is why after nearly ten years on active duty, he had resigned his commission and had not registered with the Individual Ready Reserve (IRR).

  President Bush had already exercised his right under the Presidential Reserve Callup Authority to reactivate members of the IRR, and by the end of 2003, Captain Fletcher, USMC, couldn’t imagine any scenario in which the United States would be able to leave Iraq within the next ten years. With specialized Arabic language training from the Defense Language Institute documented in his service record, he felt certain that he’d once again choke on the stench of Iraq if he remained in the IRR. He was surprised that the Marine Corps let him resign, though he suspected that his last Fitness Report (FITREP) helped seal the deal.

  The battalion’s executive officer, Major Rogan, had an overly heavy hand influencing battalion FITREPs, especially for the officers he despised, and Captain Fletcher imagined he was at the top of the major’s list. Major Rogan had had a problem with Alex from the beginning, but after the An-Nasiryah disaster, Alex validated his position at the top when he openly suggested that the major might have underestimated the potential for communications problems during the attack.

  He never directly blamed Major Rogan for the high casualty count at the bridge, but the implication was inescapable in the sun-baked, sand-blown canvas tent. Discomfort enveloped the exhausted marines, and Alex felt the kind of sinking feeling one might expect after signing one’s own death warrant. His departing FITREP hadn’t contained any overt career ending statements, but it certainly hadn’t contained the prose needed to skyrocket him to the rank of general, or even the next rank of major. In the eyes of the Marine Corps, he was at the end of his career, which suited him fine.

  Alex chuckled to himself. He was wrong about the ten years. It only took the U.S. eight years to effectively get out of Iraq. Of course, most of the military units only moved a short distance over to Afghanistan and Pakistan, where they had just recently finished mopping up the remaining members of the Taliban that hadn’t fled to the newest Islamic fundamentalist safe haven, Indonesia. He laughed to himself at the irony.

  They move their fundamentalist core from the caves and tribal areas of Afghanistan to Indonesia, effecting one of the quickest and most brutal fundamentalist uprisings in recent history, and their new home turns out to be the epicenter of the greatest pandemic in recent history. They need to scout out their locations better.

  He thought about that for a moment and wondered if the Taliban leadership looked at the coincidence as a curse or providence. He could picture them in a press conference declaring the pandemic as punishment for the world’s infidel ways, spreading outward from the new holy land to cleanse the world.

  Unfortunately for them, a vast majority of the world’s estimated 1.8 billion Muslims lived in third world conditions. Once the Jakarta flu settled, many demographic experts projected that the Muslim population would emerge at pre-1980s levels. In essence, the Jakarta flu would put an end to Islam’s 21st century resurgence.

  I wonder what the Taliban think of that?

  He navigated to one of the major Boston newspapers and spotted a disturbing article featuring the sudden decline of civil order within the major Boston metropolitan area. He checked the submission time of the article and saw that it had been filed online only several minutes ago.

  Here it goes.

  He skimmed the article, seeing references to similar problems in all major cities along the northeastern coast. The article cited growing civil unrest as the primary reason for the nationwide Guard recall.

  Sounds like they needed to put the Guard into action a few weeks ago.

  The article’s author went further to blame the civil disorder on a “now nearly complete breakdown of the food and essentials supply chain in the northeast, compounded by an overwhelmed healthcare system that has far exceeded its capacity to handle the flu pandemic.”

  This is going to get way worse, really fast.

  Survival

  Chapter Thirty

  Friday, November 29, 2013

  Alex stared through one of the front windows in the great room. He’d counted three cars so far, all moving slowly through the neighborhood. At the moment, he was distracted by the bright gray and white sky. By all accounts, it was a pretty standard late November sky, complemented by a stiff northerly wind, but to Alex, it portended more. If the storm lived up to meteorologists’ expectations, it might not be possible for any more refugees to get through to Portland. He didn’t think the Turnpike Authority’s snow plows could
work at anything close to full capacity. Fuel and personnel shortages would ground the monstrous fleet of orange behemoths.

  As he continued to stare at the solid mass of clouds, he spotted a minivan turning onto Durham Road and shifted a pair of binoculars to his face.

  The vehicle was a white Toyota Sienna. “White Sienna,” he jotted onto a legal pad balanced sideways on the windowsill. The minivan turned right at the fork, lumbering slowly down the street in his direction. He focused the binoculars on the front license plate, and then scanned for occupants. “Massachusetts,” he mumbled.

  He saw a man driving and a woman in the front passenger seat. They were both scanning the houses to each side of the minivan while talking to each other. The car edged past Todd’s house, and then the Andersons’, almost stopping in front of the Walkers’.

  Wonder what they saw there?

  Just before the minivan reached his house, Alex put the binoculars down to scan the vehicle with unaided eyes. He confirmed two adults in front and possibly one more adult in the second row. He also caught the silhouette of a smaller person in the driver’s side second row seat as the car passed directly in front of his window.

  “Three adult, one pre-teen,” he wrote.

  The minivan was in good shape, and through the binoculars, the man and woman looked normal; no different than anyone else on the block. The three other vehicles looked a bit sketchier, and the people in the cars gave him an uneasy feeling. Certainly not people he’d ever expect to see driving around their neighborhood, or any of the other neighborhoods around Durham Road.

  Short of using force, he didn’t see how they could stop these people from occupying the empty houses on the block. If it was inevitable, maybe they could at least decide who stayed in the houses? Maybe flag down the normal-looking ones, and tell them which houses were empty. He thought about the four carloads of people he’d seen so far and who he’d choose. He decided to scrap this new idea for now.

  So far, none of the cars had stopped on their block. He expected most cars to make a few passes, and then disgorge their inhabitants onto the sidewalks for some door-to-door action, but he hadn’t seen any “feet on the ground” yet. He was not looking forward to this, and he hadn’t really come up with a plan to handle the inevitable summons. Even with his coldest, iciest frame of mind, he couldn’t bear the thought of opening his door to a family with kids, and then telling them to beat it out of the neighborhood. Even thinking about it made him cringe.

  As he stared pointlessly at the rear gate of yet another minivan, he detected motion in his peripheral vision to the left. He shifted his gaze and saw a light blue sedan approach the fork at the top of the street and turn left toward an inevitable encounter with the minivan. He wondered if there was any informal nomadic etiquette already established between all of these travelers.

  Probably not. And as this storm closes in, any etiquette will be out the window.

  As he waited for the car to appear to the right, his thoughts drifted to yesterday’s Thanksgiving Day meal. Both he and Kate had both completely forgotten about Thanksgiving until Wednesday night, after they had settled into bed for the night. Alex had just returned the bedroom thermostat to sixty-two degrees, from the sixty-five degrees mark, and was preparing himself to endure some guaranteed harassment from Kate, when the local news channel aired a story about how families planned to celebrate Thanksgiving.

  They suffered through one progressively depressing interview after another. First at the Preble Street homeless shelter, where surprisingly, there was still food to distribute.

  Then, they entered the home of a large family that had lost two of five children to the flu and proceeded to interview the entire family right before their meal. Alex hadn’t heard a word they had to say. He blocked it out the best he could, but he couldn’t stop staring at the table.

  He saw some sort of casserole, baked in a white Corningware dish, bread, and two or three dishes filled with an enormous amount of what he assumed had to be canned vegetables. At least two cans each. Judging by the modest apartment, it had to represent a sizable portion of their food supply.

  The mother of the house told the reporters that they had used up most of their stored food supply for the meal. She said they didn’t want the kids to be hungry on Thanksgiving and that they would all eat a good meal and pray for a quick end to the entire world’s suffering. Alex remembered thinking that only a stray comet could provide a quick end to the world’s suffering at this point.

  He figured that most people would find her decision to celebrate with a gratuitous meal as inspirational, but to Alex, it signified a complete surrender. They were giving up. Going out with a bang. He felt sorry for the kids. Sorry that their parents had given up on them. Or had they? Alex knew he would never understand their situation.

  Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, the segment ended with a family that didn’t have any food for Thanksgiving and didn’t know where they would get their next meal. Of course, there were children involved, and he kept expecting the Channel 6 news crew to provide them with a gift basket or something. Anything, really, to thank them for depressing everyone, but there was nothing for the family. Just a few awkward questions for a lethargic, nearly catatonic nuclear family of four.

  Alex didn’t say anything to Kate when he crawled into bed. He had watched the entire segment standing up; he had been too mesmerized by the TV to move. Kate didn’t say a word either. She just hit the off button on the remote and turned onto her left side. Alex slid under the covers and snuggled in closely, kissing her softly on her neck. She sobbed for a few minutes and then announced that they would be having a nice meal for Thanksgiving. He agreed and kissed her again, telling her how much he loved her.

  The meal itself was great. Even without a proper main course, they worked from noon until nearly two to prepare the meal, which consisted of several dishes. The meal’s theme materialized mid-morning as “everyone’s favorite side dishes,” and they ate with ceremony on good china in the formal dining room. They grew more self-conscious as the sun faded, and the thin cloth curtains grew more and more transparent.

  Halfway through dinner, and most of the way through a bottle of Cabernet, Alex got up and ran upstairs without saying a word. He returned with a spare dark blue comforter from the kid’s bathroom closet and wedged the edges of the comforter into the curtain rod without saying a word. Lying in bed that night they both agreed not to watch the news. Neither one of them needed to feel any guiltier about their huge meal.

  Alex snapped out of the reverie when the blue sedan popped into view around Charlie’s house. He lifted the binoculars and scanned the license plate. “Beat up blue Honda, Mass” he scribbled. “5 poss 6 occup,” he added after scanning the windows.

  Jam-packed. I hope they don’t stop here. They don’t look right.

  The car crawled past the Fletchers’ house, and Alex was spooked by the look on the driver’s face, which nearly filled his view through the binoculars.

  Sheer desperation.

  Alex dropped the binoculars to his side and continued to watch the car as it moved down the street, back toward the entrance to Durham Road. “Poss danger,” he wrote next.

  They all pose a danger. I don’t want any of them on the block. Maybe I need a sign out front or something.

  He wished he had a cup of coffee. He’d fully intended to make some when he walked downstairs, but the first car of the morning caught his eye, and he raced to grab the binoculars to take a look. He’d been standing there ever since. He decided then that if he wanted coffee or breakfast within the next two hours, he’d have to take a break from watching the street. Kate’s wake up time had slowly drifted more toward ten or ten-thirty, and they were lucky to see the kids before eleven or eleven-thirty. Alex could barely drag himself out of bed before eight, especially since he had all day to do nothing.

  Cook simple meals, work out, read, check the internet or email, watch some news, scan the neighborhood, wa
tch a movie with the family, play some video games, nap, stand on the deck for some fresh air, check the garage, calculate how long their supplies could last, talk about the same stuff over and over again with Kate. He had an infinite number of choices, most of them padding to get him through to the next night, where he could fall asleep again holding Kate and wake up to repeat the process.

  Boring, but with a key purpose hidden away under thick layers of apathy. Survival. And the key to their survival would be to never let those layers permanently dull their senses. Alex knew from experience that dullness led to carelessness. And he’d seen carelessness kill more people than he’d ever care to admit.

  He shook himself out of his existential drift. These mental strolls had almost completely replaced his flashbacks, and he often found himself attached to a string of thoughts, staring blankly ahead, seeing nothing, and barely hearing anything. Alex figured they were a product of his boredom, but he didn’t welcome the change. His flashbacks were infrequent, mostly at night during dreams. This new phenomena was occurring more frequently; too frequently for his comfort.

  His eyes squinted as the rust-spotted Honda turned right at the fork and did not leave the neighborhood. The car made one more turn through the neighborhood and left. Alex waited a few minutes and took a break to make coffee and reheat Thanksgiving leftovers. He anticipated a long morning.

  **

  The doorbell rang for the eighth time, and Alex could barely stand it. He peeked through the slats of the plantation shutters. After the first group started walking through the neighborhood, Alex ensured that all ground level shades or shutters were put to good use. For the first time in four years, he was happy that Kate had insisted on putting curtains over the small windows on each side of the front door. He even moved the blue comforter in the dining room over to the sliding glass doors, and nailed it in place to cover the wide glass opening. The doorbell rang again, and Alex felt himself start to shake.