by Kyle Pratt
Dr. Scott shrugged. “Avoid contact with infected people, wash your hands with soap and water, avoid touching your eyes, nose and mouth.”
“I’ve been hearing that advice for years,” the sheriff said with a shake of his head. “It never stopped the flu before.”
“And it won’t stop this one,” Dr. Scott said. “But you asked what we could do.”
“Don’t touch my nose?” Hoover frowned. “Wash my hands? That’s what I can do?”
Caden rubbed his chin. Suddenly conscious of how close his hand was to his mouth he dropped it to his side.
“What about antibacterial soaps… will they help?” Hoover asked.
“Those soaps kill bacteria, but they don’t kill viruses like the flu.”
Caden snapped his fingers. “I’ve heard of medications that help when you have the flu. What about those?”
“Yeah. No dice. I’ve had the antiviral medications on my requisition list for months.” She frowned at Caden. “You’ve never been able to get them from the supply depot.”
“They may not have them the next time either, but I’ll keep checking. Give me a list of those medicines. I’ll see what I can do.”
* * *
Westmore Farm, Rural Lewis County, Sunday, September 20th
Caden stepped into the house more concerned about the possible pandemic than he cared to admit.
“Good, you’re here.” Maria crossed the living room and kissed him. Still face-to-face she said, “Did you have your phone off?”
He fumbled in his pocket. “Ah…yes…I guess so.”
She shook her head. “Are you trying to avoid finalizing the date?” She grinned.
“For the wedding? No…no, just busy.”
His mother, Sarah, walked down the stairs. “Oh, good you’re home. We’ve got to go.”
“Go?” Caden asked. “Where?”
“The children are singing at the church.”
Of course the children were singing. The Harvest Festival was going on all weekend and all over town. The newspaper printed the schedule of events, the radio station blared the news, and every church in the county probably had it front and center in their bulletins. This was to be the happiest time since before the first attack. He looked at Maria. It was the happiest time, but that joyfulness now mixed with the knowledge of what would come. Caden forced a smile. “Let’s go.”
His father stayed behind to work on the tractor, and keep watch on the farm, but the rest of the family surrounded the SUV.
Maria strapped Adam into their only car seat as his mother, sister Lisa, and Sue, with baby Peter, entered through other doors.
With his mind on gangs, lawlessness, war, hunger and a possible pandemic, Caden drove toward the church.
From the front passenger seat Maria looked over her shoulder at Sue. “We need to get another car seat.”
“I know. I’ve been looking, but there haven’t been any in the stores since the attack.”
“I haven’t seen any in the library market either,” Sarah added.
“No.” Maria shook her head. “Not since Caden got the one for Adam.”
“Huh?” Caden glanced at Maria. “What?”
“Nothing, dear.”
“I think families are holding on to them,” Sue said, looking at baby Peter in her arms. “Who knows when you’ll be able to buy something like that, or how much it will cost.”
Caden drove on while the women chattered about many things. Minutes later he wound past groves of old apple trees, toward the white, wood-frame church that sat atop the hill.
Many families walked on the warm autumn day. Others rode horses and arrived in wagons. Someone installed hitching posts along one side of the parking lot, but several horses were on long leads tied to nearby trees.
Caden glanced at a field to the east of the church as he drove into the parking lot. The area was surrounded by a ten-foot chain-link fence. Inside were two large Quonset hut greenhouses, along with several backyard versions, and dozens of raised beds. All had been harvested and the earth tilled, ready for winter crops.
As usual, few cars were in the parking lot. Gasoline was expensive, and sometimes unavailable. Although Caden’s position as area military commander provided greater access to fuel, it was limited. Still it allowed him to provide some transportation for his family. Caden turned the corner, cut diagonally across the lot, and parked in his favorite spot near the west side door of the church.
The Westmore clan strolled into the sanctuary as others flowed in filling it to capacity. After some announcements the children gathered on the platform.
“We plough the fields and scatter
the good seed on the land,
but it is fed and watered
by God's almighty hand.”
Caden found it impossible to enjoy the music. Every cough, every sneeze, reminded him of the doctor’s words. It’s coming and there’s no way to stop it.
Chapter Three
Rural Lewis County, Sunday, September 20th
“Hands up!” First Sergeant Fletcher stepped forward. His eyes fixed on the shadowy outline of a man in the dark corner of the alcove.
The shadow gave no response.
Private Spencer stepped backward.
“Did you hear me?” Fletcher inched closer. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Fletcher realized the man in the corner heard nothing. No life radiated from the open eyes. His mouth hung oddly slack, and his head leaned awkwardly against the wall. On the table before him were bottles of pills and booze. His right hand still clutched a glass resting on the table.
The first sergeant poked the lifeless man with the end of his M4.
The body fell rigid to the side.
“What happened here?”
Mouth agape, Private Spencer shook his head. “I have no idea.”
The question had been rhetorical, but Spencer’s answer reflected the first sergeant’s own confusion. He grabbed his flashlight, but the beam quickly faded. “Dead, like this guy. Do you have one?” He asked waving his.
The young man approached with eyes fixed on the body. “Yeah. Here.” He held out the light and advanced no farther.
Fletcher took it, knelt by the body, and poked and pulled at his shirt looking for fatal injuries.
Spencer stepped closer and placed a hand over his mouth and nose. “I don’t see any wounds,” he mumbled. “It looks like he just died.” He pointed to the bottles. “Did he commit suicide?”
Fletcher picked up the empty container. “It’s some sort of medication, but I’m not sure what.” He looked at the body. “I’ve heard the suicide rate is up, but why come all the way out here to kill yourself. He might have just been sick.” Leaning a hand on the table, he stood.
A door swung open behind them, and both spun around, weapons ready.
“Just me, First Sergeant.” Corporal Franklin said. “We found two bodies. No gunshot or stab wounds. They’re just dead.”
“How well did you check them?” Fletcher asked.
“We lifted one—with a broom, and checked under. No blood.”
“How did they die? A suicide pact?” Spencer asked.
Fletcher doubted it, but had no answers. “Corporal, get the others from out in front. Station someone at every exit and on all four sides of the building. The rest of you come with me, we’re going to finish searching this place. And maybe find some answers.
The first sergeant marched down the hallway with Spencer behind. The stench of death grew with each step. Coming to a door, Fletcher turned the knob and threw it open. He entered, leading with his rifle. A bed stood in the room without sheets, two chairs and a dusty dresser alongside it. Everything appeared undisturbed.
The room across the hall was much the same.
Farther along the smell of death hung heavy in the air.
Bursting into the third room, Fletcher nearly puked due to the stench that grated his nose and tongue.
Spencer stepped in, gagged, then stumbled back
out, coughing and choking as he did.
The bodies of a man and woman lay side-by-side on the bed. A cloud of buzzing flies circled like a sky full of vultures. The nearest body had long dark hair and was curled into a fetal position. Her eyes were closed. It was hard to tell now, but she appeared to be in her late twenties.
On the far side of the bed was the bloated body of a man in his thirties or a little older. His bulging eyes stared into the heavens in fear.
The first sergeant paid them little attention.
A pistol lay ominously on the nightstand by the man. Not wanting weapons loose in the building, Fletcher grabbed it, withdrew the magazine and slipped them both in his pocket.
A dresser stood along the far wall. Jewelry and cash lay in piles on top. On either side rifles and shotguns leaned against the wall. Fletcher examined a Winchester .270 with scope, a .308, and a Remington 12 gauge.
After nearly a minute of gagging at the door, Spencer entered. “I don’t know how you do it First Sergeant. This room reeks of decay, puke, and—.”
“Do you have the serial numbers for the stolen weapons?”
The private retrieved a paper from his pocket then returned his hand to his mouth and nose.
After checking several guns Fletcher nodded. “These are stolen. We found the gang hideout.” He looked at the two bodies on the bed. “But what happened to them?”
“I sure don’t know First Sergeant, but could we figure it out somewhere else?”
Glad for the excuse to leave the room, Fletcher smiled. “Help me move these guns.”
When the search was done, the soldiers assembled on the front porch of the lodge to assess the situation.
“Seven bodies total, all but one in bed, and not a mark on any of them. At least not that we found” Fletcher shook his head.
“How long would it take for bodies to stink like this?” a private asked.
“Five days maybe,” the first sergeant guessed.
Spencer shook his head. “More like three or four in this weather, but the first body didn’t smell nearly as much, indicating that he was probably the last to die.”
Fletcher cast him a questioning glance.
“I like to read crime novels.”
“This is like some horror movie,” one private said.
Fletcher agreed, but said nothing. The sun had disappeared behind the trees. Long shadows covered much of the forest. He knew they didn’t have enough fuel to make it back to Hansen. Since Deputy Morris hadn’t yet returned with more gas, they would need to set up camp for the night. Fletcher explained it to the men. “So it looks like we’ll spend the night here, by the dead bodies and the creepy lodge in the dark woods.”
Spencer cast a nervous glance at the building. “If it’s okay First Sergeant, I’ll sleep outside.”
“That smell isn’t going away any time soon. I think we’ll all be sleeping outside tonight,” Fletcher said with a smile. “Corporal Franklin, have a couple of soldiers drive the Humvees back here. Set up a perimeter watch and have someone retrieve the MREs. The rest of you load up the bodies in bags and take them out back.”
When the Humvees were parked on the north side of the building and a fire crackled in a nearby pit, two soldiers brought lawn chairs. Everyone not on sentry duty sat in a circle around the fire.
“Coffee would be nice right now,” the corporal said as he finished his MRE.
“Or some marshmallows,” a young man said staring at the fire.
“You know what I miss the most?” Private Spencer asked.
“Your mama?” Another replied.
Spencer tossed an empty cup at him. “Football. The season should have already started.”
Nods and murmurs of agreement circled the fire.
“We should start a team. We could play against other units,” one private said.
“What do you think First Sergeant?” The corporal asked.
“I think I’m going to get some sleep.” Fletcher stood, grabbed his rifle, a tarp, and a sleeping bag, and strolled away looking for soft ground.
* * *
The first sergeant awoke with a start. Someone knelt beside him.
Private Arnold thrust a finger against his lips and whispered, “Movement in the woods.”
A limb cracked.
Fletcher turned in that direction.
“It’s probably a deer or elk,” Arnold said softly, “but it’s moving closer.”
“You were right to wake me.” He stood, grabbed his rifle from where it leaned against a nearby tree, and stared into the darkness.
A soft breeze blew against his face.
Another snap came from the woods.
That’s too noisy to be a deer. Could it be an elk or maybe a bear?
They quietly roused the others.
Fletcher ordered most of the men back into the lodge, others guarded the Humvees. “You two, with me,” Fletcher whispered. “One of you stay on my left, the other on my right. Move forward slow and easy. Let it come to us. Got it?”
They nodded.
“Okay, let’s see if we can spot the noisemaker.”
They moved through the forest, boots slipping over the ground, until coming upon a large fallen tree. There they waited using the trunk as cover.
Snap.
An owl hooted.
Silence.
Crack.
Certain whatever moved toward them did so deliberately, Fletcher clenched the rifle and stared into the darkness. Could the noisemaker be human?
He rested his M4 on the old trunk and pointed it at the sound. For nearly a minute they listened and waited.
From behind a tree a shadow moved, or was it his mind playing tricks. No. About thirty feet ahead something stirred.
“Freeze!” Fletcher shouted. “Put your hands up!”
“Don’t shoot!”
The voice sounded familiar. Fletcher shined his flashlight in that direction. “Morris?” The beam quickly faded. “Is that you?”
“Yes! Hold your fire.”
The two other soldiers shined their lights.
Fletcher stood. “Why in the name of heaven were you sneaking up on us?”
“I wasn’t sneaking up on you. I was sneaking up on the lodge.”
“Huh?” He shrugged. “Why?”
“Because, when I went to gas and report the crime at the other place, we thought there might be a murdering gang staying here.”
The first sergeant laughed. “Okay. I guess that’s a good reason. I’m glad we didn’t shoot you.”
“Yeah me too,” the deputy said.
“The criminals are behind the lodge.” Fletcher pointed.
“You captured them?”
“No.”
Morris looked confused.
“Walk with me and I’ll try to explain what we found.”
* * *
Rural Lewis County, Monday, September 21th
The aroma of bacon and eggs roused Fletcher from a restless sleep.
Hearing the crackle of fire he rolled his head to the side. About forty feet away Deputy Morris and two soldiers cooked breakfast.
Morris banged a spatula against a pot. “Who’s your favorite deputy?” he shouted. “I brought bacon and eggs back with me. Come and get it.”
Fletcher’s head pounded in protest as he sat up. Every joint ached like he had been in a fight—and lost. He dismissed it as the result of age and sleeping on the ground. The bacon smell curled up his nose and turned his stomach. Holding back a wave of nausea he gritted his teeth.
Nearby, Private Arnold rolled from his sleeping bag and stood with the speed and posture of an old man. Lurching forward two steps he fell to his hands and knees and vomited.
Fletcher struggled to focus his thoughts. Cold sweat beaded his brow. “What’s happening?”
Chapter Four
Hansen Armory, Monday, September 21st
“The flu has been a part of my life, just as it has for everyone else. Some of the old and the very young di
e.” Caden shrugged. “What can I do about it?”
“Read this.” Dr. Scott waved the book in her hand.
“I’m busy. I don’t have time to read a history book.”
“Don’t play the busy card with me. I’ve been busy, too! I’ve put you back together more than once.” She slammed the book down on his desk and sighed. “Just read the chapter on the 1918 flu pandemic.” She paused, and ended with a softer, “Please.”
The friendlier tone cut through Caden’s frustration. “Okay. I guess I owe you that much.”
The doctor left, and Caden opened the book to the prescribed chapter.
“Both the specific strain of influenza and its origin are unknown. However, within months it had spread to almost every region of the Earth…highly contagious…Like all strains of influenza, it attacked the respiratory system, but one unusual characteristic of the 1918 virus was that it attacked and killed a disproportionate number of the young and healthy. Often death was due to a cytokine storm.”
“Cytokine storm?” Caden stared out the window of his office trying to grasp what he had read. “What in the world is that?” he mumbled.
The early autumn sky shone clear and blue and the day warm, but the weather would soon turn rainy and cool. The flu often came in the fall and winter. Why? Was that ideal weather for the virus to spread? He returned to reading.
“More soldiers died of the flu in 1918 than died in battle…many doctors and nurses became infected further complicating the medical situation…imposed quarantines…closed schools, churches and theaters.”
So many people worked hard over the last few months to restore the life and vitality of Hansen. Caden didn’t want to imagine quarantine signs littering the town, or closed schools and churches.
“More than twenty-five percent of the U.S. population fell sick…funeral parlors were overwhelmed…bodies piled like logs…fathers dug graves for their children. The exact number of dead will never be known, but estimates range from 50 to 100 million.”
Millions? He set the book back on the desk. The doctor had made her point. They needed a plan. In the past he had tried to understand all of the problems that Hansen faced, but for this one he would have to rely on Dr. Scott.
He leaned back in his chair. During this long year she’d been a tireless worker at the hospital and given good advice when asked, but she was not a leader and this pandemic would be more than a security issue. He rubbed his chin. For the community to pull through, it would need more than him…more than Dr. Scott. They would need a lot of people and things…medicine, food, fuel. Who would bury the bodies if the mortuaries were overwhelmed? Do we know for sure that it will get here? How much time will we have to prepare? Is Governor Monroe making plans? What about the Guard?
