by Casey Lane
I removed the gun cleaning kit from the bottom desk drawer and my ancient trapper keeper notebook from another. From a wide chest with shallow drawers, I selected a laminated topography map of King Farm. Lastly, I unlocked the wall safe and removed a manila envelope thick with cash.
In late June of 1979, a huge storm network of sixteen tornadoes cut a path of destruction across Minnesota, and I had been was caught in one. I’d never forgotten the bone deep terror I felt on that pretty summer day when my mother and I were walking home from a picnic lunch on the Vermillion River. Out on the open road with fields of knee high corn on either side, we took cover in the only place we could--the deep ditch. My mother’s body protected mine from the worst, but despite her care and my fright, I still managed to get my head turned up to look when the tornado passed over us. That smart move earned me a large goose egg on my forehead from a piece of hail the size of a golf ball, but I also saw entire trees go flying by, their long roots dangling.
Experiencing that tornado was a major contributing factor to me being one of those strange adults who has filled a notebook with researched disaster plans and lists. It caused me to have the old brick underground tunnel running from King House to the Red Rose Barn reinforced and enlarged. I also have large stores of emergency supplies on hand.
Law and I definitely didn’t like being dependent on the local power grid as our only energy source. The next steps were easy--fairly expensive, but easy. We brought in commercial grade generators, extra reservoir fuel tanks, and water cisterns. We also installed offgrid solar systems to provide electricity and hot water heat capable of powering and heating a large house, barns, and workshops. Over the years, we had continued to implement a mix of old methods and new technology to fortify the farm into a largely self-sustaining enterprise.
Not being insane, I had never considered a disaster plan for a zombie outbreak. On the flip side, it never seemed unrealistic to imagine the lights permanently going out. I could easily visualize an epic catastrophe caused by any number of reasons from a world war to a raging viral pandemic.
It was during the course of making my disaster plans that I’d done research on pandemics. Maybe everybody knew this and we just had bad schools around here, but I was astounded and fascinated over what I’d learned on the subject.
I was vaguely aware of being taught about an innocent sounding “flu bug” that killed a lot of people at the end of WWI. If I did think about it back then in school, it was probably with the understanding that this flu bug killed babies, badly wounded soldiers, and old, sick people. You know, the usual suspects—the weak and defenseless.
What I wasn’t taught, or what didn’t sink in, was that this flu bug’s mortality rate mysteriously targeted the twenty to forty age group the hardest, and a lot of people killed meant an estimated 40 to 60 million souls were wiped out from the spring of 1918 through 1919. Spain had 8 million dead from the flu bug in May 1918 alone, which was how it came to be called the Spanish Influenza. Scientists suspected the virus actually originated in Kansas and was spread globally by our soldiers being deployed overseas.
I definitely wasn’t aware the Spanish Influenza virus was so vicious. Doctor’s reports told of seemingly healthy people walking down the street, falling down sick, and then dying within hours.
I imagined what it must have been like to live back then--a time when many of our men were across the oceans fighting a world war, and people everywhere were dying like flies from the flu, or deathly sick for weeks before recovering.
It got me thinking about what kind of unreported atrocities and crimes occurred in towns across America during that period in history. The veneer of civilization was very thin. Without people in authority to enforce the severe penalties to check them, what stopped the psychopaths and the criminals from doing their worst? Speaking from a woman’s perspective, it was scary stuff to think about how quickly modern laws to protect women and kids from rape and worse could denigrate into worthless words. Survival of the fittest would come into play all too quickly during a catastrophe. Ask any of the refugees of Hurricane Katrina.
I’d also found out there was no cure for the Spanish Influenza and scientists were unable to make a vaccine for it then, or since. Another question reared its ugly head. What’s to stop a sick bird, a sick pig, and a sick human from creating this mutant influenza virus another year during flu season when all the stars were once again aligned against the human race? Or worse yet, some secret lab whipping up their version of the virus and turning it loose? Maybe that was what we had witnessed tonight at the Radisson Blu Hotel.
In my mind, it has always been a “when” will this happen again scenario, not an “if.”
I stared down at my old trapper keeper. I had put huge amounts of time and effort into the pages of lists inside. Most of the family and our good friends had contributed their own two cents into the extensive research in the notebook. Farmers and old soldiers like nothing more than relaxing with their friends over a cold beer while complaining about the current government, swapping tall tales, and arguing worst case scenarios. They probably didn’t take the subject as seriously as I did, but you name the disaster and we’ve strategized about what to do when our world goes belly up.
In fact, that was the title printed across my binder notebook: “What To Do When the World Goes Belly Up.”
The words zombie apocalypse wouldn’t be found anywhere in my lists, but that was why I gathered everyone to the kitchen tonight. I have to convince them we have to prepare to guard King Farm and our lives against the imminent threat of the craziest, most far-fetched, most fucked up thing we could ever imagine. Then I had to tell them we have one, maybe two days if we’re lucky, to accomplish that herculean task before we would be attacked.
Chapter Eight
“There will one day spring from the brain of science a machine or force so fearful in its potentialities, so absolutely terrifying, that even man, the fighter, who will dare torture and death in order to inflict torture and death, will be appalled, and so abandon war forever.” -Thomas Edison
Except for Rod, everybody was back in the large kitchen when I swung through the door with my load. I sniffed a disinfectant smell and hoped that meant the cleaners had arrived. Deb saw me enter and hurried over, confirming that piece of good news.
“They’re upstairs wiping down the showers and bedrooms they used.” Deb gestured towards T-bone and Ray Dean over by the stove. She kept her voice pleasant but Deb’s territorial; she wasn’t pleased at this kitchen invasion or with the football players. “That quarterback, Rod? He refused to leave outside your bedroom door until he talked with you.”
Her eyebrows rose in question, but I answered noncommittally. “Yeah, he’s in the shower now and will be down in a minute.”
Deb didn’t press me, but fell back into professional mode and reached for her phone. “Okay, what other room should the cleaners wipe down when he’s finished? Oh, and Kate should be here soon with their clothes. Should I write a check on the house account, although it’s going to seriously screw with my budget?”
“Screw the budgets.” I squeezed Deb’s shoulder at her shocked expression at this blasphemy. Salty was in charge of the farm crops, my cousin Sean was my right hand man with my businesses, Robert and Bobby managed King Quarry, and Deb ran King House. She was meticulous, organized, and tighter than a drum where money was concerned.
“The cleaners just need to do my room and then wipe down the shuttle bus.”
Deb’s shoulder stiffened under my hand, but her voice was light. “That young quarterback is showering in your room?”
I nodded and quickly excused myself. Uncle Coop had arrived while I was upstairs. I felt Deb’s eyes boring into my back while I walked away. Her curiosity, mixed with unspoken disapproval, was almost tangible. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing to talk about, so the less said the better.
Uncle Coop was sitting in a rocking chair by the fireplace, his booted feet resting up on t
he hearth in front of a crackling fire.
Cooper Evans is my deceased Dad’s only brother. A Viet Nam vet in his early sixties, Uncle Coop’s not only a skilled outdoorsman and a crack shot, but an absolute virtuoso with anything mechanical. He keeps all the equipment running in tip top shape on King Farm. He lives down the road in my family’s old farmhouse and is a lone wolf that prefers his own company. Silver-haired and sharp featured with a tall, lean build, he even resembles a gray wolf.
He nodded over his coffee cup at my look of relief to see him. I detected a glint in his eye when he took in the others around the room. There was a lot to choose from, so I followed his gaze to see what my uncle found specifically amusing.
T-bone’s long braids were gathered back in a thick ponytail. Acres of tattooed ebony skin gleamed above the candy cane tablecloth tied snugly around his waist. He was manning the six burner stove. Above the faint disinfectant, I now smelled the aromas of scrambled eggs and bacon starting to sizzle.
Giant, half-naked men dressed like bizarre Roman senators was reason enough for Coop to be amused, but sitting on a stool at the marble island and flexing enormous muscles, Ray Dean was enthusiastically pointing out areas of comparison between T-bone’s physique and his own. Not surprisingly, the comparisons were always to the detriment of the busy, but glaring T-bone.
Sean and Bobby sat happily on either side of Ray Dean, smiling in rapt fascination at their football hero’s banter. Liz and Jane were clearly being entertained. They laughed and waved jauntily at me from across the room while they poured juice and coffee. Unsmiling, Deb went back to toaster duty, so maybe T-bone hadn’t asked for her permission to play Chef, but like a Gaul, had sacked the kitchen and taken over.
Our world was coming to an end. I’d called a code 4377 and everyone acted like this was a damn pajama party. I tried to stifle my impatience. Not everybody knew what had happened tonight. I reasoned that we’d need the energy from the calories of the breakfast being cooked before this night was over anyway.
Salty and Robert sat at the far end of the kitchen table. Salty waved the clicker at me and went back to scrolling through local TV stations. I felt reassured that he was taking the situation more seriously. I didn’t see any breaking news reports and was surprised there wasn’t something by now. It had been an hour since we left the hotel.
The three Canadians brothers, Kevin, Ian, and Hugh, sat in a row on one side of the long table. Quinn sat by Kevin at one end and Barbara sat next to Hugh near my end. The girls were engrossed on their phones. The boys glanced up to say hi, but went back to talking quietly and scrutinizing a laptop opened before them. Okay, so not everybody was partying while the sky fell. Chicken Little could relax. I dropped my load onto the table.
Barbara ended her call. Eyes on my hair, she blurted, “My gosh, you look so different!’ At my little laugh, she added quickly, “No, I mean that in a good way. Black hair suits you better than blonde curls.”
My thanks were heartfelt.
Babs grinned. “Thank you for the shower, I almost feel human again. I was just letting my mother in Fargo know about tonight,” her face clouded over, “and about Betsy.”
“Do you want to go to Fargo to be with your mom?” I asked, sympathetically.
Barbara started shaking her head no before I even got the words out. She sat up, tucking a leg under her butt on the chair. “No, she remarried a few years ago and had three more kids.” She rolled her eyes and I realized how young Barbara was if her mother, who must be around my age, had three more kids in recent years. “They’re adorable, but I don’t want to be a built-in babysitter. My ex lives near there, too, and he’s one of the reasons I moved down to The Cities. He’s kind of a stalker.”
Babs blue eyes were still swollen from crying and her nose was chapped red, but I noticed in amusement that didn’t stop Hugh from sneaking a furtive glance at her large breasts bouncing under her borrowed flannel shirt. Hugh’s sweet peek was nothing like the rude, unblinking stare of Robert’s. He was practically licking his chops.
“Yeah, I know what you mean about stalkers.” Barbara followed my pointed glance down the long table to Robert, who had looked away at something Salty said. “Let me know if he’s a problem.”
She made a relieved face and nodded.
I didn’t like being in the same room with Robert and was thankful I’d seldom had the need. Hefting the trash bag which held my gun, I realized Robert had been lucky up until now that he hated my guts. If he’d ever looked at me the way he just assaulted Barbara with his eyes, I’d be justified shooting his dick off in self-defense.
I brought the trash bag and the cleaning kit over to Uncle Coop. “Could you please do me a huge favor and clean my gun? But be careful because there’s blood on it, infected blood.”
The thin nostrils of Uncle Coop’s aquiline nose flared at those words, as if he was scenting the air for danger. He stared up at me with piercing black eyes under arched black brows. Our eye color was different, but our features were so similar; people often mistook us for father and daughter. “Infected? You plan on telling me what that means anytime soon?”
“Yes I do. That’s the reason I’m asking you to clean my weapon. You know I need two hands to talk, but I need the gun back ASAP.”
“Okay.” My Uncle chuckled and brought his legs down, pulling over the round coffee table while nodding for me to put my gun down.
I left to take the other trash bags outside to the burn pit. I hadn’t thought twice about going out alone with no weapon and hands full of trash bags, but I stopped abruptly on the back porch to peer around me. Beyond the yard light casting a reassuring glow on the parking area, it was dark. I mean really, really dark. When I was girl, I had to conquer a serious fear of the dark because I was positive a monster with sharp teeth and claws was going to jump out and eat me.
“I didn’t need all that damn counseling, I was a little clairvoyant!” I muttered aloud. I took a fortifying breath, held the bags out from my body with extended arms, and ran to the burn pit. My legs operated by memory alone, since past the circle of light, I could barely see a foot in front of myself.
Unmolested, but aged a few years, I made it back into the kitchen just as Rod was entering from the other end.
Everyone stopped what they were doing to enthusiastically greet him. His smile seemed much more relaxed when he waved a general hello back. Over the heads turned his way, Rod’s eyes met mine as I leaned back against the doorway to catch my breath after my mad dash of survival. Running full out in hiking boots is not trivial.
His eyebrows rose up slightly in question while his eyes slid down. They lingered a little longer than I thought necessary on my heaving chest. I pulled the edges of the photography vest closer together. I did not want him to see my nipples erect with terror through the thin T-shirt and think I was happy to see him.
Rod’s mouth curved in that little cocky smile that made me want to sock him before he turned away to exchange introductions with my uncle. Rod sat down in the matching rocker near the hearth. Soon the two men were conversing easily back and forth while Uncle Coop got busy with my gun. I was somewhat surprised because Uncle Coop was generally a terse man of few words with strangers.
As I brought Uncle Coop the spray bottle of bleach, I felt Rod’s eyes following my movements. I also felt my girlfriend’s eyes following Rod’s movements. It only made me more self-conscious and I was relieved for the distraction when Ian urgently called my name.
Ian glanced up from the laptop. “Listen to this, Acadia. Is this what you were talking about? It’s a news post about a cruise ship quarantined off the coast of Florida.”
I pulled out a chair at the head of the table. “Let’s hear it.”
Ian scanned the screen. “It looks like this was posted online by a local news station a few hours ago.” He started reading, “A cruise ship carrying 3,600 passengers has been quarantined in port at Fort Lauderdale. The ship’s itinerary was in the western Caribbean. Labadee,
Haiti, a private port and resort leased by Royal Oceans International, was one of its last ports of call. Umm, they don’t know what’s causing the people to be sick, but over two thirds of the passenger and crew have contracted the illness and were experiencing severe flu-like symptoms, including the captain. Let’s see…the CDC’s last statement was they’ve sent in a team to investigate the outbreak. In the meantime, everyone has been confined to their cabins due to fighting amongst the passengers aboard the ship and people jumping overboard. Officials attribute the unrest to people being unhappy at being quarantined.”
Barbara and I shared a quick glance as Ian read. I’d be jumping off that cruise ship, too, if ‘fighting amongst passengers’ bore any resemblance to being attacked and eaten by crazy people.
On a hunch, I asked, “Ian, can you check airlines that had flights from Haiti to Minneapolis today? There can’t be too many that landed tonight. Start with Delta. On non-direct flights, note the other cities where the planes stopped, okay?”
Ian said no problem just as Salty raised a hand. “Listen up; this is coming from the Mall of America.”
We all crowded to watch the flat screen TV in the family room area by the fireplace.
I didn’t catch the woman newscaster’s name, but her microphone identified her from Care-11 News. She stood outside on the sidewalk in front of the mall, confined to an area roped off behind a row of parked police cars. Uniformed policemen with expressionless faces were watching over the growing crowd of unruly people yelling out questions around the reporter. I was curious where all the onlookers had come from this late at night. Then I remembered the hotels and restaurants outside the mall and across the main drag of Killebrew Drive.
Ambulances and police cars were arriving and departing with sirens blaring. The twirling lights from atop their vehicles cast a kaleidoscope of colors across the reporter’s face, giving an impression of a festive atmosphere inappropriate to the words she was speaking.
