End Days Super Boxset

by Hayden, Roger

  He looked into the morning sky and straightened his hat. The sun had risen high and was a blinding yellow circle. Not a cloud dared get in its way. Springtime in Carson City was not too far different from summer. It was already hot out, but that was expected from the day’s forecast.

  Greg had nearly become acclimated to the weather, and liked the city and all its mountainous, wide-open scenery. The mostly year-round semi-desert climate was agreeable for the most part, with an average of 265 days of sunshine per year. It could get as high as the 90s and as low as the 40s, with a minimal amount of snow in the winter. There were never any extremes, which Greg liked the most. With its bustling city and friendly neighborhoods, it was a place he could call home.

  Years of crawling through hot and stuffy ducts, attics, and crawl spaces had helped him stay fit and slim, but the work was exhausting, and he had felt the need to move on to something else, just as he had always done.

  “Greg!” a man said, walking up the driveway. It was his neighbor from across the street, Larry.

  A semi-retired truck driver, Larry spent much of his time sitting on his front porch sipping on a sixteen-ounce. He was the unofficial, self-proclaimed neighborhood watch spokesman, and very little happened on the street without his taking notice. Greg stood by his van, keys in hand, as Larry approached him, wearing an open Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. He was bald except for a ring of hair that went around the lower part of his head. His beer gut protruded out from his open shirt. Greg considered himself lucky: most of the time Larry didn't wear a shirt at all.

  “Hey, I been meaning to ask you. You got a sander I can borrow?”

  “A sander?”

  “Yeah, I got a big wood project this weekend. Gonna make Loraine some shelves.”

  Greg gave his neighbor the courtesy of giving it some thought without outwardly saying no, but he honestly didn't own one. “Sorry, Larry, I don't.”

  “Ah c’mon! A fella' like you should definitely have a sander somewhere in the mix.”

  “Wish I could help you, but I don't own one." Greg thought of OPSEC and tried to downplay the idea he had much of anything. “I don’t even know if I own a screwdriver, to tell you the truth.”

  “All right, all right," Larry said, giving Greg a playful nudge with his elbow. "Guess I'll ask ol' Lou next door.”

  Greg opened the front door of his van. He was always in the habit of parking it facing the road, in the event of a quick getaway. “I'll ask around work for you. Maybe one of the guys has one.”

  “I'd much appreciate it," Larry said with a salute. "Thanks. You take 'er easy.”

  Greg waved and shut the passenger door as Larry walked down the driveway back toward his house. He started the engine and then drove past homes like his where people were leaving for work. Greg waved to them as he drove by, always eager to keep up good appearances.

  Everyone knew his van when they saw it. It was a mid-sized white van displaying a Red Alert Home Security logo on both sides. In the back were all of Greg's tools and equipment. He had what he needed for his rounds: electrical wiring, drills, splicers, cutters, meters, and more. It was about a twenty-minute drive to work, given morning traffic, and Greg flipped on the radio to some light rock music.

  However, his instincts got the best of him, and he scanned through his presets, looking for a news show. He came across a news-talk station and left it there as the news correspondent continued:

  “Legislatures agreed in a majority vote today to raise the debt ceiling limit in order to avoid a government shutdown. It's still too early to tell if the additional thirty billion dollars will provide adequate funding for the next fiscal quarter, but sources are confident that a positive deal can be reached.”

  Greg grabbed his sunglasses from the dashboard to block the glare of the sun, which shone directly in his eyes once he turned onto the interstate. Daily politics didn't particularly interest him, but he, like many other Americans, was concerned about the endless profligate spending taking place in Washington. Suddenly, the news switched to something that caught his attention, striking him like a pail of cold water.

  “In other news, three separate but undeniably linked cases of Ebola were confirmed in service members returning from the Ebola Relief Mission in Liberia. The US ended all operations in the once disease-ravaged country after government officials declared success in ending the outbreak. A total of 1,500 military personnel were deployed in a nine-month relief mission. With most of those personnel now home, new concerns are rising about a possible fresh contagion.”

  Greg instinctively leaned toward the radio and turned up the volume.

  "The CDC says that the three service members who tested positive for Ebola will be treated in the same high-priority manner as medical personnel who contracted the disease and were flown to America in 2014. Some Congressional leaders, however, are criticizing the administration for not doing enough to contain the virus within our own borders. As recently as yesterday, the three service members were reported at separate hospitals near their hometowns, which include Tampa, Florida; Dallas, Texas; and Carson City, Nevada."

  Greg's eyes lit up at the mention of his own city. In his mind, he played back what the reporter just said, wondering if what he had heard was true.

  "Dallas, as we know, was the city to first encounter the virus back in 2014, when an infected Liberian man flew into the United States after contracting the disease. He soon died at the Texas Health Presbyterian Hospital after medical staff tried unsuccessfully to treat him. Officials state that 'there is no need for concern or panic, as each case is being handled with utmost care and the latest advancements in medical treatment.

  “The CDC has repeatedly stated that the disease is only contagious in its most symptomatic stages and extremely hard to spread. The CDC Director, Dr. Theodore Robbins, told reporters yesterday that the chance of any outbreak is extremely low, and that anyone claiming the opposite is just trying to incite panic."

  Suddenly, the news was interrupted with a local traffic report, giving Greg a moment to contemplate the information he had just heard. They didn't disclose exactly what hospital the soldier was being treated at, but Greg figured that would look into it and find out later. He wanted to believe the CDC that there was nothing to worry about, but the news hit him too close to home. When in doubt, Greg said to himself, just keep prepping.

  He pulled into his company’s parking lot next to a line of vans that resembled his own. On any normal day, he would go into the office, clock in, and receive his client list. As a "security specialist," he was pretty much on-call all day, which meant he was available for installations, repairs, and technical issues with alarm systems. Business had been pretty good, even in the off season, and Greg was looking forward to his week-long vacation the next month.

  The Red Light Security building was nothing special to look at: a brown, square cement structure with a few windows and two glass entry doors bearing the Red Light logo. The business did, however, have a nicely maintained lawn on both sides of the entrance sidewalk, with thick grass and trimmed bushes framing the building. The building’s appearance and lackluster atmosphere didn't bother Greg, for he spent little time there. Most of his time was spent making house calls.

  Greg walked inside and went straight to the break room for a cup of coffee. The small room had a circular table with chairs in the center above a green tile floor. A scuffed-up white counter held cups, sugar packets, and utensils. His boss, Allen Keller, was standing at the coffee machine, pouring his own cup. An old air conditioner unit hummed overhead.

  His boss looked over as Greg entered the room and said good morning.

  “Morning, Allen,” Greg said, trying to gauge Allen’s mood. He placed his work satchel on one of the four chairs and grabbed a Styrofoam cup. His boss was slightly older than him but shorter with slicked-back black hair and a mustache. He wore the same red polo work shirt and brown Dockers daily, with his badge hanging over his chest.

  �
��We got three houses on the list for you today,” Allen said. He kept stirring cream into his coffee without looking up.

  “Three?” Greg said. He felt his heart sink, as he had hoped it would be a short Monday. He wanted to bypass his job for the day and look into the Ebola thing. He couldn't shake it from his mind. Whenever Greg got focused on something, he didn't quit until the job was done. But there was work to do, and he'd have to wait.

  “Go see Pam, she's got all the printouts.”

  Greg nodded, and they both sipped coffee in brief silence until the door swung open and other technicians emerged.

  “You guys hear? One of our troops coming back from Liberia has Ebola, and they're treating him near here,” Ralph, a fidgety fast-talker with a crew cut, announced to the room.

  “Did they actually confirm which hospital?” Greg asked.

  “I heard Carson Tahoe,” Guillermo, another coworker, said.

  “Could just be a rumor,” Allen said.

  Ralph turned to Allen and scoffed. “This is some serious shit. You know, that Ebola will kill you if you get it.”

  Greg stood back and observed. He wanted verification on the hospital but knew he would find out in time. Ralph and Guillermo began talking over each other, and it was pointless for Greg to interject.

  Allen took a sip of his coffee and then responded. “You can only transmit Ebola by the bodily fluids of an infected person. That's it. How many times do they have to say it?”

  “Yeah, but—” Ralph began.

  Allen cut him off. “Thousands of people die of the flu each year. I don't see anyone freaking out about that.”

  “That's different. There's like an 80 percent mortality rate with Ebola,” Guillermo said. “What if it becomes airborne? Then we’re totally screwed.”

  Allen laughed. “Impossible.”

  Greg walked through the group, excusing himself. “Got work to do, gentlemen.” They continued their argument as he left the room.

  Greg strolled through the office area to his associate dispatcher Pam's office. She was a sour, twice-divorced woman who always wore black, and had worn the same blonde, shoulder-length haircut for years. She spun around in her chair and handed him a small stack of papers. “These are your appointments for the day. Enjoy.”

  Greg took the papers and walked off. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

  “Always,” she said, looking down and riffling through more paperwork.

  It was a long day, much to Greg's frustration, and all-in-all, he did one installation and two repairs. Throughout the day, it was hard for him to think of anything outside of Ebola. He hadn’t been so consumed with Ebola news since last year when the Liberian man brought the disease to Dallas. He thought the CDC was full of it then, and when he heard that the president authorized up to three thousand troops to provide relief to West Africa, he was beside himself.

  But maybe he didn't understand the geo-political context of the matter. For a working-class outsider like himself, it didn't make much sense to put so many soldiers in the middle of countries plagued with a deadly disease. But the plan seemed to have worked, and the countries soon made recoveries. Only the military, with its discipline and organization, could have done it. Greg considered that he, like many others, had misjudged the situation and had gone overboard in his distrust of the government. Now all that mistrust was coming back to him full-force.

  Driving home for the day and listening to the radio news, Greg had several stops he wanted to make and knew exactly where he wanted to stop first: none other than his favorite bookstore in town, Kit's Books Depot, named after the famous mountain man, Kit Carson, who inspired the very name of the city where Greg lived. He needed more Ebola information, and while the Internet was a great tool, there was one particular reason he liked the bookstore, and it involved a bookstore employee named Veronica.

  The local news continued. “…Officials today released the name and location of the soldier being treated in Carson City. Sergeant Timothy Shields, with the US Army Corps of Engineers, is currently being held at the Carson City Hospital, where doctors say that his condition has shown signs of improvement.”

  “That's good,” Greg said out loud. He took a left turn onto a side street leading to the city's old-fashioned business district. The colorful mural on the side of the bookstore building was in sight.

  “…But we've also received information of several hospital employees recently absent from their shifts. Talk 95.5 local news has not confirmed whether these staff members have merely stayed away from the hospital out of concern of the Ebola virus or if there are other reasons. One source speculated that some workers showed early symptoms of the disease, but nothing as of now has been confirmed. The hospital has released a statement saying that they've taken every precaution to contain the disease and that there are no other cases reported at this time.”

  “Oh crap,” Gary said, staring ahead. If what they were saying on the radio were true, he would have his work cut out for him in preparing for a possible outbreak. The threat had grown too real.

  Shopping List

  It was an hour before closing time, and the local bookstore was moderately busy with people like Greg who had just gotten off of work deciding to avoid rush-hour traffic by spending some time in the aisles of the bookstore instead. The place had everything: marked-down collectables, comic books, DVDs, CDs, records, tapes, and of course, books of all genres, stacked in shelves that reached to the ceiling. It had been a while since Greg had last visited, and he had no idea where to even start.

  To approach the desk and simply ask for Ebola books would have sped the process up, but Greg desired tact above all. He would start broad and find some books on historical outbreaks and protection against contagious diseases. As he opened the door and went inside, a ping sounded. He continued past a few display cases of antique figurines and went straight for the book section. There was an elderly woman at the checkout counter to his left, but no sign of Veronica. If anyone could help him find the right book, she could.

  Greg walked between the shelves, squeezing by other customers and toward the nonfiction. He could always have gone to the library instead, but that was on the other side of town and not on the way home from work. Greg liked the low-key, old-fashioned aura of the place. It felt comforting. He scanned the shelves, seeing if anything caught his eye, when a familiar, light female voice sounded from behind him.

  “Hello stranger!” a woman's voice said.

  Greg turned around and saw Veronica standing at a book cart, smiling. She had cut her black hair shorter since the last time he had seen her. It was now shoulder length, and one side swept forward slightly over her cheekbone.

  Her gray eyes were a fitting match for her dark hair. Her face beamed, and she always donned red lipstick. She had an orange work apron over her sleek, long-sleeve black shirt and blue jeans. Crystal earrings glistened under the overhead store lights. She was probably younger than Greg, but they had never gotten to the point of discussing their ages.

  However much younger she was, Greg had a feeling about her, an instinct. She was tough and knowledgeable. He didn't know much about her personal life, but she was the only person that he felt comfortable discussing prepping with.

  “You got your hair cut,” he said.

  “I sure did,” she said with a laugh.

  Greg smiled. “It looks nice.”

  “Thanks,” she said, touching his shoulder. “Haven't seen you in a while. Thought you might have found a new bookstore.”

  “Not a chance,” Greg said. “Where else am I going to find used books and board games from the 1970s?”

  They shared a lighthearted laugh as Greg looked at his watch.

  “I know you're closing soon, but I was hoping to pick up some books on diseases.”

  “Yikes,” she said, straightening the books on the push cart. “Anything specific?”

  “Outbreak stuff. And anything you might have on Ebola.”

  Veronica's eyes
moved upward on the shelves as she nodded. “Ebola?” She glanced at the bookshelf he was standing next to. Greg moved out of her way as she scanned the titles.

  “You ever read about the influenza pandemic of 1918?” she asked. “Crazy stuff.”

  “Yeah, I've read all about that. Just unbelievable.”

  Suddenly, a young couple squeezed by Greg and Veronica, excusing themselves. The blond and petite girl stopped and turned to Veronica, noticing the work badge pinned on her orange apron.

  “Excuse me, do you know where all your Harry Potter books are at? My boyfriend wants to ask, but he's too embarrassed.”

  “Sally!” the disheveled boy said with his face turning red.

  Veronica stepped forward to smooth things over. “Hey, there's nothing to be ashamed about. I get people twice your age asking all the time.”

  “That's what I tell him, and he still thinks he has to hide it.”

  “Greg, you like Harry Potter, right?” Veronica said, turning to him with a smile.

  Greg stammered and scratched his chin. “Uh, can't say I ever read them before, but they're fine books, I'm sure.”

  She turned back to the young couple. “See, he's old and says Potter is okay, so you have nothing to worry about.”

  Greg felt at tad awkward being referred to as old. He was in his forties, to be sure, but not accustomed to being called out for it.

  She led the couple to a short aisle that ran between all the shelves and pointed. “Young adult section, third shelf down. You'll find all the Harry Potter books.”

  She turned back to Greg. “Now, where were we?”

  “You were calling me old,” Greg said.

  Veronica let out an abrupt laugh, almost too loud. “I'm sorry, Greg, I didn't know you're so sensitive.”

  “I'm not,” Greg said. “For the record, I'm forty-two.”

  Veronica didn't miss a beat. “And I'm thirty-two, so what? You look very young for your age, if that means anything.”