Cristian shrugged. “I don’t know how many hundreds of rounds we have in the station. Enough to last quite a while I think.”
“You can never have enough bullets. Not now,” said Bruno.
“Could be worse. Unlike real zombies, this lot doesn’t need a head shot to stop them. One or two in the chest should do it.”
Bruno grunted in response as he turned his back on the narrow street and broke into a brisk walk. “There’s no one else here. We should go back to the station. It’s been warm the last few days, and I don’t want to take any chances with mosquitoes either.”
Bruno looked around at the piazza as they made the short walk back to their station. The fading light rendered the scene before him all the more cheerless. The boarded-up shops and restaurants contrasted sharply with the sparkling nightlife only weeks earlier.
“How many people are left on the island, I wonder,” said Bruno, more to himself than Cristian, as they made their way back to the station.
“Who knows, really. There might still be quite a few holed up here and there.”
Since the disease had spread to Capri, the trickle of people leaving for the mainland had become a flood. They left by motorboat, rowboat, or any other means they had. Over the last few days, Bruno and Cristian watched people spill all around the piers and docks of the main marina, most with suitcases, clothes, anything they could carry that they thought had value.
Bruno shook his head. “Those people who left, they should have stayed put, here. I guess they thought their chances were better with relatives on the mainland.”
“Maybe,” said Cristian. “But with all the military checkpoints, if they got stuck in Naples, they’re as good as dead.”
“True. And not just in Naples,” responded Bruno. “You’ve heard the reports—all over the country, people are trying to leave the cities—trying to leave death behind.”
Cristian built on Bruno’s glum assessment. “Seems like the only ones left are the ones who couldn’t or wouldn’t leave, and the ones who prey on anyone left.”
They walked together in silence for a few moments. Something had been gnawing at Bruno since yesterday, and now that they could take a breather he asked, “Have you heard from Carla? She’s living at the hospital full-time. We texted a few days ago. We were supposed to meet yesterday, but she didn’t show up and I can’t get through to her. If I don’t hear from her today, I’m going to the hospital.”
“Don’t bother. I tried to get in the hospital to see Carla, but they have guards there, and they wouldn’t let me in,” said Cristian.
“But that’s impossible. You’re a Carabiniere. They have to let you in.”
“Didn’t matter that I was a Carabiniere. They said they’re operating under some kind of emergency regulations. No one gets in.”
“Cristian, I’ve got to get to her. I’ve tried text, phone, e-mail. Nothing. When we spoke last she sounded strange, like—”
“Like what?”
Bruno shook his head. “I’m not sure. She sounded like—” But the thought he was about to vocalize sounded as crazy to Bruno as the ham radio guy, so instead he shrugged and said, “Guess it must be stress from dealing with everything. But as soon as the station is squared away and my shift is over, I’m going to the hospital. At least there are guards there. She should be safe, right?”
“Of course she’s safe. Hope you have better luck getting in than I did,” said Cristian as they arrived at their station. They entered, and promptly barricaded the outer door and the inner door with tables as they passed through.
They pulled their masks down as they entered the main office. The overhead lights blinked on in response to their movements. “Good,” said Cristian. “The power’s on.” In the last few days, the power grid had teetered on the edge, with rolling brownouts, then blackouts. With mobile phone networks and the Internet sluggish and unreliable too, old broadcast radio surpassed streaming media for obtaining information.
Cristian went right to the desk in the middle of the room, and while donning his headset, began to dial the landline telephone. He stood with his arms folded at his chest, his leg bouncing with impatience. Then without warning, he threw the headset on his desk.
“Fucking voice mail! I’m trying to call Esposito at the police and all I get is voice mail? We need to tell them about those three thugs. Where are the police?”
Bruno’s face showed no emotion. “Deserted—or dead.”
“Well, turn on the radio—let’s at least see if we can find out what the hell is going on.”
Bruno turned on the small radio on the desk in the middle of the office. The voice sounded soft and lilting:
“We must have faith that through this darkness a light will shine. We must trust that God’s plan will see us through to the other side of these trials. We must pray that—”
“Please!” Bruno groaned as he slapped the radio, turning it off. “Who wants to hear that?”
“That’s the Pope!”
“So what? Please, don’t tell me you actually believe anything he says.”
“At least find another station! We need to hear what else is going on.”
Bruno brought the radio to life again and hit the scan button immediately. He didn’t think he could stand another second of the Pope. The radio settled on the next strongest broadcast: the all-news channel.
North Africa burned from Cairo to Marrakesh, with governments in full collapse, chaos in the cities, and refugees seeking escape from the disease. The news in Europe, too, painted a grim picture. The rest of the Old Continent staggered in various states of strife, some places worse than others. France, in particular, suffered. The news reports Bruno heard froze his blood. The turmoil in most major French cities made the austerity riots from a few years back look positively mild in comparison. Looters and rioters torched the city centers of Lille, Marseille, Nantes, Lyons, Nice, and parts of Paris. Bruno feared the last images in his mind of the City of Lights would be smoke choking the Champs-Élysées. The Brits had already clamped down London tight before France went up in flames, and the Bundeswehr flooded the streets of Berlin, too. But Bruno wondered if anything would be enough.
Cristian brushed off the bleak news with a wave. “I don’t give a damn about France. I want to know what’s going on here.”
Italy seemed to have weathered the death of its prime minister better than France had dealt with the demise of its president. Never before had a French president died in office, and shock gripped the nation. Ironically, having a revolving door of prime ministers for decades meant that the Italian Prime Minister’s death didn’t cause nearly the kind of turmoil there as the same event caused in northern Europe. Hell, we even had an ex-PM kidnapped and murdered in the ‘70s, Bruno recalled from a school history lesson, and the country went on.
Bruno touched the scan button again and the radio found the next station. Whatever station this was overflowed with commentary on what was left of the American military and its withdrawal from all over the globe, including from Italy and the rest of the Western Alliance. The two male commentators’ attitude rang clear: “good riddance.”
They ranted that it was one thing for the American president to condemn but tolerate a state like Montana’s secession, but it was quite another to let Texas get away with seizing oil wells just before cutting ties to the US government. The commentators agreed that the President couldn’t just stand idly by—she had to take action now, and the remnants of American armed forces had to be called home.
Whoever these radio morons were, they proclaimed that many people in Europe were happy to see the Americans go. They claimed the social media were in “a lather,” churning with the notion that the Americans were behind HAV. The commentators, for their part, blamed either the Americans, the Russians, or the Chinese (in that order) for the outbreak. How could something this deadly be natural? they asked. How could this thing not be genetically engineered, a bioweapon, either out of control or deliberately released?
How could anyone believe the American line of bullshit that the disease was either a mutated natural strain of the AIDS virus or a terrorist enhanced one?
The Americans’ exodus brought to mind the ancient Romans forsaking Britain, abandoning the periphery, in hopes of protecting the core of the Empire. But their withdrawal only delayed the inevitable, and the Romans and their Empire ultimately faded to dust. Still, Bruno was convinced that without the Americans, the only thing keeping war from sweeping from one end of Eurasia to the other was the virus itself. It spread so quickly and so many were sick, dying, or absent, that there were not enough numbers left to mount any major military campaigns. And so none of the major (or even minor) powers had used nukes—at least, not yet anyway. What would be the point? Even the crazy leaders understood that. Or so Bruno hoped.
“The news is worthless—pure propaganda!” Cristian exclaimed. “Did you hear about Lampedusa?”
“Yeah, that’s where they’re putting all the Libyan refugees.”
“But what’s not on the news is that they’ve evacuated all Italian nationals from the entire island. It’s just one big refugee camp. The Guardia Costiera is just dumping anyone they intercept trying to get to Italy and letting them fend for themselves.”
“Jesus. But how do you know?”
“That’s what my friends in the Guardia told me. And I believe them,” said Cristian.
“But how can they keep it a secret?”
“Who’s on Lampedusa is the last thing anyone cares about right now.” Cristian wandered off to his desk and stood in front of his monitor. “I’m going to see if we have any message traffic.”
Cristian’s finger traced patterns on the monitor. Then he abruptly stopped and backed away. Bruno was wondering what was on the screen when Cristian waved Bruno over. “You’d better take a look at this.” Bruno turned the radio volume down, and the raving morons faded to a low buzz.
Cristian pointed to the monitor. “Look at this.”
Bruno pulled up a chair and sat down, all the while reading the information. “They can’t do this!”
Cristian’s response was definitive. “Oh yes they can. We’re to initiate shut-down procedures and lock this place down. The speedboat will pick us up at 22:30 hours tomorrow at the Marina Grande. End of story.”
“We can’t. We might be the only cops left here on the island!”
“Don’t you get it? They need reinforcements in the big cities, since, on top of everything that’s going on, the idiots in the Ministry of the Interior let out these supposed ‘nonviolent’ prisoners for ‘humanitarian reasons.’ Now look around—it’s chaos—and Naples . . .” Cristian’s voice trailed into silence before quickly regaining its strength. “Naples will burn! The small stations—this island—they’re nothing.”
Bruno pondered Cristian’s words. He stood up from the chair and turned to him. “I’m not leaving the island. At least not until I talk to Carla again.”
Cristian turned his back to Bruno, walking away from the desk. “You can do whatever you want,” said Cristian. “I’m leaving. But not with the Carabinieri.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I made arrangements this morning with a friend in Naples. He’s got a small boat, and he’s agreed to pick me up and take me to Naples in exchange for a fee. I’ve got my gear packed in the storage room.” Cristian glanced at the old analog clock on the wall. “I’ve got to be at the Marina Piccola an hour from now.”
“What? Were you just going to leave without a word?” Bruno got to his feet. “When were you going to say something?”
“Bruno, I’m sorry. I—I wasn’t quite sure how to tell you. But things,” Cristian pointed to the monitor, “are coming to a head.”
“‘Coming to a head?’ Fucking right things are coming to a head! You’re in charge here. You can’t just desert!”
“Why not? Don’t be so goddamn naïve. I’m not spending my last days in misery alone.”
“But what about Carla?”
“At the hospital, I’m sure she’s safer than we are.” Cristian waved his hand. “What do you want from me, Bruno? Carla is a great woman, but I have a daughter—she needs me! My daughter comes first. What do you know about it? You don’t even have a family!”
“I have my father and Carla, you arrogant prick.” Bruno spoke slowly, spitting out each word. “You are a coward.”
“Don’t you get it? It’s over! We’re all going to die! And I’m going to spend my last days with my family. Like everyone else!” Cristian took a deep breath. “Look, Carla’s much safer staying here. Why don’t you come with me for a while? I could use your help getting out of Naples. Then you could make your way to Nusco and your father.”
Bruno sat down and leaned back in the chair. “You got enough room in your boat for my motorcycle?” Bruno shook his head. “Walk nearly one hundred kilometers from Naples? By myself? Even if I could, I need to talk to Carla first, at least.” Bruno looked down at his feet as he asked what he thought was a question with no good answer. “How the hell are you going to get back outside Rome? That’s a three-hour drive on a good day!”
Cristian responded with a quizzical look. “My car, of course. I’ve kept it in Naples. I haven’t had to drive it in weeks, so it’s got a full tank. Which is good, since I doubt I’ll find any fuel on the way, not with everything that’s going on.”
“But—” Bruno started, thinking of everything that might stand in Cristian’s path on the way back to his home, from a single blocked car choking a road, to thugs bent on nothing more than theft and murder, to mosquitoes that sometimes even this late in the year buzzed, hungry for blood.
Before Bruno could complete the thought, Cristian raised his hand. “I will find a way.”
Bruno nodded. “All right. Leave. Go then.”
Cristian put his hand on Bruno’s arm. “Bruno, listen to me. The government is falling to pieces—the Carabinieri are falling apart, too. If you don’t leave now, what are you going to do?”
Bruno pulled away, not angry, but simply resigned to his decision. “I can’t. I need to get to Carla or—” Bruno had to admit, at least to himself, the real reason why he didn’t want to go with Cristian. It was not his devotion to duty, it was not the thought of being a hero; it wasn’t even Carla: Bruno stayed because he was afraid. Thoughts of that ship on the way as rescue, as salvation, as a way to somewhere safe, had already been racing through his mind. The ship would spare him the agony of facing the world; the ship would take him to comrades-in-arms; the ship meant he would live. And even if it never came, he could always stay here on the island, sheltered from the chaos. Once he and Cristian parted ways after arriving on the mainland, Bruno feared what would happen on a journey alone. That fear shamed him, it paralyzed him. For all of Cristian’s faults, bluster, and foolishness, Bruno was sure of one thing about his friend: he was the brave one, not Bruno.
Cristian began to back away. “Fine. I can’t force you to come.” Cristian walked with heavy feet into the storage room. When he came out, he had a bulging duffle bag slung over his shoulder and his mask covered the lower part of his face.
Bruno stood in the short hallway leading to the back entrance. “What about the weapons locker?”
“Already tried, and I couldn’t get in. They must have had better things to do than update the biometric access.” Cristian shrugged. “You’ll have to bust it open, and I don’t have time to try.”
“I will, believe me.”
Cristian gazed at Bruno, his eyes steady. “Watch yourself. Don’t let your guard down. And tell Carla I’m sorry.” Cristian offered his hand, and Bruno took it.
“Looks like you’re the Omega Man here,” said Cristian.
“Stay strong,” said Bruno.
With a final wave, Cristian turned and walked out the back entrance into the now-dark alley behind the station. The door shut behind him with a clang.
The silence that followed enveloped Bruno like a lukewarm ba
th, and he sat in a warm stupor for an age. Minutes crawled by, and the temptation to sit there, to do nothing, almost overwhelmed him. But he clawed his way back to reality. He needed to talk to his father.
He pulled the phone from his jacket pocket. After four tries he almost gave up. Finally, on the fifth try, his father’s face filled the small screen. The familiar grey-haired man looked at Bruno with evident relief. “Bruno, thank God!”
“Papà,” Bruno whispered.
His father’s eyes stood out in relief, bloodshot, whether from tears or lack of sleep, Bruno could not tell. His father’s voice trembled. “I’ve been trying to call for days! I can’t get through to Carla at all.”
“Papà, it’s good to see you, too. I can’t get through to her now either. But don’t worry, I know she’s staying at the hospital. I’m sure she’ll be safe there. It’s guarded.” Bruno spoke rapidly. “Look, I’m not sure how long this connection is going to last. I wanted to tell you I’m supposed to leave for Naples tomorrow.” His voice brightened with a note of false cheer. “The government’s decided they need more law enforcement in the city. So, they’re moving me the day after tomorrow.”
“Naples!” His father shook his head. “Don’t you know what’s been going on in the city? People are dying, and they’re trying to leave the city as fast as they can—some are even making their way here, to Nusco.”
“But the orders said—”
“Do you think they told you the truth? They’re lying! Whatever they’re saying is a lie!” he hissed. Then his shoulders slumped. “Where will you stay?”
“They’ve got barracks set up.”
“Barracks? No, you’ve got to stay where you are! If you come here, if you go to Naples, in cramped quarters with people who might be infected, you’ll never make it out!”
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