“I stock up on what I need to survive. That's what takes priority,” he said, as they walked into the living room with the smell of Pine-Sol in the air.
Veronica looked at him curiously. “Who are you, Greg Atkins?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. “Come on, I'll show you the guest bedroom,” he said, taking her luggage in hand.
They walked down the hall, finished in bamboo flooring, to a small room with both its windows boarded up with plywood, and reinforced and sealed with plastic sheets and duct tape. Greg flipped on the light as Veronica peered into the room. There was a bed and a dresser and the walls were empty.
“Very inviting,” she said.
“Well, it's mainly been Captain's room, but I recently washed the sheets and everything. Captain suddenly burst into the room and jumped on the bed as if reclaiming his territory. Veronica laughed.
“Down, boy,” Greg said, snapping his fingers. He placed Veronica's luggage in the room as Captain jumped down and followed them out. Greg turned off the light and shut the door. “He's going to have to learn to stay out of there for the next three days.”
“Oh, I don't mind him,” Veronica said, waving Greg off.
He showed her the bathroom and lastly, his room. It was as minimal as the other rooms, but she noticed some plaques on the wall that resembled military awards. There was also a small photograph pinned to the wall near his bed of a man and a woman with their arms around each other, twice Greg's age. She assumed it was a photo of his parents, whom he had never mentioned to her.
Back in the living room, Veronica watched the news on TV while Greg made them some hot tea in the kitchen. She called her Aunt Tilda and explained that the city had been quarantined, and that she was scared but safe with a friend. Tilda demanded that she call her parents and let them know she was okay, but she hadn't talked to them in five years. When she moved to Carson City, things had ended on a bad note with them. But if there ever was a time to call them, she was experiencing it now.
Her friends would think she had lost her mind for being at the house of a man she knew only as a customer from work—a house with boarded up windows. But the quarantine was real, and it was happening right before them. The news was on all channels, about the escaped Ebola patient, the curfew, and the quarantine of the city. The mandatory measures, of course, were not without resistance.
An unprecedented number of military and law enforcement personnel had been dispatched to enforce and maintain control. She watched images of angry commuters trying to defy roadblocks and others running from the police after being caught outdoors after curfew. If Veronica didn't know any better, she had to think that the mayor had lost his mind. He'd surely never win reelection after this. Perhaps it wasn't just the mayor calling the shots, however. There were greater forces at work. After seeing the chaos on television, she concluded that Greg's house was the safest place she could be.
After letting Captain out back, Greg walked into the room carrying two cups of tea. A small lamp on a stand next to the couch illuminated the room. Most of the house, however, was dark. The outside light was off, but the motion detectors were on. Greg wanted to draw as little attention to the house as possible.
“Teatime for the master prepper?” Veronica asked with a smile.
“You know it,” he said, sitting next to her on the couch.
He handed her one of the cups.
“Thank you.”
The television volume was low, but Greg could see the images of disorder on the screen taking place in the city, not far from where they were at. A long line of police with shields and riot gear stretched from one end of the street to the other, blocking the advancing crowds of people from getting through. Several cars and buildings throughout downtown had been torched, and their aerial images presented a city in chaos.
Veronica shook her head. “It's crazy. I just can't believe this is actually happening. I don't know what to do. I don't know who to call.”
They could hear helicopters pass by overhead as Captain barked from outside.
“I should let him in soon,” he said, taking a sip of his tea. “It's too early to put traps up, but with the way things are going now, I probably should in the next day or two.”
Veronica looked at him. “I'm sorry, traps?”
“Trip wire, sentry traps, flares, and things like that. Helps to alert me if there are intruders.”
“You never cease to amaze me. You've thought of everything.”
“No, if I had thought of everything, we'd be in an underground bunker now. Which reminds me, from this point on, make sure to wear your protective gear when going outside.”
“What about Captain?” she asked.
“I've got a system worked out with him, don't worry. After tonight, he's going to be a house dog.”
“I don't even want to know how that's going to work,” she said.
Greg took another sip of tea, watching TV as Veronica glanced in his direction. “I want to thank you for helping me like this. It's crazy and I can't believe I'm actually staying here, but I trust you, Greg. You always seem to know what you're talking about.”
“I try, but you’re knowledgeable about diseases yourself. Anyone else, I think, would say ‘thanks but no thanks.’ We're just going to have to get you up to speed on some prepper things.”
“If we're going to be spending the next couple of days together, I'm going to be totally candid. I like you, Greg, as a friend. You're a really nice guy, but there's also a lot that I don't know about you. I guess what I'm trying to say is, as long as we look out for each other, I believe we can get through this.”
Greg took a moment and looked back at Veronica. The lamp reflected shadow and light off the side of her fair-skinned face. “I agree. And I feel the same way. I can't say that my actions were completely selfless. I did need someone else to hunker down with, or Captain and I might lose our minds.”
“I knew there was a catch!” Veronica said. “What about your
neighbors? What are they going to do?”
“I want to help them all, I do, but in dealing with an outbreak, it's best to minimize contact and begin hunkering down immediately. You’re the one person I took a risk with.”
“Well, I hope I'm worth it,” she said.
They both laughed and finished sipping their tea. Things were relatively quiet that night, but they began to spiral out of control in the days that followed.
One Week Later
The quarantine on the city continued as other cities with increasing Ebola numbers began to take similar measures. These included the big three: Los Angeles, Dallas, and Tampa, and Ebola was spreading in such a way that vaccinations simply weren't keeping ahead of it. Serums and antibiotics supplies were dwindling as well. The Department of Health and Human Services scrambled to contain the disease and bring calm to the public. The CDC was overwhelmed, and the White House did its best to distance itself from the disastrous delay in response to the growing threat. It also faced harsh criticism from Congress, which accused the administration of downplaying the spread of the disease, though Congress was trying to create a substantial amount of cover for itself.
The US hadn't seen a disease outbreak of such magnitude since the early twentieth century. No one even believed that such a thing was possible in America. Ebola was a West African disease that thrived in poorly developed towns among impoverished people of the Third World. Such a disease couldn't possibly flourish in the United States.
Somehow, the virus adapted to the advanced development of the first world and was determined to unleash hell. The symptoms of patients had accelerated, advancing from weeks to days. The CDC could not determine why the disease was spreading with such ease. Headaches were followed by a bloody nose within a couple of days. That was usually the first sign. And by then, the patient was contagious. Then followed a loss of appetite, muscle pain, and red eyes. By the end of the first week, most patients were already vomiting, displaying skin rashes, and experiencin
g a painful destruction of their digestive systems that resulted in bloody diarrhea.
Ebola had unleashed a frightening horror across the US, and the only way, it seemed, to control it was by enacting extreme containment measures in all the infected regions. They were in a race to contain and eliminate the disease before things got any worse. In the week since it was reported that Laura Walsh, the up-and-coming CBN reporter, escaped quarantine from the Carson Tahoe hospital, the number of reported cases had risen from fifty nationwide to over one thousand.
Greg and Veronica's routine stayed pretty much the same throughout the week: hunkering down, watching the news, exercising, eating, reading, and keeping the place clean. Three days had turned into seven once the number of infected in Carson City had risen so sharply. It had gotten so bad that people had stopped traveling to some states, or anywhere near infected regions. Certain areas were quickly becoming more and more isolated, and not just within their homes; the cities themselves were being cut off. No trucks in or out. No way to stock the shelves or continue necessary commerce.
The role of providing services within infected areas rested solely on FEMA, in conjunction with the CDC, in conjunction with HHS, in conjunction with Washington. It was, as Dr. Hansen described Carson-Tahoe on TV, “a clusterfuck” from the highest level down.
Greg and Veronica adamantly stuck to the hunkering plan as the best option. They had not ventured out of the house in seven days with only the news reports on TV to offer updates. Cell reception had went out, and Greg feared that the power would soon follow. There had been pockets of protest throughout the city, some escalating to riots, and in response, those areas had become effectively militarized. Veronica researched the effects of epidemics on infrastructures like power and utilities and found that such outbreaks had tremendously negative effects on basic resources, due to lack of manpower and support.
“I wanna strangle that reporter!” Veronica said, pounding on her laptop from the dining room table. Captain was at her feet and perked up.
Greg was looking out the non-boarded-up living room window from behind its thick curtain. He had been monitoring the neighborhood for some time that day. It was a Sunday, and the area was eerily quiet. He half expected a helicopter to drop a relief pallet of supplies in the middle of the street as if they were in a war zone. But he didn't see any helicopters. He didn't see much of anything.
All of his neighbors on the cul-de-sac had left. It was like they simply vanished. Greg assumed that they probably tried to flee the city, only to be apprehended and sent to quarantine. His neighbor, Larry, was no longer outside drinking beer on the front porch. Larry’s wife, Loraine, was nowhere to be seen either. The area had become desolate, even depressing. Over the week, the nagging question in both Greg’s and Veronica's minds was: how much longer?
They did their best to remain friendly to each other and avoid any awkward encounters. Though Greg did like Veronica, pursuing a romantic relationship could prove problematic. They played cards together, talked, watched the news, and at the end of the night, slept in separate rooms. Greg steered clear of talking about the past, even though it was getting more challenging each day with Veronica's probing.
“These reporters think the rules don't apply to them,” said Veronica. “That woman gets put in quarantine and just runs off. Now we all have to pay the price,” Veronica continued, still upset. Laura Walsh was public enemy number one according to the media, and the entire outbreak in Carson City had been pinned on her.
Greg thought about his going to the hospital and the risk he had taken of getting infected. A week had passed, and he displayed no symptoms. Maybe he was one of the lucky ones. Veronica closed her laptop, clearly frustrated as Greg continued looking out his spy hole.
She sighed and looked over at him. The TV continued its ’round-the-clock Ebola coverage. “What's the plan today, Greg?”
“Huh?”
“I've been reading about Ebola so much I feel like a walking encyclopedia.”
He finally turned and looked at her. “We need to figure this thing out. It's the only way.”
“I just don't know how much longer I can do this. I'm sick of being scared all the time cooped up in a house like an invalid. And meanwhile, people are dying out there, and there’s nothing we can do about it.” She stopped and placed her face in her hands, rubbing her forehead.
Greg got up, concerned, and walked over to her. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “We're doing the right thing, trust me.” He could see that she was still a tad distressed.
“Have I shown you my HAZMAT suits yet?”
She looked up at him. “What?”
“HAZMAT suit,” he said. “You know, hood, mask, gloves, and boots?”
“Wow,” Veronica said. “Where do you get one of those today?”
“Connections,” Greg said with a smile. “I reached out to an old associate, and he hooked me up for a fair price. You’re lucky I got two.”
Veronica tilted her head in response. “What would compel you to purchase two?”
“Just in case I found someone to hunker-down with.”
Veronica smiled. “I do appreciate you letting me stay here. My frustrations have nothing to do with you, Greg.”
He suddenly pulled a chair out from the table and sat next to her. “We can do this. I know we can.”
Veronica’s eyes moved around as Greg’s hands got closer to hers. Their eyes met as one of their hands touched. Veronica took a nervous breath, when suddenly, an engine roared outside. Greg jumped up and immediately went to the living room window. Veronica stood up and followed him, and Captain followed her.
“What is it?” she asked, waiting her turn to see.
“Shhhh,” Greg said, raising one hand, palm down.
There was a large, dirty, four-door 4x4 pick-up truck circling the cul-de-sac slowly. The windows were so dark that the passengers weren't visible. The back of the trunk was filled with tables, boxes, and other random items. The truck passed each house at a near idle speed, finally stopping at Larry and Loraine's house. Greg pressed his eye against the hole, trying to get a closer look, but everything was blurry.
A group of scraggly-looking men jumped out of the truck, brandishing crowbars and shotguns. There were five men in all, and they moved swiftly, with little hesitation, as if they knew exactly what they were doing.
Greg backed away from the spy hole and looked at Veronica. Captain barked as if sensing trouble.
“We got company,” Greg said.
Veronica quickly moved in to take a peek. She could see a group of men hustling to the house across the street like a coordinated tactical team, though they were wearing street clothes and a hodgepodge of protective equipment: motorcycle helmets, flak vests, and knee and elbow pads.
They took positions at the front of Larry and Loraine’s house and were armed and determined-looking. They were certainly not there to solicit donations or sell vacuum cleaners.
One of the stockier men ran up to the wooden front porch deck and kicked the door open, sending a big chunk of wood flying to the side. His compatriots stood guard at different points of the front of the house. As soon as the door was breached, the group rushed in.
Veronica leaned back from the window. Greg had turned off every light in the house and locked Captain up in his room. “Who are those people? What do they want?” Veronica asked, nearly shaking.
“I’m not sure. I’d say from the look of their truck, they’re looking for supplies.”
“What kind of supplies?”
“Food, water, medical stuff. Maybe more. They’re thieves, and we need to be ready for them. We have to defend this house.”
Veronica nodded at him, shaken.
“It’s okay,” Greg said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “They’re not getting in here, and if they do, they’ll be plenty sorry.”
Home Invasion
Greg had set up the traps around his small suburban home just days before the roving mob of in
truders circled his cul-de-sac looking for homes to break into. He expected as much. The worse the news got on the TV, the greater the danger. Massive fear, stoked by the very real spread of the disease, had led naturally to an uptick in crime and home invasions, like those occurring throughout Greg's neighborhood.
From the window in the living room, he had a vantage point of the front of the house, and from the small kitchen window, he had a view of the back. The traps were to alert him to the presence of intruders, but there were other advantages as well. Before going outside, he had taken the proper precautions, dressed in full HAZMAT suit, like some biochemist in a lab, and had set a series of trip wires at key entry points around his house.
Depending on the type of trap, they served to confuse and distract intruders, and had the potential of even scaring some away. The mini-sentry trap at the front door set off a loud charge the moment the wire was tripped. The startling blast of a blank .22 charge could be enough to scare any potential intruder off. Greg was hoping that his sentry traps—located at the front, rear, and side doors to his home—would do the trick.
Greg had placed remote tripwire alarms in the bushes near the windows in the front and some between trees in the back yard. He may have gone a little overboard with the traps, but wiring things was his specialty. His tripwire alarms were pieced together from rat traps, buzzers, and battery-operated transmitters; he used electrical wire for the buzzers, thin wire for the traps. Once tripped, the rattrap would snap shut while also setting off the buzzer in the house.
In addition to Greg's simple but numerous traps around the house, he had motion sensor lights and a home security alarm system. However, those systems were only as reliable as the power to his home, which risked compromise following the epidemic. Nothing, of course, could have been stranger for any of Greg's remaining neighbors than to have seen him outside in the front yard, wearing an orange HAZAMT suit while setting trip wire throughout the perimeter.
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