by Mike Chen
“Ah. Well, um...” He searched for the right reply, and though she played it cool, she couldn’t help stealing glances here or there while he was in thought. “I’ll be honest,” he said. “I don’t have a snappy response for that. Though you seem to make good choices. Better than these people.”
The meaning of Jas’s words probably carried more than he intended. Good choices. For her whole life until then, she’d been told pretty much every message possible except those, so much so that the sheer possibility of that seemed out of reach.
But it was simpler than that. She was in control. She could make good choices.
“Hey,” she said loudly over a sudden charge of drunken applause and chanting.
“Yeah?” he yelled back.
“Your brother will be fine,” she said. “My roommate will be fine. Everyone here is an asshole. Let’s get some air.”
And they did, starting a debate about The Clash vs. Black Flag that lasted years, so long that it wasn’t even resolved the last time she saw Jas right before college graduation. For a split second, she considered the resources made available to her as a Reunion Services agent, and maybe she should look up Jas, see if he was still alive.
But no. Nostalgia wasn’t going to overrun her sensibilities. She had bigger things to get to.
She switched off the TV, silencing more talking heads with a fifteen-minute countdown to Hersh’s speech. Then Krista picked up her phone and typed out a text to Rob.
You know how you said to get in touch if I needed anything? I need something. Some help from Sunny, if that’s okay.
Rob’s reply came quick. That’s good. Because I’ve just been asked to be socially normal, so maybe we can trade? I’ll pay for your time.
Getting paid. Getting to meet potential clients. Getting an expert eye for hunting MoJo, though she told herself to keep that part close to the vest. It was a long shot but too much was at stake.
On it. I’ll come by your office first thing tomorrow. Don’t forget the cash.
Krista’s finger mashed the Send button on her phone.
She was back in control.
And she wasn’t going to lose it, not now. She considered turning on Hersh’s speech, but opted for a glass of wine and a bath instead.
Jas would have found that amusing.
Chapter Thirteen
Moira
Moira studied Frank’s face, waiting for it to break. A small part of her found some amusement in that. After all, he had been lucky. He and his immediate family went to quarantine in the first wave—one of the nicer ones, the setup that took over the whole Alcatraz island and offered scenic views and ocean walks to go with the rationed food. They missed the brutality that came with people waiting up to a year to go to quarantine, and though he’d known people that died, everyone he knew seemed to escape unscathed. Parents. Sister. Closest college friends. As if he was the hub of immunity against contracted illness, random violence, and sheer bad luck. He mourned and suffered like billions of others, but his conscience didn’t seem to have a constant weight tied to its waist.
He never had the same look that Moira saw at support groups, not even a hint of it.
Until now.
“You want to cancel the wedding?” he asked.
“Not cancel. Just see if we can move it up,” Moira said gently. “For tax purposes. So we can get the newlywed credit this year. Next year, the quota drops and we may not get it in time.”
“The wedding’s in February. You really think it’ll be filled by then?”
“I do,” Moira said, aware at the irony of her sentence. “With all these rumors, I think it’s going to make people want to get married as soon as possible. I mean, look, Hersh’s speech is on in five minutes? Imagine what people will be doing if it’s really something.”
“I don’t know.” He leaned forward on the sofa, one hand rubbing his cleft chin, the other the back of his dark brown hair. “I mean, that’s a lot to rearrange. What will people think?”
“I think after a pandemic and quarantine, people would enjoy any wedding, whether it’s one month or five months from now.”
“But getting married is huge. It’s life-changing. It’s not just a legal document. It’s a commitment. It’s not something you sign and shove into a file cabinet.” Frank sighed into his hand, then turned her way. “You’re worried about something. I can tell.”
From her toes to her shoulders, Moira tensed. Another rare Frank reaction—confrontational. Still gentle, still Frank, but this must have really done a number on him. “I’m not worried about anything.” That was a lie. Through it all, from walking home amidst a power outage to her run outside the safety zone to her call with Narc, the throughline was simple: her father and his shitshow of a hunt. Of course he would put it on TV. Of course he would make it public. She knew him, how he thought, how he was still trying to make money off her, even when she’d escaped him. “I’m fine.”
“No, I can tell. The way you pronounce stuff is a little different when you’re stressed. It’s like a nervous tic or something.” He adjusted on the couch, moving a few inches closer until their hips touched and his arm settled around her, pulling her into his athletic frame. “Are you worried about wedding costs? We can scale back—”
“I’m not worried about money.”
“The ceremony? Being in front of people? Being among people?” Frank’s eyes lit up, like he really believed he was onto something. “I know gatherings scare a lot of people. But we’ll have everyone undergo the usual safety precautions. I mean, we can all wear breathing masks except maybe during the vows or something. Look.” He straightened up, little creases of concern marking his expression. “I know you don’t like talking about your family and your past. But something happened to you. No one has zero people coming to their wedding—”
“I don’t want to invite anyone to the wedding. The people we know together, that’s all I care about.” This time, it was Frank’s turn to tense up. Moira looked out the window, a single plane hovering over the skyline to San Francisco International, perhaps one of only a handful of flights coming and going today. “I leave the past in the past.”
“You just clam up is all. Maybe,” Frank’s words slowed their pace, tiptoeing on a mine field of vowels and consonants, “it’d be worth it to try counseling. Or a support group. They have free ones, you know.”
The edges of Moira’s mouth curled upward. He was trying. He didn’t suspect her daily routine of going to a free PASD group by her office.
A new idea sparked, one that would perfectly riff on all this. There may even be a kernel of truth in it. “It’s not just the tax benefits.”
She let the sentence hang on purpose, and she watched as he followed the bread crumbs she’d laid out. “Health costs. You want the better family rates for private counseling.”
“The thought had crossed my mind. But, you know, just consider it.” The couch squeaked from her abrupt stand, and she turned off one of her favorite Andrews Sisters songs, creating silence while she walked to the kitchen. “I could even talk to Krista soon.”
Light hit the glass of the microwave door at the exact right angle for Frank’s reflection to appear. Moira lingered, pretending to thumb through junk mail and other papers while keeping one eye on his reaction. He sat still, deep lines worn into his brow to go with a tense stare of deep thought. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just thinking.
Mission accomplished.
Moira grabbed the TV remote and clicked the screen on. It came to life, greeting her with her own face, just about a decade younger, with a wild hairstyle and face paint. “...whose career peaked with her debut album, has been missing since the night quarantines were announced. However, her father hasn’t given up hope—”
“Oh, her,” Frank said nonchalantly. “I remember her. My best friend in high school had such a crush on her.”
Moira’s fingers lacked poetry in their movements; her dad would have been so disappointed at this type of performance anxiety. Instead, the simple act of changing the channel to something, anything else became a mess of button mashes, activating the TV menu, increasing the volume, and changing the channel all at once. The image blinked, and she no longer saw the ghost of herself, and instead it was President Hersh sitting at a desk in the Oval Office.
“My fellow Americans,” she started. The president’s close-cropped hair sat neatly back, her mouth in a neutral line, bright blue eyes staring straight ahead. She glanced quickly offscreen, then re-centered into a serious-yet-pleasant demeanor. “I am speaking to you tonight to address rumors...”
Frank didn’t say another word about MoJo. Moira had suspected age and face-paint would create a reasonable separation from any suspicion, but her breath remained static as she observed his reaction. But he didn’t care about MoJo. Instead, he sat up, hanging on to every word from President Hersh.
Moira stayed quiet, mind alive as it searched for a solution.
Excerpt from President Tanya Hersh’s speech on the first post-quarantine fatality:
My fellow Americans. I am speaking to you tonight to address rumors that you’ve no doubt heard by now. For the past several weeks, reports out of the Miami, Florida, Metro have discussed cases of flu-like symptoms. In Europe, a similar situation has evolved, particularly in the southern France region of the Marseille Metro.
In the case of Miami, I can confirm the first fatality due to these symptoms.
That is a fact.
However, another fact is that ever since the end of quarantine four years ago, the global scientific and medical community has worked together to stay ahead of the curve when it comes to MGS mutations.
I must stress that there is no imminent threat, there is no need for fear, there is no need for panic.
Caution should be exercised, as with any situation involving fatalities. Both Florida and France have agreed to a transportation lockdown in and out of the region. Foreign visitors wishing to return to their native Metros will be quarantined for six days to ensure no symptoms arise, then they will be free to make travel arrangements home. The region will also experience weekly rolling blackouts except for medical facilities to conserve local resources. The Miami Metro will also enact its own travel and security measures to limit risks for the southeastern United States.
Now, how does this affect you, the American people? In short: it doesn’t. This doesn’t change a thing for you or me. We will continue to live for today, appreciate the life we have as MGS survivors, and continue to support each other during this difficult rebuilding period.
I hope this has calmed your fears, answered your questions, and dispelled any rumors you may have heard. In the meantime, we send our thoughts and prayers to the residents of the Marseille Metro. God bless them, God bless you, and God bless the United States of America.
Part 2:
PARTNERS
Chapter Fourteen
Krista
Krista hoped no one at Last Splash Cafe saw her cringe.
Beside her, a pair of local business owners sat at a table, holding hands and openly weeping. Next to her, a woman quietly nursed her baby. And most of the handful of residents who had come to this friend-and-family mixer stared at the TV above, replays of President Hersh’s speech intermixed with various commentary. And interviews. So many interviews about the death out of Miami. People who knew the dead. People who thought they knew the dead. People who were freaking the hell out. People who didn’t know how to react except to cry because something might be happening.
Not exactly the type of thing that was gonna generate business.
And then Uncle Dean popped up on the screen. The text below his face read Dr. Dean Francis, Lead MGS Researcher. Though the TV volume was set low, Krista could still hear the timbre of his voice, the way he drew out “uh” every three or four words, the even-keeled tone with which he responded to everything.
He even did that the last time she saw him—which was two hours too late. Krista had planned it on her last day of summer break right before senior year of college. Jas offered to come with her, but she insisted it had to be family, just her and Uncle Dean. She’d sent an invite to her shithead dad, but he didn’t show up. He didn’t even reply to the text.
That was expected. Uncle Dean’s flakiness, however, was not. After spending three straight days with her mom, forcing laughter and smiles to keep the peace despite the sheer stupidity of her mom’s “I need a drink or six to unwind after work” logic, she’d planned for Sunday afternoon, right after her mom got off her shift at the local drugstore.
Krista sat on the beat-up sofa in her mom’s small apartment, the threads tearing apart at the corners of the cushions, minutes ticking by on her phone’s clock. Uncle Dean was supposed to arrive at three. Her mom wouldn’t arrive until around four thirty, giving them plenty of time to rehearse intervention speeches one last time.
It was textbook. They were supposed to catch Krista’s mom at the front door, before she had a chance to pop open whatever she picked up at the convenience store on the way home. They’d tell her they loved her, that they were concerned about her, that they were losing the person they once knew—which was bullshit, from Krista’s perspective. She’d never known her mom to be anything else, but that statement translated into the potential of who she might become.
Then they’d offer to take her to rehab, right then and there. Uncle Dean volunteered the funds. Krista would drive her. The administrative paperwork was ready. All she would have to do was say yes. And if not, they would both cut her off.
That was the plan. But it required two people and a credit card. Uncle Dean’s credit card, to be exact. Three became three thirty, then four, then four fifteen. Uncle Dean didn’t pick up his phone or answer his texts. Every time a car slowed in front of the apartment, Krista’s hopes surged.
Then the footsteps came. The slow, trudging footsteps, the crinkles of a plastic bag, the muttering under breath about Shimmer, the “goddamn cat” across the street. Jingling of keys, then dropped keys and more cursed muttering, before the door finally opened.
“Krista? I thought you were leaving after lunch.”
But without Uncle Dean, half her ammunition was gone. The speech about brother-sister childhood, the dreams they had growing up, all that stuff evaporated. The financial means, poof, up in smoke. Instead, Krista stumbled through her part, mental shields up and active as her mom’s venom unleashed itself, going full volume at Krista for even daring to suggest she had a problem. By the time Krista’s mom cracked open the first can of shitty beer to “show” Krista that she could stop at one, numbness began to set in. She couldn’t even fully recall what she’d said, just that she’d needed to get out of there and back to Jas as soon as possible.
And in the parking lot, right when the key cranked her car’s ignition, Uncle Dean came up. He walked up to her window, shoulders shrugged. “How’d it go?” he asked. Like it was a freaking dental appointment.
“It didn’t. I’m done.” The words came out as a mission statement, reflective of the epiphany she’d just had: she could only march forward. Never back.
“Krista, I’ve thought about it a lot. And I don’t think it’s our place to get involved this way.”
“Not our place?” The weight of her foot gradually pressed on the accelerator until the car was roaring in place. She eased off it, a big wall of blank in her mind rather than any snappy retort. “I don’t even know what that means,” she said through the open car window.
“It means that Kristen needs to make this decision by herself. Not as my sister. Not as your mom. We shouldn’t threaten her, we’re all she has.”
“Bullshit. Every single goddamn pamphlet and website says we draw the line.”
“Krista,” Uncle Dean said, a long pause
between his words. “I can’t get involved.”
Krista shifted the car into reverse without even looking at Uncle Dean after that. As the car rolled back, she yelled through the open window. “I made a promise to myself. And I’m keeping it.” And she meant it—the promise to herself to never speak to either of them again.
That also extended to paying attention when Uncle Dean was on TV.
No. Only forward. Never back.
And definitely never paused.
Krista approached the only person she hadn’t met yet, a woman probably about her own age but with lines stenciled further and deeper across her face. Krista put on the most sincere-looking insincere smile in her arsenal, then took several steps forward, business card in hand. “Hi there,” she started. “Krista Deal. I’m the founder and owner of Atmosphere Special Events.”
The woman pulled her breathing mask down just enough to show her lips. “Hello.”
“I’m a complete event coordinator. Handle all of the meetings, pickups, organization—all the face-to-face so you don’t have to.” She held her card between two fingers. The woman pointed to her own stack of cards, then gestured to the other side of the table. Krista set her own card down in the blank space, then picked one off from the stack. “Thanks,” she said, smile projecting again, though the woman didn’t seem to notice; instead, she took Krista’s card and put it in a small wallet before spraying sanitizer over her hands, her fingers showing the dryness and wear of cleaning too often.
So the first part of this visit was a bust.
Then there was Rob. Sitting with Sunny, as part of the “family” part of this whole “friends and family” business. Sunny reading a book and Rob with steaming tea, taking the occasional business card and acting, as he joked, socially normal. In fact, it sounded like Sunny didn’t even hesitate when she heard about Krista’s suggestion to go as a group to the mixer at Last Splash. Everyone agreed that it was win-win: Krista would do her thing, Sunny would have a noteworthy interaction, and Rob would even be able to get some bonus social normalcy evidence in the form of business cards and an event flyer.
