Hour 23

by Robert Barnard

  “How are you feeling?” Sherri said.

  “A little light headed.”

  “That’s fine. What was the name of your first grade teacher?”

  Jim raised his eyebrows. “I don’t remember, why?”

  “Okay, how about your fifth grade teacher?”

  “I don’t remember that one, either.”

  “Fine, Jim, just think of a teacher you had in grade school. Tell me the name of the first one that springs to mind.”

  “Sure,” Jim said, closing his eyes. In seventh grade he had a young math teacher, straight out of grad school. She had fiery red hair and the measurements of a model. Her name was Miss Curtis…Maxine Curtis, if Jim remembered correctly.

  “Okay,” Jim said. “Maxine Curtis.”

  Sherri chuckled. “Mhm, that was my mistake for not asking for a male teacher’s name, but I can work with that.” Sherri picked up a black marker and scribbled something onto the vial of blood and container of spit. “I’m going to drop off Max Curtis’s blood work and saliva sample. I’ll be right back.”

  Sherri vanished from the room, her containers in hand. Jim waited patiently on his stretcher, examining the dimly-lit room around him. In no time at all, Sherri returned.

  “What was that all about?” Jim asked.

  “My lab guy is going to run your samples. We all act like we know what the hell we’re doing, but I’ll let you in on a little secret—it’s just a simple rabies test.”

  Jim looked confused.

  “Well, no rabies test is simple—especially on humans. Living humans. But its all we’ve had to work with. Every patient who came through these doors wanting to eat everyone in sight…they all had one thing in common. They all tested positive for rabies.”

  “So this is all…because of rabies?”

  “No,” Sherri said, finding it difficult to explain. “They don’t actually have rabies. They just test positive for it.”

  Jim didn’t seem to understand any better. “Why did you lie about my name?”

  Sherri stuttered, trying not to cry. Again, finding the right words were difficult. “Jim, if you’re positive, you’re positive. There’s nothing we can do about it. That’s the cold, hard reality of it all. But if you’re positive, they’re going to keep you up here, and you’ll never be in the same room as your daughter again. Those that are infected and die get boxed up so they can ship out with WHO.”

  “Who?”

  “World Health Organization. Literally shipped out, like a package. I’ve watched it all morning. No one has left yet, obviously, but once the dust settles that’s what will happen next. There’s maybe a dozen or so in the basement wrapped and waiting. They’ll be poked, prodded, and dissected. And then cremated. And from the rumors I’ve heard, their families won’t even be allowed to keep the ashes.”

  “Jesus,” Jim muttered.

  “So if you test positive—and you’ve made it this long—I’m going to send you right back out the front doors of this hospital. You do or say whatever it is you need to do or say with those three that came in with you, and you let them decide what to do next. That’s your choice, and your choice alone.”

  Jim began to stare a hole into the ceiling tile above him.

  Sherri said, “All things considered, I’ve had it easy up here. I’ve gone through hell but I haven’t had to explain my patients to anyone. And I’m sure as hell not ready to start now. I’m not going to be the one to tell that beautiful blonde daughter of yours that her father has been sealed away.”

  “So if Max Curtis tests positive for rabies…?”

  “Then I wheel Jim Whiteman out of that front door as fast and discreetly as humanly possible.”

  Jim nodded and the two sat in silence for a while. When some time had passed, Sherri put her gloved hand on Jim’s.

  “How long before I’ll know?”

  “No sooner than an hour.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be here with me,” Jim scoffed. “I feel like fucking Dr. Jekyll…like at any moment I’ll transform into some monster.”

  “I’m going to stay right here with you, Jim.”

  Jim drew a long breath. After much hesitation, he mustered up the courage to say the words he wanted to say since arriving that morning. They played over and over again in his mind, but each time it felt like they might reach his tongue, they receded back to a dark, little pit at the bottom of his stomach.

  “I deserve this,” Jim said.

  Sherri let out a nervous chuckle. “No one deserves this, Jim. Least of all you.”

  “I quit just after I left the hospital yesterday. Within an hour of telling my sergeant I would stick it out, I quit. It’s just…things got so crazy, so fast. When that Goddamn plane fell out of the sky…I just wanted to get back to my daughter and get out of town.”

  “That doesn’t mean you deserve some kind of punishment, Jim.”

  “Good people died because of me. Some bad people died because of me, too. But all in all I’m fairly certain that yeah, I deserve this.”

  “Jim—”

  “There’s more,” Jim said, interrupting Sherri. “And I really feel like I have to get it off of my chest. Do you remember that little girl that went missing, Sarah Bosk?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “That happened just after I became a cop, you know. And the whole thing changed me somehow. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a cop, and then ending up in a town like this…it felt doable. Like I could rescue cats from trees and show up at my little girl’s school in uniform, like Batman…and be able to tell all those little kids about the good work I do.

  “When they brought that scumbag Edgar Ross in, he was just about foaming at the mouth to take credit for killing little Sarah Bosk. He was dead to rights, as they say. Except for one little detail.

  “See, I was never on the case officially. But I obsessed over it. It was the first time I was really interested in law enforcement. I don’t know if it’s because Sarah reminded me so much of my Chloe, or what. But I sifted through every piece of evidence on that case.

  “I walked into the station early one night, at the start of a shift, to find a few of the boys laughing and joking. This one idiot—Blankenship—what an asshole. They were so pumped for the Ross trial to start…

  “Sherri, there was no evidence that Edgar killed that little girl. Not a speck. I can recite ten lab reports from memory that he raped her, yes…but he didn’t kill her. Blankenship came to realize that I knew what everyone else knew, and no one could really look me in the eye, you know? No one knew whether or not they could trust me.

  “It wasn’t about letting Edgar off the hook. It was about getting the bastard that killed Sarah. But I was young, I had my daughter and wife at home. A new career, not a lot of money. I went with the flow of it. I didn’t want to make waves.

  “I went to Edgar’s execution because I thought it would bring me peace. It didn’t matter to me back then whether or not he choked the life out of that poor girl. For the role he played, he deserved his punishment. But when I watched the life flicker from his eyes I felt no peace. No happiness. I couldn’t cheer and be excited like the other guys were.”

  Sherri sat wide-eyed next to Jim.

  “You’re speaking like you’re about to die, Jim.”

  “I probably am. And, I needed someone to know, so thank you for listening.”

  “Who killed her, Jim?”

  “We couldn’t prove it—in court, at least. You know, the way these things go when they go bad. We all knew it was his brother, Earl, that murdered Sarah. But we knew for reasons that were inadmissible in court. So we stalked him. We tried to pick him up on anything we could. Blankenship would sneak into the bastard’s driveway late at night and bust out the tail lights on his car, just so we could pull him over the next day. We started to call Earl ‘Slick,’ because Goddamn—nothing ever stuck.”

  “And what happened to Earl?”

  “Yesterday I watched him bleed to death in the
Shop-and-Save parking lot.” Jim choked on his words. “It was beautiful. I’m glad I lived to see it.”

  “Jim,” Sherri said. “You were just doing what you had to do. I get it.”

  “There was nothing that I had to do. I chose to do it. And I can’t even relish the fact that old Earl and Edgar are rotting in hell right now, because they’re probably sitting around and cackling. Waiting for me.”

  Sherri leaned forward, wrapping a yellow, rubbery arm around Jim as he groaned. Time felt as if it stopped.

  After what felt like an eternity of uncertainty, there was a knock at the front of the room. Rolland stood in the doorway holding a packet of paperwork.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Rolland said.

  “What is it?” Sherri said, annoyed.

  “I’ve got ‘Max Curtis’s’ panel back. It’s none of my business to ask who that is.”

  “You’re right, it’s not,” Sherri said. “What did the tests say?”

  “Well,” Rolland said, looking towards Jim. “You can tell Mr. Curtis that his tests are clean. Totally negative.”

  Jim clenched his fist and gritted his teeth with excitement, fighting back a wave of tears that he felt flowing towards the corner of his eyes.

  “Thanks Rolland, that’s all we’ll need for now,” Sherri said sternly.

  “Sure,” Rolland said, and he hurried out of the doorway and back down the hallway.

  Sherri rubbed Jim’s shoulder for a moment. He grabbed her and held her close, sobbing.

  “Jim, this is what’s about to happen. In a moment I’m going to administer you some very heavy painkillers. You’ll need ‘em. After that I’m going to roll you downstairs. To your family. Any moment now, the National Guard units are going to start the boarding process for evacuees. You and your people are going to get the hell out of here, and you’re never going to look back.”

  “What will you do? Are you going to stay here? Come with us, please.” Jim squeezed Sherri’s hand as tightly as he could.

  “I’ve stayed here this long, Jim. For the evacuation, and whatever comes after it, they’ll need us here. This is where I belong.”

  Jim let Sherri’s hand slip from his. “Thank you. For everything.”

  Sherri smiled.

  “So it’s off to Albany then?”

  Sherri nodded. “Mhm. And I hear it’s great there.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Eight months later.

  Chloe unloaded the magazine of her semi-automatic 9mm with fierce speed and precision. Blam, Blam, Blam, Blam, Blam, Blam, Blam, Blam, Blam.

  She holstered the empty weapon on her hip. The brass shell from her last fired shot rolled off of the counter in front of her as she pressed a smooth, red button to her right. Once pressed, a human outline from twenty yards away began reeling closer and closer towards her. When the paper target was within reach, she yanked it from its clip, and gave it a close inspection.

  “Five in the chest, four in the head, no misses. Impressive.” Nolan patted Chloe’s shoulder with one hand and removed his boxy, square ear protectors with the other. “Why so many in the chest?”

  “Not all monsters have to be shot in the head.”

  Nolan smiled wryly. “You are your father’s daughter.”

  Chloe smirked, running her fingers over the jagged punches in the paper target where her rounds had pierced.

  “You’re damn right I am.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Dana stood at a the end of the long, chestnut sideboard that she had put in the hallway running from the living room towards the master bedroom. Behind it was a window that looked out and over the Big Thompson River and the expansive wildlife habitat behind it.

  The home, located on the edge of Cherry Valley, Colorado, was not of a level of modesty that Dana was accustomed to. “Well would you look at this sonuvabitch,” Jim had exclaimed, the first time the two walked through the front door together. Under normal circumstances, the home would have been far beyond Jim’s means.

  It was Nolan’s uncle, Tad, of all people, who made Jim’s dream home a reality. Tad worked for Denver Savings and Trusts, a small bank in Colorado. Nolan had phoned Tad from Albany, from the refugee camp that he, Chloe, Dana, and Jim were staying at. After spending a few weeks at the camp, the proverbial dust outside had begun to settle. The quarantine of New York had, by and large, been successful. And, though everyone was too polite to say it, the welcome had started to wear thin. As each week passed, food and clothing donations poured in slower than the week before. Government spending on the camp at Albany dwindled as the rest of the world returned to normal. It was time for the survivors to move on.

  Tad insisted that Jim and Dana head out to Colorado. Though Dana owned no real property, the fact that Jim was the sole owner of a home located in the “disaster zone”—which is what the State of New York had essentially become—meant that he would be entitled to an impressive survivor’s benefit to be used for relocation. Though it would be months or years before the check was cut, Tad was certain that the overwhelming public sympathy for New York survivors would be enough to angle Jim into a modestly sized home-loan until the benefit cleared.

  Though the house was grand and beautiful, it did little to comfort Dana. She lit a candle beside a photo of Mia on the sideboard. It was taken during Mia’s Junior year of high school, after a birthday party, when Mia had just received a used Pontiac as a birthday present. Her eyes were lit up, filled with hope and excitement.

  The home was cavernous and lonesome with no one inside. Chloe and Nolan were at school.

  It would be summer soon, and they would be free for their last summer vacation before freshman year of college. Dana had been offered a job teaching at a nearby high school, but declined it. She thought that maybe she would write a book about her experiences, or offer some tutoring, but she was still too rattled emotionally to commit to full time teaching.

  It was the eight month anniversary of the attacks in New York, that terrible autumn morning when the world around Dana shattered to pieces. It felt so strange, she thought, to be acknowledging the disaster each month. Like clockwork. You didn’t celebrate your birthday or anniversary each month, and those were joyous events. So why, every thirty days, was this awful experience being dragged up to remind and haunt her?

  Dana watched the candle flicker and passed her hand calmly over it. Just far enough above the flame to feel the heat, but not close enough to be burned.

  The front door let out a groan that echoed through the high walls and ceilings of the house as it opened.

  A voice hollered, “Dana?”

  “I’m in here,” she said softly.

  Jim took off a light, tan windbreaker and set it on a hook beside the door. A stitched emblem on the sleeve of the jacket faced outward—Seven Lakes State Park.

  “How are you?” Jim asked, wrapping his arms around Dana from behind and placing his chin on her shoulder.

  “You know.”

  “I know. I can tell.” Jim kissed the back of Dana’s head delicately and hugged her even tighter. “I wish I could have met her.”

  “She was an amazing kid.”

  The photograph Dana had of Mia was one of the few things left to remember her by. Mia, like all the others, had been swept up by the World Health Organization for examination and then disposal. Disposal, Dana thought, the word infuriating her. It was such a cold and insensitive word. But the process for Mia was the same as the process for every other victim of EV1. They were studied for any clues and then incinerated. Next of kin weren’t even allowed to keep the ashes, a procedure that caused outrage and rioting among many. Awful rumors spread around the Internet and turned into water cooler gossip—that the ashes were buried in a landfill, or packed tightly to be sent into outer space. But, it was all just idle nonsense. No one knew for certain what happened to them.

  “You up for the meeting tonight?” Jim said.

  “I guess.”

  “If you’re too upset
for it, it’s fine. We can order takeout and rent a movie—”

  “No, no. I’ll be fine. They’ve been helping Nolan so much.”

  “Well, I can go with Nolan and Chloe. You can take a bath, read, relax…”

  “We’ve never not gone all together, as a group.”

  “As a family.”

  “They help me, too. All I’ve got of her is this photo and the story.”

  “Then it’s settled. Pizza after?”

  “I was thinking of the new vegan pizzaria that opened up nearby. You know, if nobody would mind.”

  Jim smirked. “Of course not. The vegan place it is.”

  ***

  About twenty or so participants settled into a circle of chairs in the St. Joseph’s Church basement. A table in the back of the room had cold coffee and stale donuts that were picked at during the start and end of meetings.

  They were initially called “Survivor Meetings,” but the name had been changed to “Remembrance Meetings” shortly after the first few gatherings. The word survivor brought connotations of death, while the word remembrance was much warmer and soft.

  The meetings were led by a terrific woman that Jim, Chloe, Nolan, and Dana all adored. Her name was Monica, and though she lived in Brooklyn, she was visiting an aunt in Colorado at the beginning of the outbreak. She had lost both parents, her sister, her two brothers, and what was perhaps most devastating, her child, who was with her father at the time of the epidemic. Yet Monica remained a champion for those who carried on, and carried with her an enormous sense of optimism for someone who had suffered as much loss as she had.

  “I see we have a few new faces here tonight,” Monica said from the front of the room. “Don’t be shy. Have some snacks. In a moment we’ll get started.”

  Nolan sat in his usual seat, next to Chloe, who sat between Jim and Dana. Dana’s seat was directly beside Monica, and Dana enjoyed that since Monica did most of the talking. And, when Monica was talking, all eyes were focused on her and the front of the room. For short amounts of time, Dana could pretend that she was teaching again—by proxy.