“Did you think it would stop?”
“The enthusiasm over it, yes. Of course, like the Spanish flu, we can only base our data on what we get. It’s not accurate. Not by a long shot. I mean, how many people are dying in their homes? More are than are not.”
Kurt noticed a timer on the television, the signature countdown that a broadcast was about to begin. “So, tell me, what are we gonna watch that is so important?”
“Something refreshing. For the past week, we have been bombarded with reports of death. Tonight there’s a change of pace, and I think it’s a breath of fresh air for anyone who is still watching the news. This evening we’re going to watch life in a small town named Lodi.”
Kurt’s chuckle caused a slight cough. “Is it the new Andy Griffith Show in a reality show format? I have Owens sort of pictured like him.”
“Pictured like Andy Griffith? Perhaps.” Henry laughed. “Then again, it’s a lot better than him looking like Barney Fife.”
* * *
Lodi, Ohio
Central Park. It was located in the center of the main business district of Lodi, the streets around it often used for the overflow of people for the fairs, concerts, festivals and so forth. But the reason for this gathering wasn’t a celebration, it was for information. Every resident of Lodi congregated in Central Park and the surrounding streets to hear what was going on.
Everything was ready. People grew antsy waiting for the start of the assembly that was already ten minutes late.
“Guys,” Mick said, walking up to Dustin and his friend Jerry, who were setting up a video camera. “What the hell? I have to start this.”
“Almost done, Mick.” Dustin worked the camera. “This is a professional camera and I only completed Intro to Television one.”
“Why...why are we doing this?” Mick asked.
“Because when I called the news—”
“You called the news?” Mick questioned.
“They need an inside man, Mick,” Dustin stated. “I’m it. I pass this to Russ at the check point. Russ gives it to the reporter, I get fifty bucks in a plastic bag.”
Mick blinked. “Fifty bucks...why in a plastic bag?”
“Lars said it had to be delivered that way. And he’ll sterilize it or something like that to fry off any germs. Hey, Mick, do you suppose I can use this on a future resume?”
Mick fought to find the right words. His mind was elsewhere. “Dustin, I don’t know. Yes. Yes, but only if you hurry it along.”
“We’re ready,” Dustin said. “I think. Jerry, we ready?”
Jerry, behind the camera, gave a thumbs up.
“We’re ready,” Dustin nodded.
Jerry peered up. “Hey, if Chief Owens is gonna be on national news shouldn’t he be wearing a Chief of Police uniform and hat?”
“What, are you nuts?” Dustin scoffed. “That isn’t Mick. He doesn’t need to be wearing any stupid police uniform for people to take him seriously.”
Mick grumbled and pointed backwards. “I’m going to the gazebo. We’re starting.”
“All set up,” Patrick stated as he walked past Lars, who stood to the left of the gazebo.
“Oh, great.” Lars patted Patrick’s back. “I’m awful with new technology.”
Patrick snickered. “It’s a slide projector.”
“It’s a gadget.”
“What exactly are you showing?” Patrick asked.
“Part of my flu demonstration,” Lars answered. “Mick feels we might get some flak from people about the lockout. He wants me to give them a frightening dose of reality.”
“How hard a reality are you giving them?”
Lars shook his head. “Mild. These are common people, Patrick, they’re intelligent. They don’t need anything too traumatic to give them reality.”
“Nothing nightmarish?”
Lars chuckled. “Please. And damage my legendary reputation? No, nothing nightmarish.”
“Speaking of legendary reputations....”
“Shh,” Lars said then pointed to the gazebo.
The slight squeal of feedback silenced the gathering crowd and caused Mick to cringe. But the cringe paled in comparison to the aggravated look on his face when he stepped back from the podium and whacked his head on the dangling projection screen.
“Christ.” Mick rubbed the back of his head then went back to the microphone. “Evening...”
A mumbling of return “evenings” came from the crowd.
“I’m not real good with public speaking. I wanted Mayor Connally to do this, but he says I should be the one.” Mick leaned down to the podium. “There are a lot of rumors floating around. I could have spoken to a lot of you today. But I figured, give you the facts straight out, all together. No debates between you as to what is true and what is not. I’m gonna guarantee a lot of what you’ve heard is true. I’ve got...I’ve got a ton to tell you, including why the Ohio State Riders Association is gathered around Lodi. There are new rules, regulations, and temporary laws I have to lay out. You may not like them. So in order to put a stop to any rumors, I figured I’d tell you why it’s being done. And the best way to do that, the best way to put you in the right frame of mind is for our man Lars Rayburn to explain....Lars?” Mick held out his hand and moved back.
Patrick wasn’t sure whether he was witnessing a mere doctor or an Elvis Presley equivalent approaching the podium at the gazebo. The crowd cheering and screaming was so long and loud that Patrick held his ears. He watched as Lars, arm held high, waving, stood before the podium. The exuberance of the crowd produced an instant electricity Patrick had only felt once before in his life, and that was when he saw Hulk Hogan wrestle in Detroit, Michigan.
Lars flashed a grin, leaned into the microphone and spoke, “Good evening.” The crowd responded with more enthusiasm than that with which they had greeted Mick.
Patrick had to wonder what was going on, especially when one lone male voice far in the back of the crowd shouted out, “We love you, Lars!” Patrick turned with an odd look, searching for the man.
Lars smiled again. “Ah, thank you. And you people wonder why I call Lodi my true home.” He paused for the applause then spoke like a politician trying to win votes. “I love it here. You know that. That is one reason everything in Lodi is happening. You’re confused. Understandable. Between Mick and me, we hope to ease that confusion. Why are we here?” Lars looked around the faces. “The flu. It has become a nasty word, one that all people fear. But let’s face it. Let’s...let’s say it. Let me hear you...the flu.” Lars waited and heard some mumbling. “No, you can do better than that. Everyone....”
Patrick’s eyelids fluttered when the residents shouted out, “The flu!”
“Good. Very good. Now that we’ve said it, let’s get to know it, shall we?” Lars said. “As all of you know, I am a doctor. A research doctor, and I have worked on this flu. I will lie to you no more than if you were my own mother. This flu kills. It...kills. Ninety-five percent or even more of all those who get it...die. From what I’ve seen, I will tell you that the death rate is higher. They say if you’re thirteen you have a near hundred percent chance of catching the flu. They say if you’re sixty....” Lars shrugged, “seventy-five percent chance. I say it doesn’t matter. Old, young, we have to try to stop you from getting it. My hospital set-up in the gymnasium is a precautionary measure should you get the flu. It is my hope that the vaccinations that all of you received will lower your chances of catching the flu and build your immunities to it. But it will only lower them. Chances are, if the flu strikes here, you’ll get it. And it is here in Lodi that we will fight to stop it from taking the number of lives it is claiming outside of our home. We can do it, but only if you stay on top of it. Monitor yourself and the ones you love. Coughing. Sneezing. Low fever. Remember these. These are your onset symptoms. A simple prick of your finger will tell me if you have the flu. If you think you have it, see me. I don’t care if you come to me a hundred times. I’ll run the test. It is i
mperative that you do. If you have the flu, I must start antibiotic treatment on you within five to ten hours. If not, in almost all cases, septicemia sets in fully. That, my friends, is a poison, the poison that caused the Black Plague, a poison that melts every tissue in your body. You get that, you die...painfully. Now....” Lars reached behind him and pointed at the huge white screen. “I want to get this point across. In order to do so, my friends at the WHO and the CDC have sent me some pictorials of what has happened thus far in the flu battle. I want you to see for yourself that the actions Mick has taken should not be argued with, but followed without question or doubt.” Lars nodded his head. “Bill? Start that.”
As Lars stepped back, a blank white light shone on the screen. And then, accompanied by gasps and moans, the first image appeared.
A man’s face was pictured, his skin grey, his lips cracked and blistered, covered with a dried brown sputum. His wide eyes stared into the camera lens.
“Ah,” Lars stated. “The man who spread the flu. Meet Inez Johnson, Eskimo. Dead. Pathology shows he was the first victim. Of course he had been dead in...Dead Horse...” Lars cleared his throat, “for some time before these photographs were made. Had the temperature not been below freezing, postmortem degeneration would have taken place. Aren’t we glad of that? Next.”
The click of the slide carousel accompanied more moans.
“This is the Johnson family.” Lars let out a heavy dramatic breath. “The children went fast. We believe prior to the mother, who was ill as well, when they passed on. Next.”
The next slide seemed to bring forth sounds of relief.
“This is Bill Daniels, reporter. You saw him on the news,” Lars informed. “He looks semi-well, a little pale from the pneumonia and so forth. As he told you, the flu is not deadly. Meet his cohort in Los Angeles...Trevor. Next slide.”
The sounds of disgust were loud as the picture of Trevor showed.
“Taken after Trevor’s death, this photo makes Trevor look as if he’s four hundred pounds. Actually, Trevor weighed about one sixty. A closed-off rectal muscle prohibited the internal bleeding from exiting his body properly, therefore it backed up. Not an uncommon occurrence. Notice the blood around his ears. Had it not seeped from the ear, or had Trevor not expelled the blood orally, he stood a chance of literally exploding. Next.”
Bodies. There was a mound of bodies in what looked like a field.
“This photo is awesome,” Lars explained. “Six hundred and thirty-five people died in one hour at an Anchorage hospital. What little staff they had could only wait and then they deal with the carnage. That photo was where our friend Bill Daniels began his journey. This is what Trevor took to LA.”
The picture changed, and no sounds emerged from the audience. There was no green on the Oakland Raiders football field, only brown and white, a blur of images that close up would have shown nothing more than lined up cots and the sick on blankets wherever they could find a spot.
“A recent picture. Taken yesterday, I believe. These people came to the stadium for help. There’s no one there anymore to give it. Most of them will die there. My guess, they’ll never move them. They’ll just burn down the stadium. There are a few more images. Bill, if you would?”
Patrick turned away from most of the remaining horrific images that flashed across the screen with a nod of Lars’ head. He opened one of his slightly closed eyes to peek at Mick who stood next to him.
The last picture stayed on the screen. A close up of a woman, eyes grey, her bloody mouth open, and her face frozen in a painful scream.
Utter silence. With the lingering of that last photograph not a sound was heard from the crowd. The chirping of the crickets was louder than sounds of breathing that emerged from the people.
Lars walked back to the microphone. “Well...that’s it. Mick? I believe they’re ready for you now.”
* * *
Reston, Virginia
“An official ‘shoot to kill’ order is in effect against anyone that crosses our lines. And make no bones about it. If they try to get in I will... shoot to kill.”
Too much heart and soul laced Chief Owens’ words for them not to be taken seriously, and Henry did, as he replayed what he heard Mick say in the raw footage played by the media.
Mick Owens spoke few words but said a lot. So much was conveyed in that broadcast that centered around the happenings in the small town of Lodi, Ohio. Henry knew what Mick was trying to get across. He was trying to tell his people that, yes, things will be tight. Yes, you’ll feel trapped, but you’ll be safe. And in doing so, he let them know that he’d personally see to it, if need be.
Henry saw another message in there, a message of warning. Perhaps the Chief of Police didn’t mean to get that across, but he did. A warning to anyone who even thought about sneaking in.
The news boasted Lodi as the “City of Hope”, a ‘flu-free’ zone in a world so sick. That was right before they ended the broadcast and the picture on the television turned to a fuzzy white.
Half a decade prior, no one would have thought twice about there being nothing being shown on television. But in a world of twenty-four hour entertainment, that snowy transmission on the set said more about the world than anyone realized.
Experts made appearances on the news, talking about rebuilding, restructuring. Henry had to wonder where they derived the title “expert”. In his lifetime, the world had truly flirted with extinction. And the lives lost to the flu barely tipped the scales over the lives lost to violence. In Hong Kong alone, mass hysteria caused the destruction of four residential blocks when the people themselves tried to burn out a reported case of the flu.
The behavior overseas was repeated everywhere. Property destruction, looting…Henry had to admit those sorts of things could be rebuilt. Burnt buildings torn down to make room for new. Bodies buried or burned.
But it wasn’t just one city, one country. It was the whole world. And the so-called experts failed to see one very important thing: You can rebuild a house, but could society be rebuilt as easily?
Henry guessed not.
Not with all that everyone overlooked.
Barring the deaths caused by the flu, there was an important factor that played significantly in starting civilization back up: The economy.
It crashed. There was none. It failed to keep going at all.
Stock markets closed everywhere. There wasn’t a business open. No purchases were being made. No exchange of money, no circulation of bills.
Nobody worked. If they did, they were jobs that were community-oriented, and there certainly was no way for those people to get paid.
No one wrote checks out to the utility companies. Aside from the postal service not delivering the payment, the clerks weren’t in the offices to accept the checks. They were home with the flu or in hiding for fear of it. Those who kept the power lines up and running, maybe they were there; maybe not. Henry guessed if they were still there, it wouldn’t be for long. People just weren’t chivalrous enough to hold volunteer jobs in order for someone to be able to turn on a light switch.
Did the people of the world actually expect, when the entire thing was over, that they would just get up, get dressed, and go to work as usual?
Not a chance.
The downfall of man was not only being delivered through the hands of nature’s fury, it was being delivered by the lack of commerce.
And no one knew. No one realized it. They would soon enough, Henry supposed.
What of Lodi? Would it really make it through the quarantine period? If it did, it would emerge clean as a whistle just about the same time the dust was settling from everything else, and the flu was fizzling out.
The people of Lodi, if unscathed, would tear down their iron curtain and go from seeing their picture-perfect 1950s sitcom world, to viewing destitution, a decay of the world that they never saw coming.
They would be—in Henry’s prediction—the only speck of a civilized world left. And that worried Henr
y.
Aside from being labeled “the City of Hope”, other than being clean, untouched, and still alive, Lodi would become something else...a target. A destination in a Book of Revelations world for those engulfed with rage and jealousy who so bitterly sought out the destruction of what shined to them as...the New Jerusalem.
* * *
Lodi, Ohio
Russ Deacon would have loved to pop open that beer, but he knew he would have to wait, at least until Mick left the front check-in line. He took it with gratitude, his smile not seen through his gas mask. “Thanks, Mick.”
“Gonna go home and have one myself,” Mick stated. “Long day.”
“Yeah. You know….” Russ’ voice dropped. “We have about ten who are sick right now.”
Mick nodded. “I know. How about you?”
“I’m feeling fine. I don’t know how long the lines will hold up.”
“Hopefully it won’t be for much longer. Then the government shows up.” Mick exhaled. “Did Lars start that therapy on your people?”
“Two of them. The rest waited too long. He’s hopeful about the two though.”
“Good. Good.”
“Hey, did I tell you I won the lottery?” Russ asked. “I get to go into a quarantine trailer first.”
“Excellent. Speaking of quarantine…how’s my mother doing in trailer three?”
“Bitching out the window at us. We...we had to bolt her in, Mick. Put a padlock on the outside door,” Russ told him. “She wanted out. She said she didn’t care about getting into Lodi, she wanted to help out. You know your mom.”
“Yeah. Thanks for taking care of that though.”
“No problem.”
Taking one more look at the quiet checkpoint, Mick let out a slow breath. “Well, I’m heading home. Get me on the radio if you need me.”
The Flu (A Novel of the Outbreak) Page 20