He’d been diagnosed as iron deficient three weeks earlier. He’d been trying Keri’s vegan diet and wasn’t taking the same supplements. He’d been weak and tired since and had chalked it up to that until the coughing showed and the fever joined it.
He’d been here now for nearly two hours, his oversized can of yerba mate was empty, as was his sticker decorated Hydro Flask of water, and he wasn’t sure he’d advanced in line more than five or six feet. The line had grown behind him so much so that it snaked into the union and past the computer section to the minimart.
He was considering giving up and letting the illness take its course when somebody behind him caught his attention. It was a coed he vaguely recognized as having dated one of his roommates. She was in a sorority, but he couldn’t remember her name. She was talking loud enough for anyone within earshot to hear her.
He shot a glance at her. She wore denim overall shorts over a pale blue UCLA tank. The tops of the school’s acronym peeked above the frayed edging on the overalls. The lettering was cracked and worn but still recognizable enough. Her hair was pulled into braids. She wore no makeup and looked as sick as everyone else in line. She pulled a fist to her mouth and coughed into it. Dub spun around to face the line in front of him, but listened to the woman.
“I heard this isn’t the flu,” the woman said. “Even though the news is calling it the flu, it’s not. It’s like a combo disease.”
“Where did you hear that, Gem?” asked one of what Dub supposed was her friends.
Gem. He remembered. His roommate Barker had dated her. Then he’d dumped her for her sorority sister. Or maybe she’d dumped him. Dub couldn’t remember and it was beside the point.
“I just heard it,” said Gem. “And I heard it started in the homeless camps.”
“Homeless camps?” said the other woman, incredulity dripping from her tone more thickly than the phlegm draining relentlessly into Dub’s throat.
“Yes,” said Gem, coughing again. “Homeless camps. That’s what I heard. And, like, nobody knows exactly what this is yet.”
“I heard it’s airborne,” said the other woman. “I didn’t hear the homeless part.”
“It is,” said Gem. “And it’s spreading superfast. Like ridiculously fast. I mean, look at the line. They’re going to have to cancel classes.”
A third woman spoke up. “I heard they’re cancelling them starting tomorrow and that they’re shutting down campus.”
“They can’t shut down campus,” said Gem. “Where would we go? I mean, seriously, how many of us live on campus? We eat on campus. I don’t want to lose swipes at B Plate over this. My meals don’t carry over.”
“There’s a line of sick people wrapped around Bruin Walk and you’re thinking about your meal swipes?” asked someone else in line.
“A girl’s gotta eat,” said Gem. “Besides, it makes no sense to close down campus.”
“It does if people are dying from it,” said someone else.
Gem had attracted a lot of attention in a short amount of time. It was the kind of attention not even denim overall shorts and braids could attract. A murmur grew into a louder rumble of discussion. The only thing intelligible amongst the din was the repeated use of the word die.
Dub glanced back and saw the line behind him had morphed into more of a blob. People were gathered around Gem. All of them looked as sick as Dub felt. Some wobbled; others leaned on one another. Nobody looked healthy. Nobody had the familiar and somewhat stereotypical SoCal glow from a little too much time in Santa Monica or Venice Beach. They all looked pasty and sallow like how Dub imagined students at any ivy-covered college in the Northeast might appear.
“Are people dying?” asked Gem. “Who said that?”
“I thought you would have heard,” said her doubting sorority sister, “given, like, everything else your sources gave you.”
Dub took a step toward the crowd. Amidst the coughing and wheezing, he picked up serious concern in the voices of those engaged in the discussion. Was this sickness, whatever it was, fatal?
A tall, heavier student in a gray UCLA half-zip stepped aggressively toward Gem. He had stubble along his jawline and chin and jabbed his finger at her as he spoke. “You shouldn’t be spreading rumors. That’s the kinda stuff that makes people panic. You need to shut your mouth.”
The mumble amongst the crowd amplified. Some pointed their fingers at the half-zipped, finger-pointing, would-be patient, while others jumped on board and angrily took the moral high ground regarding gossipmongering and the viral spread of fear. The crowd was devolving into a potential mob. The impending chaos was palpable.
Not one for conflict, Dub tried speaking above everyone else. He waved his hands above his head. The crowd turned, all eyes facing him warily, and he swallowed hard. The taste of infection coated his tongue. “C’mon,” he pleaded, “let’s not do this. We’re all sick. None of us feel good. There’s no point in pointing fingers or accusing—”
“Who are you?” asked the half-zip. “Where do you get off telling—”
A shrill scream drew everyone’s attention past Dub to a man lying on the plaza in a pool of blood. He was no more than twenty feet from the entrance to the infirmary. One scream turned into three, turned into nine, turned into a cacophony of cries and shouts. Suddenly the potential chaos rooted in fear and anger behind Dub blossomed into chaos fueled by fear and shock and confusion in front of him.
Dub bumped past the backpack-clad coed in front of him, not bothering to apologize, and rushed toward the crowd gathering around the fallen man. He wasn’t sure what he could do to help or why he was giving up his coveted place in line, but instinct drove him there. He pushed his way past a couple of smaller students and stood at the edge of the impromptu circle formed around the man.
He was not unconscious or bleeding from the fall, as Dub had first thought. He was awake. At least his eyes were open, and his body was convulsing. His limbs twitched erratically as if sparked into movement by bursts of electricity. His fingers were rigid, his mouth puckered. There was blood leaking from both sides and bubbling from his nose. He was gargling.
Dub stood there paralyzed for a moment. He’d never seen anything like it. Not in person. Yet there was something familiar about watching someone writhe in agony, as if he’d seen it before somewhere.
He pushed the thought from his mind and then eyed the entrance to the infirmary. He wove his way through the gawking, coughing crowd to the entrance. He slid past men and women in line, some of whom muttered their protests. Nobody stopped him, though, and he stepped to the counter next to a woman who was giving the receptionist her name. Both gave Dub a disapproving glare when he interrupted. He was breathing hard. His pulse pounded. Sweat rolled down his spine and bloomed under his arms.
“Excuse me,” said Dub. “Sorry, but there’s a sick man in the plaza. He needs help.”
“Everyone here is sick,” said the receptionist.
Dub, wheezing from the adrenaline-fueled romp through the crowd, tried to catch his breath. He leaned on the counter. The receptionist scooted away from him. “No, he’s bleeding. He’s having a seizure. He’s right outside the door. He needs help.”
The woman’s brow furrowed with confusion, and then she stood, looking past Dub and into the line of patients awaiting their turns to see doctors. Although it was impossible for her to see the seizing man from her vantage point, standing and staring at the crowd apparently convinced her Dub was telling the truth.
She picked up a phone and hurriedly punched some numbers into its face. Cradling the receiver between her shoulder and ear, she waved over another receptionist. Then someone on the other end of the line must have answered.
“Yes,” she said, locking eyes with Dub. “We need a doctor outside in Bruin Plaza. There’s a student having a seizure.”
“And he’s bleeding from his mouth and nose,” said Dub.
“He’s bleeding,” said the receptionist. “Okay. Thank you.”
&nb
sp; Still holding the phone, she nodded at Dub, thanked him, and stood with her hands pressed against her thighs. Her eyes were wide with concern as if this were the moment she understood the gravity of the burgeoning situation. The amusement-park line stretching from her desk, across the plaza, and into the union hadn’t affected her, but knowing one of these sick students was unconscious and bleeding changed things.
Dub walked away, heading back outside. When he shouldered and squeezed his way through the crowd, the ambient body heat of others radiated at him. Coughs sounded louder. Moans and groans sent shivers along his spine. Whatever it was these people had, whatever it was that made them sick, was likely the same contagion attacking his body.
He worked his way outside and back into the sunlight. He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the brightness of it. He could hear the commotion, the shouts and instructions, before he could see the seizing man and those crowded around him.
The noises were louder than before, spiked with more urgency. Then, as his vision came into focus, he saw the seizing man wasn’t the only one in need of help. There were no fewer than five or six more people on the ground. Were there ten? Was it a dozen?
There was blood and violent coughing and yellow sputum. There were more seizures; people’s bodies vibrated on the ground at different frequencies. Some vomited onto themselves and others, which, in turn, caused others to puke. At least two had defecated on themselves. It was like a viral bomb had exploded in the plaza, and Dub was walking amongst the wounded. Had it not been so horrifying, it might have been comical. There was so much of everything awful it bordered on the satirical.
Dub’s mind struggled to process it. He thought of the Mr. Creosote wafer scene in Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life and the pie-eating scene from the movie Stand By Me. His gut twisted and a tsunami of nausea washed over him, flooding his senses. He staggered into someone and lost his balance before recovering.
A sheen of sweat coated his neck and face. It dripped into his ears and down his back. He could taste the salt on his lips.
Screams and calls for help, moans, and guttural sounds that Dub couldn’t convince himself were human overwhelmed him. He wanted to cry out and demand it stop. The sounds, the sights, the smells—it was all too much.
Clutching at his stomach, he wandered away from the crowd. He couldn’t help anyone. He had to help himself. As he wobbled past the Wooden Center and toward the hill, medics or doctors were directing traffic, triaging patients right there in the middle of the plaza. They were demanding other sick people move away. The panic in their voices was as evident as the illnesses they were treating.
Dub glanced over his shoulder one last time, bracing himself against a trash can. It was a mosh pit. Everyone needed help, and it appeared nobody was getting it. The doctors and nurses, or whatever adults had come to help, seemed paralyzed. It had devolved in seconds from worse to catastrophic.
The wail of emergency sirens pulsed in the distance. They were coming from the medical center that separated campus from the trendy shops and restaurants in Westwood Village. They were getting louder. The alternating high and low tones pierced the air, carried by that breeze that Dub couldn’t feel any longer. He wheezed, trying to suck in a deep enough breath to slow the pulse that pounded at his chest and thumped at his temples.
He leaned harder on the trash can, using his elbows and forearms to brace himself. His legs tingled. His knees and ankles were rubbery. His stomach lurched and spun.
He closed his eyes, willing himself both the calm and the strength it would take to haul his compromised body up the steps and slopes leading back to his dorm. The distance he had traveled effortlessly, mindlessly, for the entirety of his time at UCLA now seemed daunting and insurmountable.
Somehow he’d managed to keep himself from collapsing, from becoming so dehydrated he slipped into convulsions. He hadn’t yet bled from his mouth or nose. Was that coming? Would it come faster, would he slide into an unrecoverable state if he climbed his way back to his dorm? Was he better off staying here at the trash can? He could sit down. He could take a break. He could maybe fall asleep, regain some strength, and try later.
Yes. That was what he’d do. He’d take a break.
Dub stood up straight, but not steady, and managed to turn himself around so he could slide down the face of the trash can with his back. He closed his eyes and heard his name. His subconscious was calling him.
“Dub? Dub, are you okay?”
I’m not okay, he told himself. I’m not okay.
“Dub? Can we help you?” The voice was deeper now. It didn’t sound like his own, even in his feverish mind.
A touch on his arm. The hand was cold, icy. He flinched, drew away from the light grip, and opened his eyes. It wasn’t his subconscious talking to him. There was somebody there. There were two somebodies.
He blinked twice and focused on the pair in front of him. His roommates, Michael and Barker, stood shoulder to shoulder. Barker, stocky and balding prematurely, had his hands on his hips. Michael, with curly red hair and a T-shirt-straining belly, had his hands extended as if coaching a toddler to walk, ready to grab hold if needed. Still high in the cloudless sky, the sun cast shadows across their faces, but he recognized them.
He tried saying something. He opened his mouth and moved his tongue. But he couldn’t speak. He wanted to tell them he needed to rest. That was all. A little rest.
His jaw was so heavy. His tongue was too thick. He closed his mouth again and shut his eyes.
He leaned against the box-shaped trash can and started sliding along its face, letting gravity pull him toward the ground. He didn’t make it. His roommates caught him under his elbows and pulled him up. They were talking to one another, grunting and struggling with his weight. He was sure they would drop him.
He wanted to tell them to let go. He wanted to rest here for a few minutes; then he’d be good to go. He’d be strong enough to climb the hill and find his way to his bed. That was the end game, getting back into the bed he never should have left.
The weight of exhaustion overtook him and the sounds around him faded. His body was suddenly weightless. The breeze pushed across his face. He slid into an uneasy sleep.
CHAPTER 5
DAY 10
Pacific Palisades, California
OASIS was an acronym for Order of Apocalyptic Survivors In Sync. They were a collective of Californians who’d long ago determined the world as they knew it was more likely than not to end in their lifetimes. They’d joined the secretive society, paid their hefty dues, and drank the Kool-Aid. As the world above them struggled to cope with a plague devouring everything from the Bay Area to the San Fernando Valley and beyond, they were hunkered down inside their doomsday bunker built underneath the famed cliff-perched Getty Villa.
Nobody in the OASIS now could trace the true beginnings of the organization or the self-sustaining bunker. There was an anecdotal history of both that older members passed along to newer ones, but they were murky and led to more questions than answers.
They all knew there were other bunkers. Some were government controlled, like the complex underneath the Denver airport, and some, including the Getty OASIS, were privately held. The government bunkers were meant for people of importance: elected officials and leaders in the fields of medicine, technology, finance, agriculture, and engineering. They could house thousands of people. The private bunkers were designed with a similar goal, to represent the fundamental needs of a society rebuilding itself after disaster. The private bunkers and clubs were much smaller in size, able to accommodate fewer than a hundred survivors each. Keeping the OASIS secret up until TEOTWAKI was one of its basic tenets. It would only expand to outsiders when the moment came to descend into its protective walls.
That, however, had not always been the case. In the early 1960s, during the height of the Cold War, OASIS members had publicly recruited their friends and neighbors to join. More often than not they were met with skepticism or derision. They w
ere called a doomsday cult and, instead of refuting the assertions, decided to take their club back underground literally and figuratively.
Each member held invitation cards they kept in safe places. Those cards were transferrable if the original owner didn’t or couldn’t survive an apocalypse. They would use the cards to gain entry to the bunker at regular intervals to make certain it was running as it should when the time came.
The bunker itself was spiral. Its original designers had believed stairs would be too difficult to manage, especially if survivors had suffered mobility injuries, so the complex was built around the descending circular path that bore its way deep into the hillside. It was an ingenious corkscrew, not unlike the one in the Guggenheim Museum in New York, that provided a singular path to any spot within the sprawling complex of chambers that populated both sides of the central hallway.
The compound had power through a hydro electric generator driven by water secretly diverted from the Mullholland Dam and Reservoir high in the Hollywood hills. The gravity pressure of the water drove the hydro turbines, plus provided a source of fresh water. It supplied the toilets and showers and allowed for the irrigation of a small secondary greenhouse, which supplemented the primary source of fresh food—a hydroponic greenhouse that grew algae and potatoes.
The OASIS had long decided that those two sources of food were both the easiest to maintain and provided the best spectrum of nutrients for the survivors who planned to live within the bunker’s walls for as long as was necessary. There was dry storage, which the members would cycle through to keep the provisions within their expiration dates. There was also a healthy supply of MREs, a last resort given the length of their viability and their general lack of taste.
While everybody in the OASIS had their own expertise, their own raison d’être, it was a member named Gilda Luster who ran the food production. She was the one with a green thumb. She’d devised the hydroponics, kept the provisions growing, and was constantly improving the efficiency of her operation. The irrigated greenhouse was a work in progress. She hadn’t quite gotten the grow light temperature in its sweet spot, as she had the larger hydroponics space. She was working on it.
The Alt Apocalypse (Book 4): Affliction Page 3