The Hours

by Robert Barnard

  “To those of you watching and listening who reside specifically in Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, New York, Connecticut, Rhode Island, Pennsylvania, Delaware, and the District of Colombia, please be aware of the following precautions. A boil water advisory has been put into effect statewide in your location. Do not bathe, brush your teeth, or cook with untreated water. Make sure that any tap water needed is boiled for one-minute prior to use.

  “Additionally, we urge you to stay indoors until this matter is resolved. Do not answer your door for anyone you are unfamiliar with, and if any law enforcement officer attempts to enter your home, ensure that they have proper identification.

  “If you encounter anyone who is exhibiting the following symptoms: unresponsiveness, violent behavior, a pallid complexion, bleeding from orifices such as the eyes, nose, and ears, and an inability to communicate, please report them to your local law enforcement agency immediately and avoid contact with said person at all costs.

  “Please ration food and water in a way that ensures it lasts five to seven days.

  “If you have any more questions, a hotline has been established that will be given at the end of this broadcast. Now, I’ll take several short questions. In the interest of brevity I can take no more than three before calling an end to this press conference.”

  A voice immediately piped up before Secretary Hurst could finish the word “conference.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hurst. Dan Goodman from CNN News—where is the President right now, and why was he not the one who gave this address?”

  “Sure, Mr. Goodman. I cannot speculate or comment on the location of the President. I can tell you that we met this morning. He informed me of his confidence in me to deliver this address.”

  “Mr. Hurst, Samantha Janes, NBC news—you mentioned that those in the affected areas should remain indoors. There have been several reports from in and around New York City stating that the city has already begun evacuation procedures, with National Guardsmen rounding up residents block by block and escorting them to evacuation points. Would you care to comment?”

  “Miss Janes, I cannot comment on any military action that is or is not occurring right now. To those listening in the affected areas, I would urge you to follow our recommendation to stay indoors. If a law enforcement agency, National Guard unit, or any other type of U.S. military unit approaches your home or neighborhood, make sure that they are properly identified as such and exhibit the credentials of such an agency. No one can force you to leave your home, but if such an agency should approach you and advise you of any evacuation efforts, it is the opinion of the White House that you should follow those orders diligently.”

  “Mr. Hurst, Rebecca Claire, FOX News—some law enforcement reports have described the brutal murders sweeping the North East this morning as random, while others have noted that their simultaneous timing may hint at a more insidious and coordinated attack. As more reports continue to flood in, is the White House prepared to label this mornings slayings as an ‘Act of Terrorism?’”

  “Miss Claire, the government is not prepared to classify this mornings events as terrorism.”

  Dana watched the thin Press Secretary step back from behind his podium and exit stage right. A flurry of camera clicks and questions rang out in the room and the camera feed switched back to the morning news. The local anchors were waiting on standby to discuss and analyze the secretary’s brief statement.

  “It’s unusual that we did not hear from the president himself, is it not?” A female host asked from her desk.

  Across the table, a neatly dressed man with salt and pepper hair answered. “It sure is, Patricia. I think it’s even more interesting that Secretary Hurst didn’t acknowledge something we’ve known for several hours now—which is, all of those who have exhibited violent aggressiveness, every single one, has been identified as testing positive for this highly communicable virus—”

  Dana thought for a moment, bothered by the news anchors’ commentary. There was no doubt that a virus was spreading. So why hadn’t it been mentioned at all during the press conference?

  Unless that press conference was pre-recorded…Dana wondered.

  Suddenly, Dana felt shivers run through her. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

  She picked up Elliott and set him on the floor in front of the sofa. Once more, she returned to her kitchen. This time, she started to comb through her freezer like a maniac. She was desperate to find anything that hinted at her being able to stay comfortably at home for the next few days. She dreaded the thought of having to venture past her front door again. Dana could picture it already—strangers attacking one another, shoppers climbing over each other for the last can of soup, cops at every intersection harassing her over her outdated driver’s license. It would be a nightmare.

  In the freezer was a small, gluten-free frozen pizza. On top of that was an ice-cube tray and a pint of Ben’n’Jerry’s, the kind with the little chocolate fish. Beside that were a few pieces of frozen chicken breast, some frozen carrots, and a lengthy flank of salmon.

  What do I do? Dana thought, and she left her freezer and returned to the pantry. When she opened the pantry door, she half expected new items to magically appear.

  Five to seven days…The press secretary’s words kept echoing in Dana’s mind. If the Shop-n-Save in Center Square wasn’t a mad house prior to the press conference, it surely would be now.

  Dana paced over to her bedroom closet, dropped to her knees, and opened a small trunk. Inside was a small pump of pepper spray, a gift from her dad on her first day of college. Beside the spray was a short hunting knife, also a gift from her dad. He gave it to her when she was a young child, during a weekend camping trip. Dana’s father and his friends spent the weekend hunting deer; he hoped she would help him carve the animal up when they returned home. Dana kept the ivory handled blade as a memento of spending time with her parents before their divorce, but never used it to help her father clean the butchered deer. Dana cried the whole ride home, the deer strapped to the back of the family’s Jeep Laredo. When Mia first set eyes on the lifeless creature, she puked.

  “This will have to do,” Dana said to herself, and she marched into her bedroom. She changed out of her cardigan and into a sweater and pair of jeans. Then, she stuffed the pepper spray into her back pocket. The folded knife went into her front left pocket, where she figured she could grab it in a pinch if need be.

  I’ve got to be insane, Dana thought, to leave my front door after barely being able to get back home. But, it’s either this or starving to death….

  Dana left her bedroom and threw on a puffy white jacket. She grabbed her keys by the front door and turned to look at Elliott, who was sniffling in front of the sofa.

  “You can’t come, I’m sorry,” Dana said.

  Elliot took a few steps forward.

  “No,” Dana said, stopping the Pug in his tracks. “You be good. I’ll be right back.

  TEN

  Jim’s fresh pair of boots clicked and clacked against the linoleum floor as he made his way to the hospital elevator. There was nothing worse than new boots that hadn’t been broken in. Though he had only worn them a short while, a burning sensation in his right heel meant that a blister was already starting to form.

  Sergeant Ingram was patiently waiting for Jim by the elevator. Neither man said much to the other.

  “You’re going out on basic patrol,” Ingram said. “We won’t route any incoming calls your way. I want you strictly on the ground, responding to things as you see them—as they happen. I’m going back to the department to help the girls in the communication room. Christ, they’re like chickens with their heads cut off right now. I’m going to stay with them until the emergency shift shows up for dispatch—and I’m hoping to God that they actually show up—and once they’re on the lines, I’ll be out patrolling right alongside you.”

  Jim sighed.

  “Stay on your toes, Officer Whiteman. Stay keen. When we roll ov
er to the next shift, and the girls in dispatch settle in, I’ll radio you. We’ll rendezvous somewhere in town, and maybe then I can get you over to your daughter’s high school. Maybe. I’m not making any promises.”

  With that, the elevator chimed and the doors before Ingram and Jim opened wide.

  “Oh, Jim, you’re leaving?” a familiar voice asked as it breezed out of the elevator and between the two officers.

  Jim glanced at Ingram, who was already standing on the elevator.

  “Your car’s parked right out front,” Ingram said, tossing a set of keys to Jim. “I’ll be in touch with you, Officer.” With that, Ingram smiled, and the elevator doors closed between himself and Jim.

  Jim spun around, finding the source of the cheerful, sparkling, voice.

  “For someone who has been on their feet all day, you sure do keep in high spirits,” Jim said.

  “It beats going through the day miserable,” Sherri replied.

  Jim grinned, trying hard not to stare at Sherri. His mind felt like grinding metal gears as he tried to come up with small talk.

  “A nurse, a cop, and bloodthirsty monsters tearing apart the town. It’s like we’re on the set of the worlds worst porno film,” Jim said with an uneasy laugh.

  The nurse let out a chortle so intense she almost sounded like an oinking pig. Jim was glad that the laughter was genuine and not just polite, and relieved that she had the same type of toilet humor as he did.

  “Really though, thank you for everything you’ve done today, Sherri,” Jim said. His smile left his face.

  “Be safe out there,” Sherri said. She pulled a few strands of hair that had matted to her forehead away from and out of her eyes. “I’ll see you soon?”

  “Hopefully you won’t,” Jim said, his smile returning. The elevator dinged again.

  “After this is all over, I mean,” Sherri said nervously.

  “Anytime,” Jim said, stepping onto the elevator. He recalled his paper nightgown that didn’t leave much to the imagination. “After all, you’ve already seen my butt.”

  Jim was lost in Sherri’s smile and cute laughter as the elevator doors closed. The elevator car jerked and he began the descent to the parking lot. He was thankful for the momentary happiness; he was all too aware that the world he was stepping out into had changed considerably since he arrived at the hospital that morning.

  The elevator ride went uninterrupted from Jim’s floor to the ground floor. In the momentary peacefulness, he leaned against the corner of the car and floated through thought.

  He recalled the early years of his marriage when he and his wife Erica were still happy with their relationship. Jim and Erica had gone to the same high school, P.S. 144, in Astoria. They had met their junior year of high school and quickly fell in love. Between the first day they met and their last day of high school, they skipped a combined fifty-three days of class. Erica kept track in a pocket organizer that she always had tucked in her purse. The decision between spending all day in class, or driving out to Coney Island in Jim’s ’77 Trans-Am, was never a difficult one.

  After they graduated, Erica enrolled in a six month beauty school course, and became licensed to work in a salon. Jim, not having much higher education prospects himself, started working in construction. Their schedules were wonky and days off rarely overlapped. But, the combined income of the couple was enough to make rent on their own little town house in a decent neighborhood. Within a year of graduation they had married.

  Chloe—the unexpected result of a honeymoon in Key West—was a strain on both the couple’s relationship and finances. By Chloe’s second birthday, talks of college funds and a bigger home were just about enough to drive the family apart. It was Erica’s idea that Jim should go into police work. Erica had a client, Veronica Blankenship, who was getting ready to move to East Violet with her husband, Drew. Drew had put in a request to work in East Violet after finishing police academy, and it was granted. Each time Veronica visited the salon, she went on and on about how “blessed” and “lucky” Drew and her were to finally be leaving the city behind.

  Erica begged Jim to consider a job as a law enforcement officer. Jim finally gave in and agreed to look into it, but his application was quickly denied by the East Violet Police Department. East Violet wanted a two-year college degree, minimum.

  Jim assumed that the roadblock caused by his lack of education would be the end of the conversation, but it wasn’t. Erica was relentless and insisted he pursue the degree.

  “When will I have the time for a degree?” Jim asked.

  Erica said, “You’ll find the time. If you cared at all about your family, you’d find the time.”

  So Jim began the two-year degree, often taking classes at night and on the weekends. Between a toddler and a wife the schedule was grueling, but he somehow managed to pull it off. After finishing the two-year degree—in just under three years, no less—he returned to the human resources office at the East Violet Police Department once more.

  Though his grades in high school and college weren’t honor roll worthy, Jim passed the physical tests of the entrance examination with flying colors. His body was hardened by manual labor, and despite his written exam scores being middle of the road, his physical achievements were enough to earn him a spot in police academy.

  Academy was punishing. It was a spring course just after a particularly unpleasant winter, so training outside in falling snow and rain weren’t uncommon occurrences. Jim had at least three sinus infections during the first half of academy, the last of which was so severe he worried it might result in missing class and being ejected from the program. Jim barreled forward, however, and as the weeks went by the weather improved, until one perfect summer day he was graduating.

  By the time Jim had finished his probation period and was secure in his job, Chloe had already turned seven years old. Jim had missed four of her birthdays, and finding spare time for dance recitals and school plays was nearly impossible. Erica picked up much of the slack. With Jim’s benefits and higher salary as an officer, she was able to halve her shifts at the salon. Suddenly, Erica could spend more time at home with little Chloe.

  It was six months into his career, Jim remembered, the elevator gliding down its shaft, when he was paired up with another fresh academy graduate. Min Chow.

  “Whiteman? As in White-man?” Min asked Jim during the start of their first shift together. “As if I didn’t get enough shit already.”

  Min didn’t know what to make of Jim, who never once made fun of Min’s name. Throughout academy and the early days of his job with East Violet, other officers constantly bombarded Min with insults. “Min Chow, as in minute chow, or minutes until chow?” or “Chow, what’s your number, I need some General Tso’s after shift change” or “bow before Chow!” Min had heard them all, and none of them were amusing.

  One of the first calls Jim and Min responded to together was a crime scene far off in the woods atop Pigeon Hill. A young girl named Sarah Bosk, who had been missing for several days, was discovered by a couple of teenagers riding their four wheelers out behind the Baker’s farm.

  Jim and Min, both rookies, weren’t allowed to do much once they arrived at the crime scene. Their orders were to stand around, look important, and make sure no one came to close to the yellow ribbons of “caution” tape strung up from tree to tree in the woods surrounding Sarah’s body. A news reporter had already arrived, as well as Sarah’s grieving parents, by the time Jim and Min were on the scene.

  Jim caught a glance at young Sarah, who wasn’t much older than Chloe was at the time, just before she was sealed in a long black bag. Wildlife had already preyed upon the young girl’s body. The sight was too much for Jim to bear.

  Jim buckled forward, holding his knees with his palms as he stood, while Sarah was carted into a waiting ambulance on the roadside. When the cameras had finally pointed away from him and towards the departing ambulance, he let loose, unable to hold back the urge to vomit any longer. On
e officer, making his way from the crime scene to the ambulance, muttered, “don’t be such a pussy, rookie,” and another spit in disgust as he passed by. It was only Min who went back to his patrol car to bring back a bottle of water for the sickened officer.

  With a passionate intensity Jim followed Sarah’s case, both through his job and through the papers and evening news reports. He was in the station the day a couple of veteran homicide detectives brought in Edgar Ross, a squat, lump of a man whose shirt rode high above the waist of his sweatpants, letting his gut bounce around freely as he walked. When Ross toddled into the station, his bare stomach flopping, drool running down his chin, and what appeared to be a piss stain in the center of his pants, Jim was filled with an anger that he had never quite felt before.

  Jim requested to watch Ross’s questioning, in which the gluttonous oaf waived his rights, and freely—and proudly—admitted to what he had done to Sarah Bosk. How he had studied her for weeks, paying attention to what time she rode her bike and through which neighborhoods. He confessed to abducting her in his small Honda hatchback and strangling her until she passed out.

  With no detail left out, Ross explained the brutal acts he committed on Sarah, both before and after he suffocated her to death with a plastic shopping bag. The case would have skipped trial completely had it not been for an up and coming, overly zealous public defender that argued over Ross’s mental capacity. Additionally, the public defender found some small technicalities barring the admissibility of Ross’s confession.

  Ross’s trial was open and shut, however, and the jury took only nineteen minutes to reach a verdict.

  Between Edgar Ross’s arrest and sentencing, Jim’s marriage had fallen to pieces. He was consumed by a job he never had any intention of taking in the first place. Rookies often get stuck with holiday and weekend shifts, meaning he rarely got to see Erica and Chloe. Erica grew further and further away from Jim, and though Jim suspected infidelity, he could never prove it. One night, Jim came home early from a double shift. Parked in front of his small, newly purchased, East Violet home was a white Harley Davidson. For a moment, Jim thought it might be some clever early birthday present. But when he found Chloe playing in the backyard at an unreasonably late hour—“Mommy told me to play outside for a while”—he knew something was suspect. Inside, Jim caught Erica with a guy he knew only as “Buzz.” They were in the middle of intense thrusting and groaning.