The Flu (A Novel of the Outbreak)

by Jacqueline Druga

  Mick stammered as he answered. “Um, I don’t know if today is gonna be a good day. Then again it might be. See, Sam Hughes...the boys’ father, he had an accident last night. Was killed.”

  “Oh my God,” Patrick whispered in shock. “I didn’t know.”

  “You would have eventually. It’s still early.”

  “That’s awful. I’m sorry. Um....” Patrick fought for the right words. “Had I known I wouldn’t have bothered you with this.”

  “No, no.” Mick noticed the large brown bag placed on the counter, and he stood up. “You know, thinking about it, I’ll mention it to Dylan. It might be what Tigger needs. What time?”

  “Noon.”

  Mick nodded. “I’ll get back to you.”

  “I appreciate it,” Patrick said. “Thanks.”

  Cook pushed the bag to Mick. “How’s Dylan doing?”

  “She’s doing,” Mick replied. “I expect her to be better today than tomorrow. Today’s busy. Lots to do. Funeral home, church and stuff. Boys need suits. So she won’t be able to think too much about it for that long.” Mick reached into his pocket. “How much for the food?”

  Cook shook his head. “On us.”

  “Thank you.” Mick lifted the bag. “I’d better head over there.” He started to leave.

  Cook called out to Mick before he left, “Tell Dylan we’re thinking about her.”

  Mick nodded as he walked out. He too was thinking about Dylan. Dylan and the boys, they were all he could seem to think about.

  * * *

  Anchorage, Alaska

  Garbage day.

  Bill absolutely hated it. And despite the fact that he knew, rain or shine, what day of the week it fell on, Bill always forgot.

  He could have let that one lone bag of garbage go. It could sit outside in the can until the following week’s pick up, but he was neurotic about it, and he was awake. Actually, being awake wasn’t a choice for Bill. He slipped into a violent coughing spell that woke him. No position—sitting, on his side, back, stomach—nothing stopped the cough. His stomach hurt from trying to break it up. Nothing was helping, and, feeling too poorly to just lay there, Bill got out of bed.

  He greased himself down with VapoRub hoping that would break through the mucus factory that was thriving in his head and chest, but it didn’t. The cough medicine didn’t relieve him either. Whatever Bill had was kicking his ass, and he couldn’t recall ever feeling so badly.

  There was a certain amount of dread that went along with the thought of going outside. Thinking that he didn’t want to take his chilled body outside into the cold, Bill doubted that he had the energy to accomplish the task, but he tried.

  As soon as he stepped out the back door, a wave of dizziness hit him. Attributing it to the change of temperature and his poor equilibrium, Bill trudged on. Halfway through the twenty-foot journey, like a car running out of gas, Bill lost all energy.

  What had happened? He barely could move. The small yard looked like a field to him. Everything felt slanted, like a bad amusement park ride. And each step he took caused everything around him to spin more.

  The closer the cans came into focus, the longer it felt it took him to arrive, but he did. Why he bothered he didn’t know. Bill knew, to hell with the garbage can, that as soon as he found something to grip onto and catch his breath, he was going to turn right back around, head into the house, and collapse.

  Bill never made it.

  Hands reaching for the plastic of the trash container, everything went blurry then black. His trembling hands missed right as a wave of panic swept over him, and then Bill fell face forward into the cans.

  * * *

  Barrow, Alaska

  What hit Paul the hardest wasn’t the fact that the flu was in Barrow. He expected that, it was no surprise. What hit him hard were the numbers, numbers that would eventually be the groundwork in calculations made about the devastation of the flu. Was it perfect timing? One day earlier, one simple day earlier, and Winston would have walked out of Barrow giving them a clean slate. One day. How frightening that was to Paul. Twenty-four hours seemed so minuscule in the scope of time, but when dealing with something such as this flu, it was massive.

  It was a small town, but it was big enough to produce terrorizing statistics.

  Barrow, Alaska: Population 4,500.

  It was Wednesday when Paul stood with his team in Barrow. Three full days prior, the first person showed outward symptoms of the flu. An elderly lady, a health aide who used herbal cures, recalled one sick person on Sunday morning, and by the evening she had forty people seeking her help.

  Had the next morning not dawned with even more people sick, she wouldn’t have sought out conventional experts. But she did, because on Tuesday more were knocking on her door, and the ones she had treated earlier had begun to fail faster than she had ever witnessed.

  By Tuesday evening the number of flu victims was too large to ignore. Then Winston Research showed up.

  Numbers had been collected. People suffering, lying in their homes awaiting treatment, some gathered in the school, they were all counted. The flu was full-blown in Barrow, and at that instant in time, that Wednesday morning, reported illnesses had reached a number of twenty-seven hundred.

  It was far from over, far from running its course in Barrow, and Paul knew it, because he knew this particular version of the flu.

  Paul calculated and projected using the figures he had and his knowledge of the flu, and peering at the numbers made him feel sick.

  Taking into account the incubation period, the communicability rate of infection, along with the rate of death of those infected, when it was all said and done, Barrow, Alaska, Population 4500, would be...Barrow Alaska, population 105.

  * * *

  Lodi, Ohio

  Mick worked at Tigger’s hair as if it were a highly complicated art project. Fixing it, messing it up, starting all over. Kneeling down, almost sitting before the small child in the kitchen, Mick took the comb to his hair again.

  “There,” Mick said. “Got it now. Looks good.”

  Over the running water, while doing dishes, Dylan spoke, “Go to work, Mick.”

  “I was fixing his hair.”

  “Go back to work.”

  Mick stood. “You look good, Tigger. Go on, wait in the living room. Mr. McCaffrey will be here soon.”

  “Okay,” Tigger smiled, “Mom? Thanks for letting me go.”

  Dylan looked over her shoulder and smiled gently as Tigger darted out. She finished washing and rinsing a glass, and reaching to set it in the drainer, she noticed Mick standing right there. “What?” she asked absently.

  “How are you holding up?” Mick laid his hand on her cheek.

  Dylan turned her head to face her sink of dishes. “As well as to be expected. You should get back to work.”

  “I know...Tigger is holding up well.”

  “Tigger’s young.”

  “How’s Chris.”

  “Chris?” Dylan spoke with a sigh. “He’s out riding his bicycle like nothing even happened.”

  Mick nodded in understanding. “Dustin?”

  “Quiet.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Mick.” Dylan shut off the water. “Go to work.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “You keep stopping by.”

  “I need to check on you guys,” Mick said. “I’m worried.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “Are you...are you mad at me about something?” Mick asked.

  “Yes.” Dylan faced him. “You keep on stopping by.”

  “So.”

  “So?” Her voice rose just a little. “Don’t you think, today, this house is the last place you should be?”

  Confused, Mick looked at her. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Dylan sighed as she rubbed her forehead. “Don’t you think the boys, right now, don’t need a visual reminder of one of the reasons they don’t have their father?”
<
br />   Mick’s eyes widened as he stood up straight. He took a step back and stopped. “I am not the reason he pulled that trigger, and I am not the reason for Sam’s suicide.”

  Dylan gasped, “Are you implying I’m the one?”

  “No,” Mick snapped. “Where in God’s name did you get that? No one is to blame.”

  “Someone has to be.”

  Mick moved to Dylan and leaned toward her with a whisper. “Sam is. Suicide....”

  “Stop it.” Dylan turned her head from him.

  “Face the word, Dylan, that’s what it was.”

  Dylan’s eyes closed.

  Reaching out, Mick turned her to face him. “This is hard. This is gonna be very hard on you and the boys. But if you don’t face what really happened, it’s gonna be even harder.”

  Dylan turned from his embrace. “Please leave.”

  Mick nodded. He placed his hand on the back of her neck and pressed his lips to her forehead. “You know where to find me.” After one more soft, quick kiss, Mick walked away. He wasn’t going to allow Dylan to push him away, but he would allow Dylan to have the time and space she obviously needed.

  * * *

  Los Angeles, CA

  Doctor Alberton’s hand firmly patted Trevor’s leg. “What you have, son, is a good old fashioned case of pneumonia.”

  In the hospital bed, propped up a little, Trevor let out a slight cough; it rattled thickly in his chest. He was pale, his neck enlarged with swollen glands. Dark circles were under his eyes. “Pneumonia?”

  “Yep.” Dr. Alberton nodded. “Both lungs, lower lobes. You’re filled up pretty good.”

  “Isn’t it fast?” Trevor asked weakly.

  “No. Most people don’t realize, if you get an infection, and you don’t take it easy...” he waved a finger at him, “it goes right to the lungs.”

  “What now?”

  “We pump you full of antibiotics and insist on rest.”

  “Doctor,” Trevor spoke. “I swear I have never been so sick.”

  “Well, I’m not gonna lie to you,” Dr. Alberton explained, “you’re very sick. Pneumonia is a serious illness. It’s settled into both your lungs. You have a fight ahead. You are sick. But...” he winked. “You’re not gonna die on us. I promise.” After another pat to his leg, Dr. Alberton walked out.

  The words ‘not gonna die’ rang through Trevor’s mind. Even though he was highly paranoid, he wouldn’t have thought that a few hours earlier when he could barely walk, breathe, or see. But since he had never experienced pneumonia before, how was Trevor to know his symptoms were normal? With relief at hearing Dr. Alberton’s diagnosis, Trevor relaxed, rested more easily, and went to sleep.

  * * *

  Barrow, Alaska

  Those who were ill did not want to leave their homes, and the small dwellings they lived in were breeding grounds for the flu.

  Paul and his team hit every home they could, collecting symptoms, numbers, and so forth, and compared what was ravishing Barrow to information they already had. It was stacking up, and then some. In Paul’s mind, the worst case scenario was happening.

  There was a blanket of secrecy covering the situation, a blanket Paul wanted to see stay in place. Not that he didn’t want the news to get out; more so, he wanted the news, along with the flu, to die right out up in northern Alaska. Paul didn’t need for James Littleton and his canvassing team to return; he knew about the coastal communities. They had to be infected, especially if Barrow was.

  There was hope though.

  The location worked in his favor. Isolated and distant, commuting between residents was kept mainly to the neighboring Eskimo villages. And if nobody came in from anywhere else, containing the flu was not only possible but highly probable as well.

  As long as no other reports came in.

  For that Paul relied on hope.

  * * *

  Lodi, Ohio

  Mick carried an aluminum foil pan when he walked into Dylan’s home. He could hear Tom yelling something just before he came down the steps.

  “Mr. Roberts,” he said in greeting.

  “Hey, Mick. Done for the evening?”

  “For a little while,” Mick answered. “Everything all right? I hear yelling.”

  “Just trying to get Chris moving and Tigger awake. I want to head them down to JC Penny’s, get them a suit. You know.”

  “Yeah. What about Dustin?”

  “Has an outfit from the spring dance. Didn’t outgrow it. Of course it was big on him,” Tom said then looked back up the steps. “For the love of God, boys, hurry up.”

  Mick looked to the pan he carried, then to Tom. “I just want to drop this off.”

  “Marian’s in the kitchen.”

  Mick nodded then headed there.

  Marian Roberts, Dylan’s mother, looked like the perfect counterpart to Tom. She, too, seemed a throwback from an era long since lost, never without a nice outfit on, her hair done, or an appropriate shade of lipstick. Soft-spoken most of the time, Marian was upbeat and happy, as if she lived the perfect life. In essence, she did. And she acted it. Every single day, Marian acted it. Never gloomy, always pleasant, no matter what the circumstances. Overly compassionate and warm, nothing ever seemed to faze her. It was almost like a Twilight Zone episode.

  Turning from her kitchen organizing, Marian saw Mick in the doorway holding a pan. “Good heavens, Michael. More food?”

  “Yep. Ham slices, I think.” Mick sniffed it.

  “Who from?” Marian lifted a Post-it pad and a pen.

  “The Colters.”

  Writing down the name, Marian tore the sheet from the pad and laid it on the top of the pan. “Just have to find a place to put it. Dylan is bogged down with food.”

  “Want me to put it in the fridge?” Mick asked.

  “No, just put it on the table. I’ll make room.”

  Mick set the dish down. “All right, I’ll be seeing you.”

  “Michael,” Marian called to him. “I’m just about to put supper out, aren’t you staying?”

  “No,” Mick answered. “I’m gonna go home. Dylan’s not wanting me around today and the last thing I want to do is upset her.”

  “Oh, nonsense.” Marian flung her hand out. “She wants you here.”

  “No, ma’am, she doesn’t.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Marian walked to the kitchen doorway. “Dylan!”

  Mick cringed. “Mrs. Roberts.”

  “Hush.” She aimed her voice again. “Dylan!” Smiling pleasantly, Marian pointed. “Did you hear that?”

  “What?” Mick asked.

  With a fake slightly irritable huff, Marian shook her head and went back into the kitchen. “Tom snuck out with the boys. He’s gonna feed them at the mall. Does that make sense? I have a meal cooking. One would think that a good...”

  “Mom, did you...” Dylan slowed down when she saw Mick, “...call me?”

  “Yes.” Marian smiled. “Look, sweetheart, the Colters sent some lovely ham slices and Michael here says you don’t want him around. Tell him that’s nonsense, make him wash up, grab Dustin, and we’ll eat.” She flashed another smile and returned to the stove.

  “Mom,” Dylan looked at Mick then to her mother, “I’m not telling Mick to stay.”

  Offended, Marian turned around. “That would be rude.”

  “That’s the way it should be,” Dylan said resolutely. “At least for a while. I mean, how would it look?”

  “Is that what you’re worried about?” Marian asked. “I understand that. I mean, you were married, your husband dies tragically and Michael is here. But Michael has been here, sweetheart, the whole time Sam wasn’t. Everyone knows he didn’t just pop into the picture. Now I’m one who always worries about how things will look, aren’t I?”

  Dylan bobbed her head. “Yeah.”

  “Didn’t I get that rash when Uncle Danny showed up while Daddy was out of town? I was scared to death the neighbors would think I was sneaking in a man. If I thought f
or one moment it wouldn’t look good, I would tell you. It’s fine.” She patted Dylan on the cheek. “Now be nice to Michael and I’ll finish getting dinner done.”

  Dylan closed her eyes briefly, turned slightly, and looked at Mick. “You are such a goddamn tattletale, always have been.” She stormed out.

  “Dylan, language,” Marian chirped from the stove.

  Just as Mick stepped to follow Dylan, through the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Dustin walking across the yard and sitting on the swing. Remembering that he wanted to talk to Dustin, he left Dylan to her tantrum and he went outside.

  Dustin pushed the swing slowly, his back toward Mick, head down.

  Mick walked up to him, first laying a hand on Dustin’s slumped back then taking the swing next to him. “Hey, Dustin.”

  “Mick.”

  “How’s it...” Mick saw it. “What in God’s name are you drinking?”

  Shaking his head with a slight sad smirk, Dustin held up a beer bottle. “Mom gave it to me.”

  “Your mother gave you beer?”

  “She said I might need a drink.”

  “You’re seventeen years old,” Mick snapped.

  “That’s what I told her.” Dustin shrugged. “She said you two were drinking at seventeen.”

  “I wasn’t the chief of police back then.” Mick took the beer. “You don’t need this.”

  Dustin looked back at the house then leaned into Mick. “I didn’t want it either, but she’s...you know. So I took it.” Slowly, in the silence, Dustin swung back a few times. “Mick? Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did my Dad really say my name last night? Did he really want you to tell me he loved me?”