Megan scrunched her eyes shut, willing herself to sleep. It didn’t work. She was too damned hot. With a frustrated groan, she kicked out from under the sheet and padded across the trailer to the ancient air conditioner. She jabbed the power button, and the machine rattled to life.
On the way back to bed, she snatched the television remote from the coffee table. Her roommate Heather had gone out of town, which meant Megan had the entire trailer to herself. Usually this would be cause for celebration, but for some reason this morning, Megan craved company, wanted to talk to someone real.
The next five days were wide open, her first vacation in over six months, and she planned to use the time to her full advantage. She had a ticket in her purse to Tucson, where her sister lived. All that stood between her and her much-deserved break was the hour-long drive into Vegas. Her thoughts drifted to Chloe. Married with three children and a house in the suburbs, Chloe’s lifestyle was the polar opposite of Megan’s. Despite their differences, the sisters remained close. Megan played the role of favorite aunt to her nieces and nephew, showering them with gifts and treating them like the children she hoped to have some day.
She turned her attention to the television. Infomercial. Flipping through the channels, she settled on a documentary about supervolcanoes in Wyoming. That kind of thing fascinated her. She crawled back on the bed and cranked up the volume. Sleep should be close—she hoped. The Xanax she had popped half an hour ago was already nibbling at the fringe of her consciousness, sanding the rough edges off the night and turning the world into a soft and fuzzy place.
Another difference from Chloe. Or maybe not. Kids seemed the perfect justification for a discreet Xanax habit. She chuckled to herself, amused at their unlikely similarities. She didn’t enjoy using the little blue pills, quite the contrary. But they sure took the edge off after a long night on her back. Anyone who said you could fuck for a living without some sort of self-medication was full of shit in Megan’s book.
Someone knocked on the door. “Yeah? Come in!”
The door swung open and Samantha Cantor, her boss, slipped inside. She nudged the door closed with her heel. Megan sat up. “Sam! Hey! What are you doing here?”
“Have you seen the news yet, Megan?” Sam asked.
Megan cringed. “No. Why? Is something going on?” The last time someone had asked her that was the day the International Space Station had been destroyed by an errant satellite, killing everyone on board.
Sam walked over and made a spot for herself on the edge of the bed. She took the remote and flipped to CNN. Red banners and scrolling text screaming “Breaking News” blanketed the screen. A live shot from a helicopter hovered in the center. The camera jiggled and zoomed several times before finally stabilizing on a crowded street corner.
Megan stared in disbelief as people dashed in and out of the camera’s view, colliding with each other as they raced in every direction. In some cases, they appeared to be wrestling, locked in a gruesome struggle for an unseen prize. The aerial camera focused on a young mother and her infant as a man tackled them from behind, pushing them into the street. As Megan and Sam watched, a speeding police cruiser, lights flashing, drove over all three, swerved out of control, and crashed into the rear of a UPS truck. The camera zoomed back out.
“Oh, my God!” Sam exclaimed.
Megan was confused. The coverage had the vibe of a street shot from some third-world hellhole. Desperate to find the ubiquitous robed men with chicken-scratched signs, she scanned the crowd, but only saw people that looked like herself—like her neighbors back home.
The scene shifted and the profile of the Transamerica Pyramid filled the background. A pall of thick, oily smoke clung to the horizon, blanketing the city with a viscous fog. “That’s San Francisco.” She gulped.
The video feed shrank to a small box in the lower left of the screen and was replaced by a shot of a man with a close-trimmed beard.
“This is Richard Mosby reporting from Washington. The president has declared a national state of emergency given the current events in San Francisco, Washington, and Miami. A press conference is scheduled for the top of the hour. CNN will have live coverage. Please stay tuned for the latest updates.”
Megan nudged the volume down. “What’s he talking about? I don’t understand.”
Sam coughed. “No one knows. It came out of nowhere…the first symptoms start like the flu. Within a couple of hours, people begin to change; they become violent, attacking everyone around them…”
Megan flipped to another news channel. Same thing, different reporters. She grabbed her mobile phone, punched in Chloe’s number, then put the phone to her ear.. She frowned and checked the screen. “It’s not working. I don’t have a signal.”
Sam gave her a sad nod. “They’ve been down for hours. Vegas, too.”
A chill ran through her body, making her shiver. She stared at the screen, willing the signal bars to appear, but they didn’t.
Megan took her laptop from the nightstand and opened her Instant Messenger program. Her sister wasn’t online. Switching to email, she banged out a quick message, asking her to call.
She looked at Sam. “What do we do?”
“Vegas seemed fine, at least a few hours ago.” Sam had been in Vegas the night before negotiating with a strip club owner about a promotional tie-in with the brothel. Sam shrugged and sniffled. “Anyway, I wanted to make sure you knew what was going on. I know you have plans to fly out of Vegas this afternoon... You may want to reconsider.”
Megan got up and went to the window. She peered out, squinting into the sun. Everything appeared normal. Red dirt and rocks stretched as far as she could see. Scrub grass and tumbleweed cooked in the harsh sunlight.
Sam cleared her throat. “I’m heading back into Vegas to get some supplies. Do you want to come along?”
Megan turned around. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Sam. What if it’s reached Vegas?”
Sam leaned away and coughed into her hand, a wet, raspy sound like an old, dry chainsaw. “I know. I thought of that, but our regular delivery arrives tomorrow and we’re low on everything. If they don’t show...”
Megan understood her concerns. She shared them. Without their weekly supplies, they wouldn’t survive for long. Life in the desert was unforgiving this time of year with temperatures soaring into the 120s and no rain to speak of. She thought of her last shift and shuddered. Twelve clients in all, breathing on her, her sweat mingling with theirs. Inside of her. Her heart beat faster; her stomach churned. Megan took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She didn’t feel sick.
Sam picked up on her consternation. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Megan shook her head.
Sam patted her on the hand and got to her feet. “I’m sure it will all be fine. These things happen…” Her first step was unsteady, as if she had forgotten how to walk. Sweat poured from her brow, falling to the floor in fat drops. Giant stains blossomed from nowhere in the pits of her arms.
Megan straightened, putting a hand out to Sam. “Are you okay?”
As she watched, the color drained from Sam’s cheeks, leaving her face a pasty gray with blood vessels visibly throbbing slowly beneath translucent skin.
As if on autopilot, Sam took another step before she faltered again. She pitched face-first into the narrow gap beside the bed, swiping Megan’s alarm clock on the way down and setting it off. Megan sat in shocked silence, unable to believe what was happening in front of her. The alarm blared. Shit! She leaped across the room and attempted to pull Sam up, but she couldn’t get leverage. The older woman was wedged in, pinned tight at her shoulders.
Megan snaked her hand to Sam’s neck and checked for a pulse. Nothing. She tried the other side, but got the same result. Oh, shit.
Five
Fire: The Collapse Page 5
