He stomped on the gas and the tires chirped on the asphalt as he hauled the Jeep around the dead man walking. Seneca watched the lonely, sad figure until he disappeared beyond a bend in the road. That’s when he smelled the smoke.
“What the hell is going on now?”
Two cars raced toward him, headlights swerving as they sped along the road. In a second they were gone, engine roars already fading like the red taillights in Seneca’s rearview mirror. The closer he got to Saint Charles, the more and more cars he encountered racing south at breakneck speed.
The road followed the bend in the river and the trees parted. The sky ahead churned with black smoke, causing Seneca to slow as he gawked. In the distance, the first of several bridges to cross the river along the length of 25 appeared, choked with cars—one of which was on fire—and people. The accident must have just happened, because people had gathered together in the middle of the bridge to argue and shout. A few on either end of the bridge realized the stupidity of the situation and were already slinking back to their vehicles or just walking away. Those who remained on the bridge were truly stuck and fucked.
According to the map, Ward’s house was on 3rd street, just a few short blocks from the river on the west side. There were two other bridges further north he could try to cross, and one pedestrian bridge between them.
He continued north and found the first bridge, at Illinois Street, blocked off for construction that would never be completed. As he approached the intersection at a crawl—traffic had ensnared him at last—Seneca got a good long look. There was no way he could bust through the orange cones and barrels. They’d been backed with concrete Jersey barriers, but that didn’t matter. The bridge itself had been in the middle of a resurfacing project, with naked steel girders and rebar stretching across the river.
He had only a block or two to go before he reached the final, main bridge at Route 64Main Street. This two lane east-west thoroughfare went all the way into Chicago and was a complete parking lot. Horns honked, people yelled, and others walked on the sidewalks, but no car moved more than ten feet in the time he sat there waiting for an opening.
Horns honked behind him. He glanced in the mirror, then looked forward and spotted the reason for the noise: a gap had presented itself. A little old lady in a Buick sat hunched over her wheel, peering through huge glasses perched on her nose at the traffic. She hesitated, created a gap big enough for a car to slip through to the other side of the road.
Seneca floored it and his Jeep practically jumped across the street to another chorus of horns. He was safe on the north side of 64, but still on the wrong side of the river, and the next crossing was damn near in Elgin. He needed to think, he needed some breathing space. There were too many people and far too many cars—he’d never seen such traffic outside rush hour on the Ike.
A fire had started on the far side of the river in one of the shops or restaurants that lined 64. The close packed establishments created the “small town charm” city planners looked for to draw tourists, but it also let an unchecked fire do tremendous damage very quickly. He didn’t want to stop here.
Seneca turned toward the river and ended up driving past the empty fire station. A few guys milled around in front of the big brick building, talking on radios, but the engine bays were all empty. The fire across the bridge was going to have to burn itself out if they couldn’t get help from the west side.
That wasn’t Seneca’s problem. He pulled into a parking lot behind the municipal building and stared at the river flowing over the little falls before rippling under the Route 64/Main Street bridge. He shifted into park and tore his hands from the wheel.
“What the hell is going on around here…”
A loud POP echoed on the west side of the river. People struggling west across the bridge with whatever they could pull from their cars screamed and turned to run back east, crashing into those who hadn’t heard or didn’t care. Fists flew, a suitcase fell off the bridge, opening mid-air to spread clothes like a flock of birds taking flight into the water.
Another POP sounded from the middle of the bridge and panic erupted full bore. Seneca watched transfixed, as the fleeing people trampled anyone in their path in a mad dash to get away from the middle of the bridge and whoever the hell had fired that first shot into the crowd. Someone in a Ford F-150 pulled onto the sidewalk to escape the gridlock, sending a group of people into the river to save their lives.
“Holy shit,” Seneca breathed, leaning toward the window. The first of the people to hit the water some thirty feet below popped up, sputtering and flailing in the swift water. In seconds they were all carried under the bridge and out of sight.
Seneca frowned. He still had to get across the river. He couldn’t just head for Plum’s house in Wisconsin and leave Ward behind. Even if the stupid son of a bitch was just having phone issues, he wouldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t at least try. Ward would do the same for him—the two of them had been in Delta together for more than a decade and had been let go on the same shitshow of a mission.
No, he was going to get to Ward, one way or the other.
He looked away from the chaos on the bridge and turned north. Upriver, a sprawling park complex engulfed the east side, past an old trestle train bridge. He could see a golf cart moving just beyond.
The train bridge! Under the old, rusted girders that still served the heavy freight trains on a daily basis, a wooden covered bridge had been built for biking and walking across the river to the strip of parkland on the western shore.
Seneca shifted into gear and raced to the north side of the lot at the eastern base of the bridge, then backed into a spot as far away from the nearest road as possible. He jumped out and slipped on his hiking backpack, then, thinking of the bleeding man he’d encountered on the road, reached in the Jeep and retrieved his mask, gloves, and pistol, tucking them all under the pack’s waist strap.
He locked the Jeep and looked up at the massive concrete structure that towered overhead about four stories up. He had a bit of a climb to get to the walking bridge, but at least he didn’t have to go all the way to the top.
“Hang in there, Ward—I’m coming, you stupid son of a bitch.”
7
Flee the fear
Sault Ste. Marie
At quarter to five that evening, Jillian put the finishing touches on the managing partner’s latest brief, and saved the file. Frank was a legal genius in the courtroom, a master orator, but he couldn’t write briefs to save his life. It was a wonder he wasn’t running for political office.
Beside her on the desk, her pink cell phone buzzed. She smiled and picked it up. Hopefully, that was Roger calling to see about dinner. Then she saw the text message on the screen.
Dad: Hey, Jillie Bear. You OK?
Sighing, she opened the messenger app replied.
Me: Fine, dad. What’s up?
Outside, horns honked, the end of the week rush hour traffic well underway. She needed to get out soon if she wanted to have any time to herself tonight to relax tonight.
Her parents had always had the worst timing. She supposed she couldn’t blame them completely, though—they were habitual worriers. If they weren’t worried about her social life—or lack thereof—they were worried about climate change or terrorism…or the fact that she was a thousand miles away from home in California, living in Canada.
She sighed. Trying to explain to her parents that Sault Ste. Marie was actually an American city, too, had never worked. They were convinced she’d moved to Canada, and that was that. All because one time—one time—she’d crossed the border with friends and mailed them some Canadian maple syrup.
Another text came in, vibrating the phone in her hands.
Dad: Are you kidding? We heard about Chicago and your mother is ready to drive up there and get you.
Jillian stared at the phone. Chicago? What the hell was her father rambling on about this time? She started to send a snarky reply, then deleted it. She gl
ared at the phone for a moment, her done-with-work-on-a-Friday mood already starting to slip away. Clenching the phone in a fist, she decided to check the internet first. The last time her father had sent a cryptic back-handed warning like this, an ice storm was bearing down on her and he’d tipped her off to getting food and gassing up her car just in time.
Drudge had the headline: Elixr Apocalypse? 10,000+ dead worldwide. The accompanying picture of some horror movie set in New York was in bad taste, but there it was. Bodies lay in the road and a shambling figure on the edge of the screen reached for two people running for their lives. Beneath it, several clickable headlines followed:
-NYC going on lockdown?
-Outbreaks in Europe and Asia
-“Dead” woman attacks bystanders
-London deadzone
-Is this the End?
Jillian looked back at the picture at the top of the page. Was that from a movie or was it real? All of these headlines were directly across from a highlighted section of the page listing information about the Elixr treatment, the terror attacks from two weeks ago, and what had happened to London.
Her phone buzzed again.
Dad: Jillian, are you there?
Jillian. Dad never called her Jillian. Except when she’d graduated high school, college, and law school. She’d always been ‘Jillie Bear,’ no matter how old she got.
Her fingers trembled as she typed her reply. Still here. Sorry, reading news. What is happening?
He didn’t reply at first. She looked back at the screen. How did this all happen so fast? She wasn’t one to watch the news all the time like her parents, but damn. It seemed like a lot of chaos was erupting all over the world…in just a few weeks. How had it been possible for her to miss so much?
She opened one of the articles while she waited on her dad to reply. It must be a long message—he was a really slow texter, pecking out each letter with his index finger. She’d always found that amazing for a retired writer. The man could type faster than she could speak—almost—but texting? It could take him ten minutes to hit the SEND button.
She focused on the article about New York. The problems first started a few days back—authorities suspected it had been going unreported for a few days before that. When the first cases of what looked like a new flu appeared in hospitals around Manhattan, doctors weren’t concerned—they’d been briefed about the early side effects of the Elixr treatment and a lot of wealthy people in Manhattan had taken Desmond Martin up on his free dose offer.
She skimmed through the summary about Desmond Martin, the eccentric billionaire philanthropist-industrialist and his jet setting lifestyle. She clicked past the ads and the little infographic about Elixr, CRISP-R, and the way Martin’s scientists modified the measles and flu viruses to defang them, then use their contagiousness to spread Elixr to the masses.
There.
Jillian stopped scrolling when she saw a mention of the first death in bold letters. Someone had died yesterday morning, followed by fifteen others last night. Same symptoms: high, painful fever, joints aching so bad they couldn’t get out of bed. A few had turned blue with hypoxia.
By the time authorities knew it was related to Elixr, hundreds of new cases were popping up around the city. They were still scrambling to understand the terror attack at Madison Square Gardens—where Elixr had been distributed originally—and how that had played into the sudden rash of sickness across Gotham. A link appeared directing her to an article update, posted about noon. She clicked it.
Governor Jimenez had activated the New York National Guard overnight, and they’d started to cordon off Manhattan at dawn—as she was getting sneezed on—starting in the north and working south, blocking all tunnels and bridges and shutting down ferry service. They even had plans to create a no-fly zone.
Anyone on the island when the alarm went out would be trapped, and no one was allowed to cross over from the mainland. She covered her mouth, reading that an airliner had been shot down and 23 people had been killed by soldiers already, either clashing outright with them or trying to break through the nascent blockade. The governor meant business—New York was in quarantine and the CDC was taking charge.
Then the government cut off all internet and communication services to the city. No news could get out, but anyone with a satellite dish could receive word from the world outside. It was a first in American history, but Los Angeles had followed suit around lunch time.
Her phone buzzed again.
Dad: Call me.
She hit the speed dial and her father picked up on the first ring. “Jillian.”
“Daddy, what’s going on?” she asked in a high voice. God, she sounded twelve.
“Nothing good punkin’. Listen, where are you?” His voice sounded pained, forced.
“I…” she looked around, noticing for the first time she was the only one in the office. Where the hell had everyone gone? Her chest tightened with fear and her hands tingled. The light was still on in Frank’s office, so at least the boss was working…
“Where are you?” her father repeated, the urgency in his voice gripping her heart. “Are you somewhere safe? Jillie Bear, tell me you're at home…”
“I—I’m still at work. I was about to go home…”
“You’re in the city then? Sault Ste. Marie? You’re not somewhere else on a trip or anything?”
“Dad…no, I’m at the office.”
“Jesus,” he breathed.
“Dad, you’re scaring me…”
“Jillian, you need to get out of the city. Right now. They’re going to close the border tonight.”
“Who—why are they closing the border? Dad—”
“Jillie Bear,’ he said, his voice soft and comforting, like she was a little girl with a skinned knee. “Listen to me. The government, they’re panicking—this bug is in every major city that fool Martin handed out his miracle drug. It’s spreading like wildfire, but they’re still trying to control it, and they’re getting desperate. New York, Los Angeles, Chicago are already gone—they’re locked up, but the people who got out before the quarantines went up are still running scared and...”
Jillian closed her eyes. “And you’re worried those people are infected and spreading it through all the surrounding areas…”
“Not just me and your mom, honey. The government is freaking out. The president federalized the national guard about an hour ago—have you been under a rock or something?—they’re shutting down the borders to at least keep it from spreading to the rest of the world.”
Jillian shook her head. “Wait, that doesn’t make sense…what about air travel?”
“If they haven’t shut that down already, I don’t think it’ll be too much longer. Without grounding all planes, blocking the borders will be a useless gesture that will get a lot of people killed. That’s why you need to get out of town. Go by your house and grab whatever you think you may need, but you need to leave the city.”
“But…but why?” Jillian cried, her mind screaming that none of this was possible in a rational world. “Why do I need to evacuate? Where would I go?”
“Jillie Bear, Sault Ste. Marie is a border town. One of the bigger ones, I think. The military is coming. They’re going to shut down the city and quarantine it.”
“But they can’t do that—”
“If they can block off New York, LA, and Chicago, they can handle the…what, 15,000 people?—you’ve got there. You need to go. Now. Drop everything and get home. Then get the hell out of the city.”
Her father never swore and ‘hell’ was like dropping the f-bomb in her family. Now she was really scared. “But…but where do I go?” she pleaded, the fear and realization of her father’s words and what they meant for her world all crashing down on her at the same time. She started breathing faster, flirting with hyperventilation. “I…I don’t…I don’t know what to do…”
Her father’s breathing was loud on the other end of the line. “Okay…okay…just listen to me, and
calm down, baby. I need you to leave your office. Do one thing at a time, okay? Go home. Pack. And then get in your car and head south. Stay away from Canada and the border, it’s a very dangerous place right now.”
“Okay…” Jillian exhaled. “One thing at a time. I can do that. But where do I go? I can’t drive to California.”
“No! Don’t come here…”
“But—wait, where are you and mom?”
A long pause.
“Dad! Where are you and mom?”
“We came to visit your aunt Clara.”
Jillian moaned, a sound born of pain and grieving. “Dad…tell me you’re not in LA.”
“We’re not in LA.”
“Stop screwing around!” she yelled. “This is serious!”
“I’m sorry, honey. We’re at Clara’s house.”
Jillian moaned. Her mother’s younger sister—the fun aunt who pretended to be a movie star after appearing in a History Channel documentary—lived in Los Angeles.
“We tried to get out when we heard about New York, but the governor out here acted faster than anyone thought possible. She didn’t give anyone any warnings—nothing like in New York and Chicago. Quarantine. Boom. Just like that.”
“But…”
“Aw, now don’t worry about us, baby girl. We’re fine. Clara’s a survivalist, remember? We’ve got enough food and water to last this thing through. You need to worry about yourself, okay? I don’t want you trapped in—”
The line went dead.
Jillian gasped. “Dad?” She shook the phone. “Daddy!” Looking at the screen, she saw the dreaded NO SERVICE icon blinking. She immediately tried calling back, only to hear a robotic female voice inform her that although she was a valued customer, unfortunately, all networks were busy at the moment due to unexpectedly high call volumes.
Elixr Plague (Episode 2): Infected Page 5
