by E. R. Arroyo
Lilly coughed into her mask, a strangely hollow sound. He gripped her arm tighter, keeping her upright and walking even as she cringed from the effort.
* * *
The city of Elizabeth was pretty well illuminated as they walked into its limits. Lilly struggled to breathe through the bulky mask. She had tried to take it off a few times during the past couple of hours but he had managed to keep her covered.
Her face was screwed up in anguish as she nearly doubled over and he was forced to stop until it passed. As she finally caught her breath, she looked up at him apologetically. Her eyes were bloodshot and she blinked furiously as though they were bothering her.
“I’m really not feeling well,” she muttered. She wasn’t standing upright anymore, walking now with a constant stoop as her stomach cramped. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Her stomach wasn’t the only one upset, though Terry’s wasn’t because of illness. His insides were doing somersaults as he glanced at his wife.
“Let’s find you a bathroom,” he said, glad that the hood concealed the quiver in his voice.
The streets were startlingly empty. He peered through a few shop windows and knocked on some doors, but no one answered. Grasping the doors, he jiggled the handles, trying to find one unlocked. Finding a bench, Lilly sat down and rested her head in her hands.
With a sigh, he turned back toward his wife. She had lowered her hands to her knees and her breathing was ragged, as though she were about to be physically ill.
“I need to find a bathroom,” she said between breaths.
She pulled off her mask suddenly and hurried behind a row of bushes. Terry could hear her retching as she puked whatever contents had remained in her stomach. It sounded violent and each break was filled with her miserable sobs.
Terry’s heart pounded in his chest. He broke the seal on his mask so that he could wipe away the tears welling in his eyes. When the vomiting stopped, he quickly replaced his mask and cleared away the lump in his throat.
She staggered from behind the bushes and he took her arm for support. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin, even through the MOPP jacket. “Are you okay?”
Looking up at him pleadingly, she shook her head. “That infected man on the trail—”
“Has nothing to do with this,” he interrupted. “It’s the flu.”
“Terry,” she said, placing her hand over his.
“Or a cold. Or allergies.”
“Terry,” she said a little sterner.
“Or malaria!” Terry said, pulling his hand away. “You’re sick but you’ll get better. We’ve just got to get to Staten Island and then you’ll get all the treatment you need to get better.”
She looked at him, tears dropping from the corners of her eyes, but she nodded without argument. Terry could feel the heated flush in his face and he bit his lip until he tasted blood.
Together, they continued their trek to Goethals Bridge.
* * *
The sun was rising as they stood in line on the bridge. Not as many people offered strange looks for their protective suits. There were lots of others, some in the orange bubble suits and others in the thin white medical garb, with plastic face guards. People talked quietly amongst themselves, though rarely did groups intermingle. Most people just kept to themselves as they shuffled toward the large concrete walls that blocked their view of the camp within Staten Island.
Dark clad guards in body armor and gas masks stood guard on either side of the single entrance onto the island, machine guns slung low across their chests. Despite the loaded weapons, they cordially waved people forward, shuffling the long line of refugees toward the military-style tents on the other side.
Terry pulled Lilly upright as they walked between the concrete barriers, trying to keep the illusion that she was still healthy. They entered a narrowing passage between two chain-link fences, topped with concertina wire. The passage funneled them toward a tent, outside of which another group of armed guards stood.
A sign at the end of the passage ordered them to stop and wait to be called forward. As they waited their turn, they saw people receiving finger-prick blood tests, the machines into which they were fed offering immediate results of infected versus healthy.
The man in front of them stepped forward and slipped his finger into the outstretched box. He winced as the needle pierced the tip of his finger. He withdrew his hand, rubbing it as he waited for the results. He tried striking up a conversation with the guard, but the black-armored man had nothing to say.
The light on top of the testing box turned red and the guard gestured toward a pair of other guards who came and grasped the man by his upper arms. The man squirmed but their grip was vice-like.
“I’m not sick,” he yelled as they pulled him out of line. “It was a mistake! You made a mistake!”
Terry didn’t see where they took him because Lilly nearly collapsed against him. She was shaking violently. As he slipped an arm around her waist, she tried to pull away, stepping backward away from the testing station.
“I can’t do this,” she muttered. “We need to go.”
The guard at the testing station waved them forward.
“We’re safe,” Terry whispered. “Everything’s fine.”
“Everything’s not fine,” she hissed. “I’m sick and they’re going to know. They’re going to take me away. Please, Terry, let’s just go.”
The guard waved them forward emphatically and the people in line behind them started to complain.
“You saw what they did,” she moaned. “That’s going to be me.”
Tears streamed down her face, marring her pale skin with faint pink tracks.
He pulled her close and slipped his hand behind her back. He held her tightly to him as he supported her. “It’ll be fine, it’ll be fine. Look, I’ll go first, okay?”
He pulled off his glove and placed his index finger into the box. He felt the sting of a needle piercing the tip of his finger and a welling of blood. A second later, the meter turned green. The security guard looked at him before gesturing toward the gap in the Jersey barriers.
“Welcome to Staten Island,” the security guard said, his voice muffled by the respirator. “You won’t have a need for the HAZMAT suit once you get inside.”
Terry stepped past but hesitated, turning to wait as Lilly hesitantly approached the guard. The man repeated his instructions to her. Her hands were visibly shaking as she pulled the rubber glove off her hand. Her skin was deathly pale and she had trouble lining up her index finger with the hole in the box.
She looked pleadingly at Terry as she inserted her finger. Within the tent, a guard was calling Terry forward, but he refused to go until Lilly was by his side.
A fresh set of tears streamed down Lilly’s face, though it was hard to see through her mask. Her shoulders shook with each sob. She didn’t even look down as the light on the testing box turned to red.
“Terry,” she said, as the guard called the others forward to take her away.
“No,” Terry said. “You made a mistake. Test her again.”
“Sir,” the guard said sternly, “you need to step away.” The guard clenched his rifle tightly, his finger dancing around the trigger.
The men grabbed Lilly and started pulling her away.
“Let her go!” Terry yelled, rushing forward. “You made a mistake!”
The guard at the testing station stepped into his path. Reflexively, he lashed out, catching the guard in the face. The guard’s mask fell askew as he fell to the ground. Terry was running toward Lilly, reaching for her hand, when the world went still around him.
They say you don’t hear the shot that kills you. It wasn’t true. All Terry heard was the gunshot. What he couldn’t hear was the rest of the world. The guard yelled at him but no words came out. From the corner of his eye, he could see Lilly crying behind the plastic faceplate of her HAZMAT suit, but her words were silent screams.
When the pain blossom
ed in his stomach—stretching from his gut all the way to his spine—the sounds of the world came crashing back to him like an implosion. His knees went weak. Despite his outstretched hand, Lilly seemed to get further and further away. He dropped to his knees before tilting and collapsing onto the ground.
His vision was blurry but he could see Lilly being pushed to her knees a few feet in front of him. He tried to call out for them to stop, but he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. One of the guards drew a pistol and pointed it at her. Terry sobbed as the guard pulled the trigger and Lilly pitched forward onto the asphalt.
He suddenly felt exceptionally tired and his eyes fluttered closed.
Learn more about Jon Messenger
Sixteen-year-old Kiana Reed shrieked as a speeding car crashed through the storefront of a small electronic shop across the street. Glass exploded and screams erupted from passersby. Some ran in to help the injured while others fled with stolen goods folded within their arms.
She sat, watching the events unfold from her bedroom window of their third-floor apartment, where every crack and crevice had been sealed under dense layers of duct tape to keep out contaminants.
She then noticed her neighbor, Mrs. Lee, dashing toward her car with David, her five-year-old son, in her arms. Panic brimmed as David glanced up and his weak, crimson eyes met hers. Trails of blood streamed from his nose and ears.
Helpless, Kiana pressed her clammy palms tightly against the window; the disturbing sight of the boy she babysat caused tears to erupt and spill down her cheeks. David’s mother wailed, pleading with him to hold on as she buckled him into the seat. They were probably headed to the hospital.
As their car disappeared down the street, Kiana pulled the curtain shut, temporarily veiling the madness below. She wiped the tears from her face and headed toward her dad’s room, hoping he had more information on the virus.
During the last few days, the rioting and looting were worsening, and with each passing day, fewer people roamed the streets. Little did they know, in their blind desperations, they were infecting each other.
Since news of the outbreak—following the first related death—Neil Reed, Kiana’s father, had been glued to his computers. He was a computer geek—a tech by day and gamer by night. His brown hair was a disheveled mess, as was his room, buried under empty Coke cans and Twix wrappers.
Kiana heard the story countless times of how her dad was arrested at thirteen. He was charged for hacking into a banking system, transferring money into his mom’s account, and then sending a virus, hoping it would cover his tracks. What he didn’t know was that he crashed the system.
They were poor at the time, and he only did it so his mom could have a happy birthday. Just once. But her birthday was far from happy when law enforcement came knocking on their door. Neil was banned from using a computer until he was eighteen, given strict warnings, and kept under close watch.
At the age of nineteen, Neil met a girl. He thought they were in love, but things changed when she became pregnant. Six months after she gave birth, she left, claiming she wasn’t ready to be a parent. Neil wasn’t ready either, but despite his situation, he made it work and his daughter became his life.
Kiana peeked into his room. “Dad, it’s getting bad out there. I think we should leave soon. People are going mad. They’re breaking into stores and running off with stuff. What if they break into our place?”
“I’ll make sure we’re safe. We’ll leave soon, but first we need a plan and I’m working on it. Right now, it’s safer here. Why don’t you go and check the seals on the doors and windows again?”
“I have. One gazillion times. They are completely secured under layers and layers of duct tape. No contaminants can get in or out.”
“That’s good, sweetheart,” he said robotically, glancing between his four computer screens. He suddenly turned up the volume on his television as a reporter, Amy Savino, of WNMN news started speaking. She appeared distressed and seemed to think there was some kind of conspiracy behind everyone getting sick. She also mentioned the name Peter Franklin Donalds.
As her rant continued, Neil began typing, quickly pulling up information on the company. His first two screens were zipping with information.
“How can you read all of that?” Kiana questioned, amazed at her dad’s computer skills.
“My brain is hardwired for it,” he muttered, then paused and glanced back at her with a grin.
“Not surprised. And you better not think of hacking that company. I don’t want the government busting down our door and dragging us away,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. With one hand, she attempted to swipe a bunch of cans and wrappers from his desk into a trash can below.
“Right now, we’re the least of the government’s problems. And I’m not hacking, just gathering information.”
“Have you found anything new?” Kiana stood next to her dad, her mind whirling, wondering if they would be survivors or statistics.
“The CDC hasn’t released any new information about the virus, but it’s spreading quickly. I have a few connections saying hundreds have been flooding the hospitals with early signs. Rumor is…they’re all dead within one day.”
“One day?” Kiana shrieked. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” He took a swig of Coke. “No pun intended.”
There was a ding on the computer. A message. Neil clicked it and photos instantly popped up on the screen.
The first was the corpse of a man lying on a gurney. His crimson eyes were wide open, and his mouth and chest were stained with blood like he’d vomited it up. Dark bluish-purple veins were visible beneath his pallid skin.
At the bottom of the picture were words:
Name: Undisclosed
Time of death: 5:42 a.m. - 23 hours after the presumed time of infection.
Cause of death: Unknown
Location: Mount Sinai, NY
The next was of a woman. She looked young, possibly in her twenties. Her eyes were closed, but her long blonde hair was glued to the side of her pale face from dried blood. It had been flowing from her eyes, ears, and nose.
Name: Undisclosed
Time of death: 7:14 p.m. - Time of infection unknown. Under investigation.
Cause of death: Possible AVHF
Location: Riverside Methodist Hospital, Columbus, OH
“Oh my God.” Kiana’s hands clasped tightly over her mouth. “It is spreading.”
Neil quickly collapsed the message and turned toward his daughter. “I’m so sorry, Kiana. I didn’t mean for you to see that.”
“It’s fine,” she answered. But inside, she was shaking. “Who’s sending you all of this information?”
“Inside sources from an online group that has members all over the country. It looks like the photos were taken by cell phones, probably from members working in those hospitals. These are only a few of the hundreds who’ve been infected. Soon it will be thousands.”
“They die of bleeding?” Kiana’s voice trembled, her thoughts instantly turned to David. A pang of uncertainty twisted her gut, and her heart ached as she thought of the pain his family was enduring, fearing the outcome.
“Yes, bleeding is the biggest manifestation of the virus. Complications from blood loss are usually the root cause of death,” he answered sadly.
Kiana shook her head; tears pooled and then spilled from her eyes. “David, the kid two doors down, was bleeding from his nose and ears. His eyes were bright red just like that man in the picture.” She was trying to hold in her emotions, but the past few days of chaos were wearing on her. “He’s going to die, isn’t he?”
Neil shook his head and replied, “I don’t know.”
Death loomed all around them, but for now they were safe. A mere speck in a tiny sealed apartment, directly in the middle of terror. The virus was merciless. It didn’t have an ounce of compassion or hesitation in taking innocent lives, including children.
“I’m so sorry,” Neil sighed, holding his arm
s open to his daughter. Kiana walked into his embrace.
“Do they have a cure?”
“Not yet, but I’m sure they’re working on it. In the meantime, I’m securing a safe place for us to stay and wait this out. Somewhere we can survive until the madness passes, or until they do find a cure.”
“Have you found a place yet?”
“A couple of sources mentioned a few safe zones across the state. The largest is on Staten Island and another secret bunker in Kingston. There are also smaller places being set up closer to us, but the problem is…they’re smaller. That means fewer resources, which could be a significant problem. I’ve just learned that the PFD pharmaceutical company is the same group that set up the safe zone on Staten Island. I don’t know, but it sounds fishy to me.” His fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up more information.
Kiana noticed an open chat box on his private screen, with messages from PFD 117.
“Is that someone who works for the pharmaceutical company—PFD?” she questioned, directing her finger to the name on the screen.
“No, but it’s funny they both have the same initials. PFD 117 is an old friend of mine. He’s a member of Prep for Doom, a secret organization in charge of the bunker in Kingston. They’ve been planning for the apocalypse for years now and have a large facility with everything needed to wait it out. This friend of mine is working on the inside of the bunker and said they have a considerable amount of supplies, food, and reserves. But it’s private, and only select people are given the location.”
Kiana looked sadly into her dad’s eyes. “Will we be able to get in?”
“That’s what I’m working on, sweetheart. I’m trying to ensure a space for us.”
“What about the safe zone on Staten Island?”
“Personally, I think Staten Island is too much of a risk. Something tells me the reporter is on to something. It’s just strange that the pharmaceutical company is running the safe zone. They are claiming to have food, shelter, and all the amenities, but it’s heavily guarded and the only way in is through Goethals Bridge. There seems to be a checkpoint, and I’m sure they’ll be screening each person to make sure they aren’t infected. The pharmaceutical company will have every immune person in its clutches. I know it seems like the perfect place for shelter, but something just seems to scream guinea pig to me.”