Z-Burbia 3: Estate Of The Dead

by Bible, Jake

  I switch on the TV. Stefani Dunham of Cable Morning News talks of the unusual quiet in the Middle East, mostly due to the flu that’s taken the world by storm.

  She narrates the latest video of a deer wandering through the automatic doors of a supermarket, but her voice is weirdly uninflected. Her head cheerleader swagger died sometime in the night. Her hair-and-makeup crew apparently didn’t show either. She actually looks beautiful. Her just-brushed-into-place hair, the dark crescents beneath her eyes betray a humanity I never expected a woman of her position to possess.

  My phone chirps. Finally:

  We took Mom to the hospital but it was full. She’s very sick. Don’t know what else to do. I have to go into work. Hope you feel okay and that you come home soon.

  The time stamp indicates this was sent hours ago. I’m only now getting it.

  According to Stefani Dunham of Cable Morning News the top story is the strain on services nationwide due to the Mayday Malaise. Hospitals are full of patients, but the hospitals can’t provide adequate care because one-third to one-half of the hospital staff is sick, too. Without techs to maintain the servers and towers, cell phone service has crashed in some areas. There were storms in Georgia and the Carolinas that knocked out power two nights ago. That power is likely to stay out because too few people feel well enough to fix things. And then the unaffected people have to take off from work to take care of their sick relatives.

  “And while we wait for this thing to run its course,” Stefani says, “it turns out that for some people the illness is just getting worse. This is just for some people, though, the numbers are inconclusive. We’re not in the business of spreading rumors. Count on our team to keep you updated with the latest.” She coughs primly into a handkerchief just as they cut to commercials.

  Normally you’d hear an exclamation point after that last sentence. That’s because—normally—Stefani! Dunham! of Cable! Morning! News! is fully invested in what she’s selling.

  I power up my laptop. We still have Internet service, but the pages are slow to load. From the UK’s Guardian to the Kremlin’s own Russia Today, the columnists are mocking “the ‘Mayday Malaise,’ as the American news outlets so frivolously and dismissively label it” (the Germans seem particularly pissed about “the U.S.’s non-response to the crisis”).

  According to the foreign press the infection isn’t viral, it’s bacterial—and resistant to antibiotics. Russia Today and Politiken DK report rumors that a pharmaceutical company brewed this up to contain it with its specially targeted (and patented) regime of medications. Of course, nothing can be proved.

  Oh, and one more thing they’re not mentioning in the U.S. information bubble:

  You can go fast.

  You can go slow.

  You can go easy, the way our Ms. Dunham seems to be going—then all-of-a-sudden hard. Or just go hard and die hard all the way.

  Some have been known to go into remission. Like Claire. This article even uses the eye-of-the-hurricane metaphor. “And like the far side of the hurricane eyewall, Round Two of the disease comes on even fiercer than the first.”

  However it plays out, no one gets better from this. That’s why the English, those masters of gallows humor, dubbed it the Final Flu. It’s the last thing you’re ever sick of.

  I pull out my phone and dial her cell. Nothing. Whatever connectivity delivered Sibyl’s message to me late is down again. I dial the land line. Ring, click. I do this again, three, maybe four more times on both.

  “As brief as the remissions are, the relapses are brutally—some say ‘mercifully’ short-lived. As are the patients.”

  I think of Sybil’s text. Claire.

  Claire....

  I’m flashing on our first Thanksgiving, eating on the quilt she spread on the floor of our unfurnished apartment. The Christmases with her parents. The Christmases we did on our own, accompanied by bright and happy Sibyl, then Jack.

  I think of the greeting cards Claire would leave for me to find in the morning, for no special occasion at all. Just to tell me how “grateful” she was for me. For what? I always meant to write her a long letter for Mother’s Day, letting her know all the things I noticed that I thought made us so much richer than most people with actual “disposable” income.

  We know how these stories always end, don’t we?

  I clap my laptop shut, look up at the TV. Stefani Dunham is still reading from her teleprompter. She doesn’t sniffle or cough. I’m guessing she’s in her remission stage.

  What’s really intriguing are the implications raised by the logical follow-up: What makes a multi-million dollar diva like Stefani Dunham, Queen of All Cable News, go on television, read straight-faced from the teleprompter, and pretend she hasn’t heard her own personal two-minute warning?

  Something is going down. The kind of something no mere citizen can do anything about but get home to the children as fast as humanly possible and brace for what’s next.

  I couldn’t afford to kiss Claire goodbye before I left. I can’t afford to mourn her now that she’s gone. Sibyl and Jack are counting on me to know what to do—and to be there to do it. If I could drive out of here this instant I could make Colorado Springs before nightfall. I’d have to push it on the speed limit. Which might not be a problem. Then again, if I wreck, that’s it. Better hope I die instantly….

  So I won’t wreck. I’ve got to get home! But I can’t leave without checking in one last time with the company, at least see who’s paying for what, if anything. The office opens at eight.

  I shower, dress, and pack out quickly. I take the stairs on the north end of the hall. It’s fifteen flights down but the effort tempers my anxiety. More to the point, it lets me out by the back door to the parking garage. I don’t want the desk people to see me carrying my luggage out.

  It’s just another job interview! I can do this!

  I walk around the hotel. It’s so quiet I can all but hear the damp, hot sunlight pressing down upon the concrete. I’m so relieved to feel the air conditioning as I come in through the front door.

  The dining area off the lobby is pitch-dark to my sun-adjusted eyes. “Sorry,” says the girl behind the front desk. “The entire kitchen staff is out.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “I know they’re not all sick, either! Only one out of three got this, right?”

  “I suppose the rest are home taking care of their people,” I say.

  “Must be nice. The way I see it, I don’t work, I don’t get paid! God knows where those people are getting their money!”

  “Well, did someone at least pick up some doughnuts and brew some coffee?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did, thank you very much! Would you like some?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Oh, not at all! You have no idea how good it is to have someone to talk to!”

  From Angie I learn there are a dozen or so flu patients booked here in the hotel because the airlines—on orders from Homeland Security, via the TSA—are refusing to transport obviously sick people. “Talk about closing the barn door when the horses are already out!” says Angie.

  A very pale and irritable-looking woman wearing a prominent MANAGER tag comes in. “I don’t like leaving my little boy at home the way he is but the show must go on, right?”

  “Don’t put yourself out on my account.”

  “Oh! Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t mean it like that! This is just going to be a really hard day. We don’t have a kitchen staff and now there’s no one here to clean the rooms! It might be a couple of days on that, and for that we do apologize!”

  “It’s all right. Look, I’m going out to find some breakfast. Good meeting you all—and good luck!”

  “Let us know what you find open,” says Angie.

  I nod, wave, and set off into the quiet city.

  THE SAGA OF THE DEAD SILENCER Book 1: Bleeding Kansas is available from Amazon here

  Bible, Jake, Z-Burbia 3: Estate Of The Dead