The Flu (A Novel of the Outbreak)

by Jacqueline Druga

  “Trust me, I realize this now.” Mick stepped out of the car and opened the back door. He undid Tigger’s strap and straightened his hair. “Let’s go, guys.”

  “Hey, Mick?” Dustin asked. “How come if your mom got out of quarantine three hours ago, we’re just going to see her now?”

  Chris snickered. “That’s because Mick’s afraid of his mom.”

  “Shut up, you goof,” Dustin quipped. “Mick’s not afraid of his mom, you moron...are you, Mick?”

  “No. Yes.” Mick shook his head. “No. It’s just she may be a little upset.”

  “What did you do?” Chris asked.

  “Nothing.” Mick moved up the walk.

  “Is she gonna yell, Mick? Is she?” Chris badgered.

  “Maybe.”

  Stopping, Chris flashed a grin at Dustin.

  Mick spun around. “And if she doesn’t, make me a promise, don’t remind her that she’s supposed to be mad at me.”

  Dustin raised his right hand. “We won’t. ‘Cause we don’t want to get you in trouble, even though it would be funny to see her yell. She swears a lot. Your mom is funny.”

  “Oh, yeah. She’s a blast.” Mick rolled his eyes.

  A thickly built woman, a little taller than average, wearing blue jeans and a tee shirt opened the screen door as they all stepped onto the porch. “Hey!” Rose Owens smiled. Despite the sprinkling of gray in her short hair she was in good shape and didn’t look her age. “Come on in.”

  Mick let the boys go first, saving his entrance for last.

  Dustin embraced Rose. “You’re staying at Mick’s, huh?’

  “Looks that way. Against my goddamn will.” Rose embraced Chris then hugged Tigger. “Look at you boys. How are you doing? Honestly?”

  Dustin bobbed his head. “Good. We’re doing good. It was tough.”

  “I know.” Rose winked. “I think about your dad all the time. Nice boy. Nice. Unlike some.” She shifted a quick glare at Mick. “And what the fuck is up with this one’s hair.” She reached down and tousled Tigger’s perfectly smoothed hair.

  “Hey,” Mick moved her hand. “It takes forever to get it to lie down.”

  “Then don’t fuckin’ make it lay down. If it’s meant to stick up, let it. He’s a child. And who the hell are you to talk with that mane? Grown man. I like a man with long hair, not a law man with long hair. And you wonder why no one fuckin’ respects you in this town.”

  Mick’s mouth dropped open. “I’m respected. And can you please not swear around these boys?”

  Rose looked at Dustin and Chris. “Does it bother you?”

  “No ma’am.” Chris answered. “We have cable.”

  “See?” Rose noticed Tigger darting from the room. “Where’s he going?”

  Dustin answered, “Being nosey. He does that all the time. Should I get him?”

  Mick gave a wave of his hand. “Let him go. He can’t reach anything he shouldn’t see.”

  “Look at you picking on that child’s size,” Rose scolded.

  “Mrs. Owens?” Chris drew up a sneaky look. “You aren’t mad at Mick, are you?”

  Mick cringed.

  Dustin hurriedly looked at Chris. “I can’t believe you opened your mouth. Mick asked you not to open your mouth. We don’t even know what it is she’s supposed to be yelling at him for, now you’ve gone and reminded her.”

  “My son told you not to mention why I’m mad?” Rose questioned. “Well, I’ll tell you why I’m mad. The fuckin’ asshole locked me up. No, he padlocked me in a fuckin’ tin box for three days. I didn’t want to be in there. I wanted to hold a border patrol with my boys.”

  “Well, your boys,” Mick stated harshly, “are dropping from the flu. So be happy.”

  “And what the fuck happened to your ear?” Rose reached out and touched it.

  “Ow!” Mick jolted back a step. “I got shot.”

  “You got shot?” Rose questioned. “You didn’t get shot.”

  “I did too,” Mick argued.

  “If you got shot in the goddamn ear, why do you still have your head?”

  After shooting a scolding look to a snickering Chris and Dustin, Mick returned his attention to Rose. “He missed.”

  “Then you didn’t get shot. What the hell were you doing in a bullet’s way anyhow?” Rose asked.

  “I was chasing border breakers.”

  “Did you get them?”

  “Of course I got them,” Mick responded with offense. “I do my job very well.”

  “Mick?” Tigger innocently reentered the room with a large envelope that had white paper poking out the top of it. “Why is mommy naked with another woman in these pictures?”

  Mick hunched against the loud cries of disgust that came from Dustin and Chris. Then amidst their, “Oh my God, Mom’s a lesbian” commentaries, Mick snatched the envelope from Tigger. He flashed a smile to the boy, then after clearing his throat he threw an embarrassed look to Rose.

  Rose smugly folded her arms. “Naked pictures of Dylan and another broad, huh? What was that you were saying about doing your job?”

  * * *

  The dainty little fingers rested upon her grandmother’s hand as Amy Turner’s chest gurgled with every breath she took. Lars didn’t need to listen to her chest to hear how badly the flu had stricken her, but for the sake of appearances, he listened. He had been called to quarantine trailer one to give his diagnosis.

  Sadly, he removed the stethoscope from his ears, letting it dangle around his neck. With his gloved hand, he reached for the tube of blood he had just removed from the seven year old girl. He placed it in his lab coat then glanced again at Amy. The white pasty skin; the thick brown mucus that clogged her nose; the swollen blackness under her throat. Lars wanted to scream in frustration.

  By his granddaughter’s bed, Lyle Turner peered at Lars. “Well, Doctor?”

  Lars stood up. “I’m sorry, it’s the flu.”

  “You can’t be sure. How can you be sure without running tests?”

  “You’re right.” Lars held up his hand. “I’ll wait to see the results. I’ll get back to you.” He just wanted to leave. Turning, Lars tried to do just that.

  “If it is...the flu,” Lyle spoke up causing Lars to stop. “Is there anything we can do?”

  Lars wanted to spin around in outrage and blast the older man and tell him, “Why in God’s name weren’t you asking this two days ago when this girl first got sick? Didn’t I tell you to call me with any symptoms? Why did you wait?”

  But Lars didn’t. He shook his head and walked out.

  He decided to head outside for a while, maybe fifteen, twenty minutes, give his anger a chance to die down. Lars glanced across the field at the campers that waited to get into Lodi. Those people would never make it into town.

  As he wearily stepped away from the trailer, Lars planned on walking off his aggravation.

  “Dr. Rayburn,” the muffled voice spoke through the gas mask. “Time’s up for this trailer. Do we let them in?”

  “No.” Lars shook his head. “Lock it and then mark it.”

  “The flu?” the man asked.

  “Yes.” Lars nodded solemnly. “The flu.”

  * * *

  Los Angeles, California

  “You have to admit...” Jeff popped a goldfish cracker into his mouth, “it was pretty brave and ingenious.”

  Darrell spoke through his push up routine on the floor, “Smart move by the program director.”

  “Looking out for people’s best interest. I mean, it may be the Three Stooges, but it isn’t the news.”

  “I thought you liked the news.”

  “I love the news. But there’s only so much news you can watch.”

  “True,” Darrell agreed.

  “So as a...”

  Both men let out a disappointed ‘aw’ when, with a diminishing hum, everything went black and the television went out.

  “Damn it.” Darrell stopped his pushups. “I knew this would eventually
happen.”

  “And just when television was getting good again,” Jeff griped.

  “Son of a bitch. And it’s pitch black, too.”

  “Good thing there’s still some daylight left.” Jeff got off his bed and walked to the window opening the drapes. “There.” Evening light entered the room.

  Slowly, Darrell stood up. “No lights. No TV. No phone. This doesn’t look good. Maybe we should just cut out.”

  “No,” Jeff was insistent. “We don’t have much time left to wait it out. I consider myself well-informed, and being well-informed about this flu, I am not going out to breathe that air or chance getting shot for two more weeks.”

  “But there’s no power, no—”

  “You don’t know,” Jeff interrupted. “It may just be this section of the city. How do we know there aren’t bands of snipers just waiting to derive sick pleasure out of shooting people that try to get out of this city? No, if you want to go…go. I’m waiting. I’ll set the alarm on my watch.”

  “I’ll wait.” Darrell sat on the bed. “No one’s left in the hotel anyhow. I’ll go down and lift the freezer goods before they go bad.”

  “Good idea.”

  “So, let me ask you a question. Where do we go after the three weeks are up?” Darrell asked.

  “Where do you think? Lodi,” Jeff said smugly. “We have to pick up Rodriguez.”

  “Do you think we still have to do that? I mean, we haven’t talked to the Captain in three days.”

  “Absolutely,” Jeff stated adamantly. “Who knows? What happens if we fail to get Rodriguez and all is fine in Ohio? This could be a big test for us.”

  “In the meantime we just hang around in the dark and wait?” Darrell tapped his hand on the bed. “It’ll get boring.”

  “What are you, nuts? There’s lots to do. We can sleep. Have in-depth conversations. Exercise. We’re past the awkward stage so sex is always an option. And...there’s still all those magazines in the gift shop we haven’t even touched.”

  “True.”

  “So don’t worry about it. We don’t have much time left. It’ll be over before you know it and we can officially call ourselves survivors.” Liking that thought, and happy he at least made Darrell feel a little better, Jeff proceeded to set the timer on his watch for their ‘freedom’ day.

  * * *

  Lodi, Ohio

  A light trickle of bourbon poured from the bottle over the ice in Mick’s glass. Cigarette clenched between two fingers, he swished the alcohol around.

  “Go home, Mick,” Lars instructed as he took the bottle, poured a little then passed it to Patrick.

  “Yeah, Mick, go home,” Patrick reiterated. “Why are you still up?”

  “Afraid of trouble, that’s all.” Mick sipped his drink. “I just feel better knowing, right now, I’m here.”

  “How many did you take out today?” Lars asked.

  “Sixteen,” Mick replied.

  “Why are you bothering?” Patrick reached for Mick’s pack of cigarettes, looked at him for approval, then took one. “I mean, why don’t you just light the whole camp on fire? Burn it, take out your problem all at one time.”

  Lars turned a quick view to Patrick. “Isn’t that just like a criminal to say that?”

  Patrick gasped. “I’m joking. Besides, I am not a criminal.”

  “Aren’t you under arrest?” Lars asked.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Well, you are then.”

  “Nobody knows.” Patrick lit the cigarette. “And I just like to refer to myself as a money-conscious borrower.”

  Mick interjected, “Who borrowed over a hundred mil.” He whistled. “Do you still have any of it?”

  “Yeah,” Patrick answered. “Why? Do you need some?”

  Before Mick could answer, Lars interceded. “Are you trying to bribe the law?”

  “Yes. Would it work, Mick?” Patrick asked with a smile.

  “Could. A cool two mil might do it, if it mattered. It doesn’t matter. No one will show up for you.” Over his drink, Mick noticed the look Lars gave him. “What’s wrong?”

  “You disappoint me, taking a bribe,” Lars shook his head. “You are a man without morals, Michael Owens.”

  “Please,” Mick scoffed. “I have plenty of morals. Look, I don’t want to take Patrick’s advice and wipe out our campers, do I?”

  “That’s because they pose no threat, just camping there,” Lars said.

  “Or do they?” Patrick swung a questioning look at Lars. “I’m curious. If they get sick, all of them, that’s an awful lot of flu being breathed into the air. This thing is airborne; won’t it strike us?”

  “Yes,” Lars answered without hesitation, then saw the looks he received. “Wondering why we’re going through all this trouble then? It’s fun.” He held back a laugh in their stunned silence. “I’m joking. Reiterating that I know this flu, I can tell you of tests performed. In the immediate area of the campers, it is highly contagious. But here’s an example: Say you lock a man with the flu in an eight by eight room. He’s coughing, expelling the germ. Now send a susceptible man in there with him. Boom. That man will catch the flu. Same scenario, but this time take the sick man out. Send in the healthy man two minutes later, his chances decrease. The flu is given to us by nature, therefore nature can diminish it. It loses potency the longer it is in circulation. The pollutants in the air start breaking down the flu within five minutes, separating it and making in nonviable within ten. Now, had this flu been synthetic, manmade, we’d be up shit creek. It would lace the air like molasses and never leave.”

  Patrick shuddered. “Thank God for...God.”

  “Nature has a way of population control, that’s for sure,” Lars chuckled.

  Mick laughed. “Nature went a little overboard this time.”

  “Did it?” Lars asked.

  “Yeah,” Patrick said. “I mean, look at your slide presentation. Which, by the way, gave me nightmares. That Inez Eskimo guy has been the Freddy Krueger of my dreams.”

  “Barring your Freddy digression,” Lars said, “my question was did nature go overboard?”

  Both Mick and Patrick answered at the same time. “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “How can you say this?” Mick argued. “Lars, be realistic. When this thing is finished, how much of the world’s population are you guessing will have died?”

  “From violence and the flu, at least seventy-five percent.”

  Mick laughed. “And that’s not overboard?”

  “No.” Lars shook his head.

  “Right,” Mick said. “There’ll be nobody left.”

  “Hardly,” Lars scoffed. “They’ll plenty left.”

  Patrick was confused. “After seventy-five percent die?”

  “Consider this,” Lars explained. “In 1976 there were two hundred million Americans. At the millennium there were roughly four hundred million Americans. The birth to death ratio, meaning, every day, after everyone that is to be born is born, and everyone to be dead has died, the world increases by eighty thousand people per day. Eighty thousand people a day.” Mick and Patrick were stunned into silence. “In 1800 the world population stood at 1 billion people. Right now we’re over 6 billion people. If our flu wipes out seventy-five percent, we’ll be back to the 1800 population. If I’m thinking correctly, I don’t believe the folks back then would tell you no one was around.”

  Mick stared hard at Lars. “I hate that scientific reasoning shit.”

  Patrick seemed pleased. “So the world isn’t going end?”

  “Not by a long shot. This isn’t the end of the world,” Lars said. “But it is the end of society as we know it. Things are down. They’ll break down even further. Society will go to pot. People will have to faction off, begin new domains, and start all over again. To get back up could take decades, maybe even a century. Who knows? So....” Lars patted Patrick’s hand, “put those fears to rest. Even though mankind will still be around, I don’t think you have
to worry about being the shower stall queen for a big man named Bubba at the state penitentiary.”

  Mick laughed long and hard and finished his drink. “That was great. See, Lars? This is why people love you.”

  “Stop.” Patrick held up his hand. He looked around at the empty bar. “Before anyone bursts in here, before an emergency occurs, before the subject can be changed, I need to know: Why are you, Lars, a legend around here?”

  “I told you it was ridiculous,” Lars replied.

  “Yeah, still. Tell me,” Patrick requested.

  “All right.” Lars prepared to speak then noticed Patrick gazing about. “I thought you wanted to hear this?”

  “I do, but I’m waiting for an interruption.”

  Lars continued as he snickered, “I believe I was a young man of twenty-five when I acquired the status. It grew as time went on. But there was a big rally in Washington, DC. I was fortunate enough to be right in the front of a roped-off section. And it was there, on television, that the president walked by greeting people, and he shook my hand.”

  His hands folded on the table, Patrick waited. “And?”

  “And what?” Lars asked.

  “And what else?”

  “That’s it.”

  “No. You’re lying,” Patrick said with disbelief. “You’re lying because I’m curious.”

  “Right hand to God....” Lars raised his hand. “That is it. Ask Mick.”

  Mick shrugged. “I don’t remember when it started. But I do remember it was always a big thing to be told by your parents or teacher, ‘You want to grow up to be like Lars Rayburn, don’t you? He shook the president’s hand.’”

  “Forgive me, Lars,” Patrick said. “That sucks. That has got to be the lamest reason for someone to be a legend.”

  “See,” Mick interjected, “I agree. Who the hell gives a rat’s ass if he shook the president’s hand? But that’s not the reason, in my opinion, that he became a legend. The people of Lodi grasped on to the president thing, and Lars ran with it. Lars was the one that did things for the town. When—what the hell was the name of your second novel?”