by J. L. Wood
Frantically, she pushed it in while Sherrie stood idly by, watching Mary unfold, letting her have her moment, a moment she believed everyone would eventually have. Sherrie could tell everyone’s nerves were wearing thin. Yesterday had been long and exhausting, with who knew how many more to come. They couldn’t all stay calm and collected forever. Especially not after the vague radio announcement.
“Who’s there? What’s going on out there?” Mary yelled into the walkie. There was no response on the other end. She tried again. “Answer me! Children are dying!” There was still no response. Her right arm dropped by her side, the weight of the walkie now a burden on her weak muscles, and she gradually opened her hand, releasing the walkie to fall to the soft carpet. Mary continued to pace, this time faster than before, muttering to herself, barely audible but unrecognizable to those around her. With each step, her mutterings grew harsher and wilder, until she grabbed one of the pillows from Missy’s quiet corner and held it tightly against her face. She screamed into the yellow polka-dotted pillow, and the tight stuffing muffled the shrill sound.
Everyone in the room watched Mary unravel into the pillow, confused and concerned but unsure of how to proceed. It was Missy who snatched the pillow from her tight grip and slapped her across the face with the palm of her hand. “Get it the fuck together!” she yelled. “You’re acting like the children. Tantrums and tears. Unruly little humans.”
Sherrie watched as Mary wiped the tears from her soft freckled cheeks. “We’ve all been working too hard,” she said as she reached for the walkie-talkie, the scratching in her side causing her to croak in pain. “Let’s hold off on Sandra for now. We should start taking shifts. Mary, why don’t you get a head start? Go find a classroom and rest. This should help you.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a foil packet of pills. Gently, she popped one out and held out her hand to Mary.
Mary ran her fingers through her short blonde hair, straightening out all of the loose strands. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’m okay now, really. I just had to let that out. It won’t happen again.”
Seizing the opportunity, Missy leaned forward and plucked the single pill from Sherrie’s outstretched hand. “I’ll hold on to it. Just in case,” she said while stowing the pill away in the front pocket of her jeans.
“You need it more than anyone,” Chris said under his breath.
Missy scowled. “I was just having a bad day yesterday. Everyone gets a pass.”
“That’s it, then,” Sherrie said, breaking the tension in the air. “Everyone, tend to your assignments, then after the drop, we will get this place in order and decide if Sandra should go into surgery.”
The team dispersed, all going their separate ways, all looking like they were wondering when they would have their moment like Mary. Everyone except for Dr. Dressner, who reached into her pocket for the pills.
The pain was becoming even more unbearable. She could feel the tumor pulsating inside her, clawing at her, devouring her. It pained her even more to think that she might die in the gym, her body dragged to the fourth-grade hall with the rest of the deceased. Another corpse to add to the already demoralizing situation.
*
Ms. Brackenridge shielded her face from the whipping wind set forth by the helicopter as it landed in the school’s circle drive. Behind the safety of the school’s doors, she watched as the guards outside held their rifles in firing position as they guarded the soldiers jumping out of the helicopter. Several barricades had been added to the front of the school, and there was now a large semicircle of interlocked gates, around four feet high, blocking the entrances to the circle drive. They weren’t high enough to keep anyone from jumping, but they were high enough to slow them down.
The crowd of angry citizens had increased threefold. They were now all furiously shouting obscenities at the officers who walked the barricades, while the officers shouted to the crowd to keep back. One strong-willed man tried to jump one of the barricades, and the officer swatted him across the face with his baton. Ms. Brackenridge gasped in horror at the scene. She couldn’t understand the hostility—there were sick children inside. Children that she believed could solve the mystery of this illness. Did they know that? Did they know anything at all?
Her eyes returned to the helicopter. Methodically, the soldiers pulled six large wooden crates from the helicopter and stacked them on a heavy metal cart. Eagerly, Ms. Brackenridge continued to watch the men, wondering what they were delivering, hoping there was food included as her stomach let out a long growl. As the men drew nearer, she realized they were all wearing gas masks.
It’s contagious, she thought. They know it’s contagious. Her hunger was immediately lost as a sickening feeling bloomed in her stomach. What would happen to her when the sickness was cleared? Would she be quarantined? Sent off to die with the other undesirables?
The front door to the school was pushed open by one of the soldiers. Ms. Brackenridge’s attention was drawn to the patches on the green camouflaged sleeve of his shoulder, but she did not know how to read them. He looked important, and she assumed he was of high ranking. “Ma’am,” he said, his voice muffled behind the mask.
“Welcome,” she replied. “Thank you for coming.”
The soldier held the door open for his comrades to push the cart into the lobby of the school. There were four of them total, one in charge, two pulling the heavy cart, and the other guarding them all. “Where do you want it?” asked the soldier behind the mask. Ms. Brackenridge could barely understand the man.
“This way,” she said, leading them to an empty classroom. As the two soldiers who pulled the cart began unloading the crates, the man in charge approached her. “Charts and samples,” he requested.
“Oh, yes…yes,” she replied, flustered. She pulled the charts from the classroom desk, still warm from the copy machine, and handed them to the soldier, along with a small box of blood samples.
The soldier quickly reviewed the charts, making sure all of the data was filled in. Satisfied, he signaled to his team that had just finished unloading the crates. “Good luck,” he said as he walked past the principal.
Ms. Brackenridge extended her hand. “When should we expect the next drop, and are you going to take the deceased?”
The soldier recoiled. “No contact. I cannot answer that, and no, we will not.”
As the soldiers exited the school, Ms. Brackenridge ran behind them. “Is that how it spreads? In the air?” she yelled. “Should I be wearing a mask?” She stood still in the doorway of the school, panting, terrified, watching the soldiers hastily jump back into the helicopter, not one of them looking back. Slowly, she backed away from the door, Joyce peeking over her shoulder, more confused than ever.
*
Missy pried one of the wooden crates open with the forked side of the hammer. “See? I told you this would come in handy,” she said as she peered inside the crate. “Oooh…this one has food. MREs, it looks like.”
Ms. Brackenridge pulled one of the MREs out of the crate and inspected it. Hunger was beginning to take its toll at Greenwood Elementary. The school only kept enough food for the week, with shipments arriving Monday morning. With a gymnasium of nearly a hundred people, all of the vending machines and what little was left in the cafeteria were already gone. The people in the gymnasium were hungry for an actual meal, causing them to become irritable and uneasy. Ms. Brackenridge knew that the food would bring a sense of calm and hope.
Missy popped open another crate, which was filled with diuretics, anti-inflammatories, and IVs. “This feels like Christmas,” she said, sorting through the assortment of medical supplies.
“Where’s the Insidia? The Sim-Six?” Sherrie asked.
Chris took the hammer from Missy and popped open the remaining crates. Two crates were filled with more medical supplies, one with Insidia, Sim-Six, and glucagon, the other with surgical materials, including another manual drill. The remaining crates held more MREs, health products, and vitamins.
“It’s still not enough,” Ms. Brackenridge said, disappointed. “The soldiers didn’t say when our next drop-off would be. This is maybe three days max, four or so if we ration.”
Dr. Dressner picked up a bottle of Sim-Six. “At least now we can get all the kids on a steady dose of medications. I had to ask for supplies to perform a ventriculostomy. I wonder why.”
“Maybe they don’t know,” Mary chimed in.
“Or maybe they think it’s too risky or not worth it. They could be using us as another test site for that,” Chris replied.
Ms. Brackenridge stepped in. “Whatever the reason, we should continue whatever we have been doing under Dr. Dressner’s guidance. It’s gotten us this far.” Sherrie nodded, and Ms. Brackenridge continued. “I suggest we only bring one crate out and keep the rest locked in here. So let’s pack one crate with some medical supplies and food, and when we run low, we can pack another crate.”
Mary and Missy helped Chris push the heavy crate onto a small metal cart that creaked and sagged under the immense weight. Mary steered and pulled the crate while Chris and Missy pushed it toward the gymnasium. The parents and staff were already waiting by the door, anxious to see what the helicopter brought.
“What’d they send us?” one parent exclaimed.
Ms. Brackenridge gently pushed the crowd back, making room for the cart. “Make a hole. Make a hole,” she demanded.
Another parent spoke up. “What’s happening out there?”
There were no windows in the gymnasium, and since Ms. Brackenridge had ordered everyone to stay put in the gym, they were clueless as to the developments of the illness or the increased size of the crowd outside. Ms. Brackenridge thought it was best this way—that she controlled the flow of information.
Occasionally, she would sneak off to her office when no one was looking and flip on the tiny television that sat hidden behind her desk. Before the sickness, she’d spent many lunch breaks in front of that television, watching talk shows and snacking on her “lonely girl lunch,” as she called it. Frozen dinners nuked to oblivion, full of sodium and sadness. But today there were no lonely girl lunches, just despair that worsened every time she pushed the power button on her remote control. The city was beginning to fall apart. “It’s out of my control,” she would say before turning the television off. “But the school isn’t.”
Missy and Chris left the cart by a table near Ms. Brackenridge, and she nodded in return at them, her gesture of gratitude. She knew she needed to update everyone, or their curiosity would get the best of them. She would give them a little from the broadcast she watched earlier, just enough to satisfy their grueling appetites. Just enough to keep them going.
“Listen up,” she said through the murmurs. The room fell silent, everyone anxiously awaiting the news. “The soldiers have provided us with an update. The official term for the illness is L8, for the eight locations it originated in. It is no longer being referred to as the sugar flu, and it is now a pandemic. Houston was the originator in the United States, but it has spread to other cities. Not only is Houston on lockdown, but Texas is now under complete quarantine. We cannot leave Houston, and if you leave this building, you will not be permitted to return.”
The crowd broke out in a series of whispers. Speaking a bit louder now, she continued, “The CDC is still working toward a cure. The work that we are doing here, sending them updates, is helping tremendously. Now, we had some supplies delivered, and they are being rationed until we get word on when the next drop will be. We have enough for everyone to have two MREs a day.
“As far as sleeping arrangements go, we will continue to all stay here in the gym, with the exception of any of the kids in 3-Hall. They need to stay put. I know last night was rough and we were not prepared, but today we will be. Missy and Mary will go through the classrooms and gather as many blankets, chairs, and pillows as they can find.”
“Always something,” Missy muttered.
Ms. Brackenridge reached into the crate and grabbed three MREs. “I’m going to go find Joyce to see what we can do about our communication issue. Everyone, please get your dinner and then get some rest. It’s been a long day.”
On her way out, she met Sherrie in the hallway and handed her an MRE. “I’m going to separate more of the supplies,” she said. “Not much, just a few things. People do things when hungry, and we can’t have it all in one place.”
Sherrie looked up and frowned. “I had a feeling too. I already did that.”
*
The crowd rushed toward Chris, eager to put some food in their stomachs, some pushing in front of others who were too tired to care. Chris quickly pulled two MREs from the crate, one vegetarian, one chicken and rice, and tossed it to Mary. “You’re getting whatever I give you,” Chris said to the crowd as he tossed the MREs into their open hands. “No need to push.”
After the last dinner was handed out, Chris opened the heating pouch in his MRE and placed his entrée inside. He then poured in some water and waited patiently for it to warm up.
Missy and Mary mimicked him, having never seen an MRE before. “How do you know how to do that?” Mary asked.
Chris looked back at his little audience. “My brother and I used to go camping a lot.” He pulled the entrée out of the heated water. “These are actually pretty decent.”
“I could eat anything right about now,” Missy said.
“Oh, really?” Chris replied. “Then I’ll stop saving the veggie ones for you.”
Missy rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.” After a few moments, she pulled her vegetarian meal out of the heated water and ripped it open. She let the steam from the open packet heat her face and slowly breathed in the timid smell of pasta and tomato sauce before pushing a full spoon into her mouth. This is either really incredible, or I was really starving, she thought, licking the back of her spoon.
When she was nearly halfway through her packet, she reminded herself to slow down, to savor it. She used the time between bites to look around the gymnasium. It looked pitiful. Some of the children were sitting up in their cots eating, their parents leaning against the frame. The half dozen other teachers and staff were sitting near a wall in a semicircle. Missy wondered what they were talking about. She didn’t know them too well; Mary was her only friend at the school.
When she reached the end of her meal, Missy pushed her index finger into the packet and scooped out the remaining sauce, greedily licking it from her finger. “Don’t judge me,” she said, noticing Mary’s eyes on her. “Ready to go find those blankets?”
Mary took the last bite of her dinner, letting the hot mixture rest on her tongue before chewing and swallowing. “Sure, let’s go.”
*
Missy and Mary made their final trip to the auditorium, arms outstretched, tightly holding on to a collection of pillows and blankets that they’d scavenged from empty classrooms. This was their fourth trip, and their collection was not nearly enough for everyone, but it was something. Missy released her grip on the items and let them fall onto a table in the gymnasium. “It’s time,” she whispered.
Mary stood by the table, attempting to organize the items. “We should pull the classroom rugs,” Mary said, ignoring her friend. “We could lay them out like a large bed, then the bedding could go further.”
Annoyed, Missy pulled Mary’s arm. “I said it’s time. Don’t worry about them. If they really want more, they can go get it themselves.”
Mary pulled her arm back. “It’s almost ten now, and it’s after curfew.”
Missy looked around the gym to ensure Ms. Brackenridge wasn’t watching but only found Chris sketching with a piece of charcoal, his eyes fixed on his paper. Angrily, she pulled her friend’s arm again so that she was facing her. “Screw curfew. You promised. Do you want to know about Don’s secret mission or not? Let’s go get Skiddy.”
Mary scoffed. “Fine, but if you’re bullshitting, we are no longer friends.”
The women swiftly wal
ked to room 3B. Mary gently closed the door behind them while Missy pulled back the animal-print curtains and slowly raised the window. She looked back at Mary, who gave her a nod of approval. She was keeping her promise. She was all in. Room 3B faced the blacktop, which was surrounded by a huge metal fence to keep the students from wandering off. There was a break in the fence at the northeast corner that had been there for years, and after several delayed requests to have it repaired, Missy quit asking, which turned into a good thing for her today. It was her escape route.
They cautiously crawled out of the window and rested on their knees, careful not to be spotted by the searchlights that frequently flashed around the school. Missy and Mary crawled in the shadow of the building, two feet at a time, listening at each rest for guards while the rough surface of the blacktop dug into their knees. Halfway to the gap in the fence, the women flinched as the sky erupted in flames, followed by a series of screams.
“What the heck was that?” Mary hissed.
Missy looked back at Mary, who was lying flat on the blacktop. “Stay back!” Missy yelled.
“No! What are you doing, dummy?” Mary responded.
Missy crawled forward until she could see the side of the building. A large fire was burning near a police car. Missy watched as three trucks pulled closer to the fire, men hanging off the back, throwing Molotov cocktails at the officers and barricades. The crowd scattered, shrieking at the top of their lungs, while the police began to fire at the assailants.
Missy quickly turned around, and once back in the shadows, she grabbed Mary’s arm and yanked her to her feet. “We’re under attack! Hurry, we have to warn the others!”
The women ran back to the window of 3B and quickly crawled through. Missy accidently shifted her weight too quickly and fell through, her leg catching on the window frame and erupting in pain.
“Ms. B is with Joyce!” Mary yelled as they ran down the hallway.
Missy, her leg now numb from adrenaline, tried to slow her speed as she approached the receptionist desk, but there was no tread on her shoes. She slid into the door, her left arm catching the brunt of the impact. “Ow! I’m injured,” she cried out.
