by Lundy, W. J.
What was really going on for all of those places to go dark at the same time? It stank of a government cover-up, and he was in the heart of that same government here in DC. Maybe he should leave.
He replied to Sidney, then sent a group message to The Crew that they should prepare for some bad shit. Kevin replied immediately that he and Juanita had already booked a flight to Puerto Rico, where her family still lived, and were leaving in three hours. Of course, he apologized for not sending out a text, warning everyone as soon as he saw the morning news, but that was how Kevin rolled. Lincoln was used to his mildly self-centered nature. Kurt replied tersely that he was in church and would read up about whatever cockamamie story Lincoln sent him after Mass was over. Jimmie didn’t respond, but that was typical for him, so it didn’t surprise Lincoln in the least.
It took a few more minutes of walking before he was standing in front of the Safeway. Lincoln grabbed a cart and went inside, expecting to have to fight for every scrap of food.
When he passed through the doors, he was shocked to see that the place was mostly empty. No arguments over the last can of corn or fighting in the meat aisle. It looked like any other lazy Sunday morning.
He walked over to the ATM and put his card into the reader. After a few prompts for English—duh, this is America—and to input his PIN, he decided to take out as much cash as the machine would allow. He ended up getting eight hundred dollars that he folded and put into his front pocket.
Within seconds, a text from his bank arrived on his phone, asking him if he’d authorized an unusually large transaction at an ATM in the 20007 zip code. He replied with a Y, as directed, and put his phone in the opposite pocket from all the cash.
Lincoln casually pushed his cart to the canned goods aisle and loaded the entire bottom with soup, chili, and canned vegetables. Then he got all the packets of dehydrated soup and tossed them on top of the cans before he was hit with a pang of guilt and put back more than half of them; it wasn’t right for him to take all the resources when others didn’t even know there was a problem yet. Besides, he could always come back later if he needed to.
Next, he got several bags of ground coffee and even a couple of the cans. The article he’d read on the way from brunch said the cans were useful for all sorts of stuff. He added a few boxes of granola bars, several bags of dried pasta, and a few boxes of macaroni and cheese, along with more ramen noodles than he’d seen since he was a sophomore at Georgetown, that semester when money got really tight. Twelve one-gallon jugs of water fit nicely on the cart’s bottom rack, and he put a few plastic cans of Gatorade powder down with them for good measure. Finally, he couldn’t resist adding two bags of potato chips, and even a couple of steaks, several packages of ground beef, and a bunch of hot dogs. “I have a grill, and I know how to use it,” he sang softly to himself in the tune of Legs by ZZ Top.
He avoided picking up any chicken in case the power went out. His coolers would be fine for a few days for the beef and whatever the fuck hot dogs were made from, but chicken scared him. Too much risk of the shit going bad and then ruining everything else in a cooler.
He almost forgot about the first aid kit and the flashlight with spare batteries but remembered right before he went to the checkout line. On his way to the hardware aisle, he added three entire boxes of meal replacement protein bars. You never knew when you’d need to get an entire meal’s worth of calories in just a few bites.
With those last few items in the cart, he slowed down near the bread aisle and eyed it thoughtfully. Every news video of an approaching hurricane that he’d ever seen showed empty shelves where the bread used to be. What the hell? he thought. Obviously, all those people must know something that he didn’t, so he added two loaves of bread and some hot dog rolls to his cart. The damn thing was about as full as it could get.
He had a pang of regret at the register as the poor kid was forced to go through his cart to get to all of the items buried under each other, and then an even bigger pang of panic when he saw that his bill was close to six hundred dollars. That sort of grocery expense was not in his monthly budget since he usually ate lunch and dinner out or ordered something for delivery on the few occasions when he was home. He cringed when he handed over his credit card, hoping it would go through.
When he pushed the cart full of bagged groceries through the doors to the parking lot behind the building, he realized that he’d been walking when he came here. There was no way he’d be able to carry all the bags to his house. It was about four or five blocks, and the bags would likely rip over that distance—never mind that he wasn’t quite the strapping young rower he’d been thirteen years ago at graduation.
He’d probably get a hernia from all the canned goods.
Lincoln weighed his options. He could call a car service and wait twenty minutes for them to show up, or he could just take the cart to his house. He decided on the latter. He’d return it, he promised no one, but there was simply no way in hell he could make it without borrowing the cart for a few hours.
Georgetown’s residents only gave him a few nasty glances as he walked through their neighborhoods, pushing the cart. He probably would have had the cops called on him if he’d been wearing shabbier clothes, but as it was, he’d been wearing what about everyone his age wore on lazy Sundays.
He was a block from his house when his cell phone started ringing. The only people who ever called him instead of texting were telemarketers and those damn robo-calls that everyone complained about. He almost didn’t answer it, but this time he recognized the unnamed phone number.
“Hello?”
“Lincoln! Fuck!” Sidney’s voice rang out. She sounded out of breath.
“Sidney? Is that you?”
“Yeah. Keep up,” she said. “Shit’s going down in DC. I’m on my way to your house now.”
“What kind of shit?”
“The shit that the doctor was talking about on TV this morning.”
“What do you—Oh, shit! Uh… What do you need me to do?”
“Fill your bathtub with water, lock your doors, and close all your curtains. I have to get Rick James, so I’ll be there in about an hour. Oh! And charge your cell phone and laptop before the power goes out.”
“Power?”
“Dammit, Lincoln. I don’t have time to explain. We can talk about this when I get there. Just… If you see anyone acting weird, run. Don’t worry about your supplies, just run.”
“What’s that—” He looked at his phone. She’d hung up on him.
He pushed the cart toward his house a little faster. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wanted to ask her how she knew so much about this stuff, but that was for another time. Now, he just had to trust that she knew what she was doing.
Because one thing was certain, Lincoln didn’t know what the fuck was going on.
5
Gulf of Mexico
March 26th
The Gulfstream V dropped and banked hard. Riley bounced in her seat, forcing her to reach out for the armrest with her right hand, cautiously holding her laptop with her left. Next to her, the green Pelican case bounced in the seat. She looked up as a member of the flight crew approached her. A gold nameplate displayed the name “Nixon” over his right breast pocket. “It’s okay, ma’am, just a bit of turbulence. There’s a storm over the Gulf, but the pilots are trying to steer us around it.”
Riley nodded and looked back to the green case beside her. Slightly smaller than an average briefcase, she’d avoided it until now, instead trying to prepare her own after-action brief, describing the details of their investigation. She tried to elaborate on her concerns that the local military forces were attempting to quell some sort of outbreak through eradication of civilian populations. She had to pause several times, considering the ramifications of such an indictment. But there was no other explanation. She had personally witnessed the population of the village revolt against their executioners, and she still couldn’t believe it.
She
shook away her doubts and tried to move on to the technical aspects of whatever the Brazilian military was after and, of course, to the foreigners they’d found there on the ground. That’s what brought her attention back to the green case. It was still locked, and she debated just leaving it alone. Riley had her own samples, the ones that she was sent for, safely tucked away in a heavy silicone case. She looked at the case again, debating the purpose for opening it. What good would it do her to find out why the other men were in the village? It would only complicate her own investigation; maybe she should leave it to another division.
“What harm is there in taking a look?” she muttered softly.
She closed and put away the laptop, exchanging it for the green case. Turning it in her hands, she examined the scratched sides. The front had a small powder-black twist lock with a butterfly-shaped lever. She held the lever in her fingers, paused, then finally gave in to her curiosity.
Fumbling with the latch, she discovered it wasn’t a lock at all, but rather a twist-tight lever to prevent air and water from penetrating the seal of the box. Pressing the butterfly and turning the latch, the box clicked open.
Inside, she revealed a black leather notebook wrapped shut with a single rubber band. She removed the notebook and opened to a serialized list of page numbers as a sort of table of contents. Flipping through the pages, she found small, passport-sized photographs stapled to each page, along with paragraphs of foreign writing that she couldn’t understand. At the bottom of each person’s page was a number and the names of American cities: Sacramento, Denver, New York, Chicago, Detroit, and Washington, DC.
She set the notebook aside and lifted a black foam block that fit precisely in the case. It was less than eight inches long and four inches wide and held six glass vials. She removed one, finding it empty. Upon careful inspection of the bottle, she found that it was labeled with a series of numbers. She remembered the pattern and went back to the notebook.
“Yes, of course,” she whispered. Each vial held a set of numbers that corresponded to a person’s page. She replaced the block and flipped through the pages of the notebook, looking closer at each photo. “Who are they? What were they given?”
“Doctor Erickson!” the attendant shouted, walking toward her. “We need you up front.”
She looked away from the notebook and up toward Nixon. “Is everything okay?”
The man shook his head. “I’m not sure. It’s Mr. Reid; he’s not feeling well.”
Riley could see the pained expression on the man’s face. She quickly unbuckled her lap belt and followed him toward the front of the aircraft. The Gulfstream was divided into multiple compartments. Jonathan Reid had stayed up front to sleep, while Riley had chosen to sit in the far back where she could focus on her report. She followed the attendant forward and through an open curtain. Reid sat in a rear-facing seat with his head against the fuselage. His face was pale and glistening with sweat while his hands twitched.
She quickened her pace and looked at the others in the compartment. “My God, how long has he been like this?” she asked, reaching for the man’s wrist to take his pulse. It was very fast and erratic.
The attendant shook his head. “I don’t know… He was asleep, then he woke up and began moaning something. He hasn’t made any sense.”
Riley took her focus away from Reid’s wrist and looked at the bandaged arm where he’d been scratched during their escape. Carefully, she pulled back the medical tape and found the scratch had turned a deep red and was oozing clear liquid. It appeared severely infected, but it had only been hours; it wasn’t possible. As she replaced the bandage, Reid began to kick his feet and convulse, pink froth pouring from the corners of his mouth.
“He’s seizing!” Riley shouted, reaching for Reid’s belt. “Quick, help me get him out of this seat and get him flat on his back.”
As she undid the belt, Nixon reached under the unconscious man’s armpits and lifted him out of the seat, bringing him into the aisle. Reid continued to kick and convulse as his arm flung violently, striking the side of Riley’s head and tossing her into a row of seats, where she fell hard. Through her daze, she heard Nixon’s screams behind her then a guttural moan. She struggled to her hands and knees, trying to fight her way to her feet. When she turned back, her body grew weak with fear. Reid was holding the attendant tight by the shoulders, trying to pull him down as the attendant fought back, pushing him away. Reid’s head twisted, violently biting and chewing on the screaming man’s wrists as he struggled to escape his attacker’s grasp.
Reid pulled the man down and rolled atop him. Still snarling, he pulled back. He momentarily locked eyes with Riley. She could see blood pouring from the corners of his eyes and nose, his teeth now coated in frothy blood. On the ground, Nixon cried and kicked his feet, still trying to escape. Reid’s back arched as he coughed then vomited frothy pink foam over his victim. The agent snarled again and reeled back, turning his attention to Riley.
He’d gone completely mad. The frenzied man clenched his teeth, seething as foam dripped from his jaw. He lurched forward before a man in a white flight-crew shirt shouted from up the aisle. Riley recognized him from when she boarded. She couldn’t remember his name but knew that he was the co-pilot. Reid’s head snapped away from Riley and twisted toward the man behind him. Without any hesitation, Reid launched back, running at the pilot, whose eyes showed fear.
Riley watched the impact as Reid slammed into the co-pilot then heard the men fight as they fell out of her view. She crawled forward to find Nixon lying unconscious, his arms and body covered in blood and frothy vomit. She could see Nixon’s chest rising in deep pants.
More screams caused her to look back toward the struggling men. Reid stood and charged in the direction of the cockpit, leaving the co-pilot battered and bloodied. She wanted nothing more than to find a place to hide and not come out, but she knew she had to stop him or he’d bring down the plane. Riley buried her fear and chased after Reid.
She heard the pilot’s scream just as the plane dove, taking her feet out from under her. Instead of running, she felt herself floating, and then flying toward the cockpit. Her body collided with Reid’s, throwing him forward into the co-pilot’s seat. She heard a loud crack as the bodyguard’s neck broke against the cockpit window. Then she struggled away from Reid’s convulsing body and dropped to her knees behind the co-pilot’s seat.
The pilot grunted, ignoring his torn shirt and bleeding shoulder as he leveled the plane. He looked to Reid, whose body had stopped moving and then down at Riley. “You going to tell me what in the hell just happened?” he barked.
Riley shook her head. “I don’t know.” She looked behind her and could see Nixon and the co-pilot moving. “I have to help them.”
“Go. I’m setting this thing down as soon as we cross the border.”
6
Near Gallaudet University, Washington, DC
March 26th
“You know what?” Sidney told the driver after checking her cell phone. “Can you take me to REI instead?”
“REI? I no know where that is,” the man replied. He had a heavy accent and his deep skin tone told her he was likely from a western African nation.
“Uh…” She referenced her cell phone again and gave him the address.
The driver pulled up to a red light and said, “Hold on.” Tapping a few keys on his cell phone that he used for navigation and to calculate the fare, he turned to her and said, “Twelve dollars, thirty-three cents more. This good?”
“Yeah sure, man,” Sidney answered. “Just take me to REI; my app will do all the math for me about cost.”
The car started up again. “You buy many items at the store?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “But I don’t know how long I’ll be, so I don’t need you to wait for me. I can just get another car when I’m ready.”
“Okay. Okay. I just want to make sure,” the driver replied, flicking his turn signal on as he changed lanes, then tu
rned.
She sent a quick text message to Lincoln that she was going to REI, then sat in silence, thinking about the mess out west and about the man she’d somehow ended up shackling herself to for the next few days.
Sidney knew that Jimmie had wanted it to seem like a random encounter at the bar, but in truth, he’d set her and Lincoln up. He’d known Sidney for years. They’d met at a kickboxing class and hit it off instantly—the manly gay guy and the lanky, tattooed human rights activist. Over the years, Jimmie had tried to set her up with his friend Lincoln, but she’d always politely refused, citing current boyfriends or menstruation—sometimes the two were interchangeable, unfortunately. That was until yesterday. She’d been eating a hamburger at Bareburger, an organic burger joint near her home in Dupont Circle, when Jimmie appeared out of nowhere like he always seemed to do. After a few minutes of small talk, she agreed to meet his friend at the bar that night.
Little did she know that Lincoln had no clue Jimmie was matchmaking behind the scenes and had even conspired to get him really drunk before Sidney arrived. When questioned about it, he told her that if she could handle Lincoln at his worst, then he’d be her angel when he was sober.
So far, Jimmie had been right. Lincoln was incredibly polite, good looking, had a nice body, and was a great conversationalist—even if he was a little dumb in the street-smart and survival skills department, but that could be learned. Plus, the guy was decent in the sack, better than most she’d been with, so that was definitely a point in his favor.
The car pulled up in front of REI, and she tipped the driver on her app. “Thank you,” she said as she stepped out onto the curb. The car drove away as she tried finishing her thoughts on the whole Lincoln situation.