by Roger Hayden
He had a good vantage point of the mysterious home from the living room and repeatedly looked out. It was nighttime, and John thought about the unexpectedly long time he had been away from Worthington Pines. They were probably getting worried about him and losing hope. Part of him felt good making them worried, as he had never felt so important to so many people before. But he took his role seriously, and for that reason he’d gather all he could from the house across the way before heading back to the community. In the meantime, he would squat.
He searched the rooms of the house, finding nothing of use. There were women’s clothes and men’s shirts in the closet, and knick-knacks and souvenirs from around the country rested neatly on shelves. The owners must have liked to travel. Perhaps they were on vacation. If that was the case, they were extremely fortunate to have avoided what was happening at home.
John tore through one of their closets of junk and came across an item of incredible use: an old pair of binoculars. He immediately went back to the living room, pulled a stool up to the front window, and sat down. He held the binoculars up and watched the house, seeing nothing but darkness. The street lights weren’t working, and there wasn’t a single light on in any of the homes, outside or inside. Just as he was about to call it a night, he saw something move in the window of Greg’s house.
The figure of a woman opened the curtains and looked out. John ducked to the side, fearing that she had seen him, but when he looked again through the binoculars, he could see that she was still standing there, just looking out.
“Of course she can’t see you,” John said to himself. She eventually moved away from the window, leaving the curtain open.
He slept on the couch in the living room and felt rested in the morning. His dreams had been startling, and he was still shaken. The dreams were filled with images of death and disease, obviously related to the things he had seen. In the one he recalled most vividly, however, he got away. A helicopter came down and rescued him, and he escaped Carson City after being chased by hordes of infected Ebola patients. When he awoke, however, he was still in the house of the old couple, and he had a long walk back to Worthington Pines. It was time to investigate one last time.
He approached the boarded house again, moving quickly but with stealth up the driveway. The window curtain was still open, and it was early enough in the morning that John hoped no one in the house was awake. He crept along the garage and looked out to the side. To his right was a cement walkway leading to the front door. Next to the front door was a boarded-up window, and the exposed window was next to it. He carefully moved along, close to the house in slow and steady steps until he reached the window into the mystery home.
John cupped his hands and peered inside. It looked like any normal living room. There was a couch, bookshelf, coffee table, and lamp. A kerosene lamp on the hardwood floor caught his eye. The people inside seemed to be waiting the disease out, just like the people of his community were doing. He squinted to see any other items of use when suddenly a man walked into the room and looked right at him. Their eyes met, and John could feel his heart stop and his legs lock. He had been exposed. The man stood frozen for a moment then vanished down the hall.
“Shit!” John said out loud. He backed away from the window just as he saw the man reenter the room brandishing a rifle. John ran alongside the house as fast as his legs could possibly take him and ventured out into the road and back down the street without looking back.
***
The gates of Worthington Pines were closed, as they had been some time now. Beyond the steel bars that separated the struggling community from the outside world were homes that had become more like prison cells than anything else. The people had joined together to both defy the government quarantine mandate and survive the Ebola outbreak.
For many, it seemed the responsible thing to do. The president of the Home Owner’s Association, Ed Tillman, floated the idea to the other residents after the travel ban had been put into place. Not everyone was on board, and a few families packed up their cars and left, dutifully reporting to the nearest quarantine station.
Those who stayed were determined to get through the crisis without aid or assistance from the government, and as long as they kept strangers from getting inside, there would be no chance of infection. They agreed to never leave the community unless authorized, and if they did leave without approval, they would not be allowed back in. This was all put into writing—a contract produced by Ed Tillman, who was also a certified notary—and the residents signed it.
The community united to make sure there was enough food and supplies for everyone, and all of their resources were pulled together and properly distributed by the Home Owner’s Association, which acted as a sort of elected body in place of an actual government. The transition wasn’t hard, given that the HOA already operated with authority, and had long before Ebola was on anyone’s mind.
After the first month of cutting themselves off from the world, the plan seemed manageable. Not going to work was a hard adjustment for the adults to make, but most of the kids were delighted not to have to go to school. It was like summer vacation for them. But then the power went out, the water stopped running, and food and supplies were being stolen in the late hours of the night by unknown thieves.
As a result, the HOA President locked everything up, and residents volunteered as armed guards working in shifts. By the second month, suspicions grew within the community about who was responsible for the pilfering. And of course, there were suspicions about certain families who had not donated their “fair share” to be distributed throughout the community.
Even after security measures were put in place, they didn’t have much left of anything. Certainly not enough food for the long haul. The lack of power and running water proved detrimental, and certain rifts were forming throughout the community, caused by sheer desperation.
Theories abounded about the reasons for the loss of power and utilities. Many believed that the government had pulled the switch to force residents from their homes and into official quarantine zones. Others simply believed it to be signs of the end times. John observed as his community began to tear apart at the seams after only two short weeks. During a particularly impassioned town meeting, he presented the idea of venturing beyond the gates for supplies.
“Who is going to do something like that? With that disease out there, you can count me out!” a pudgy retired man shouted in the dark, crowded room.
“I’ll do it,” John said. “I’m light on my feet.”
“But you’re only one person,” a curly-haired, middle-aged woman said. “How are you going to carry enough supplies back with you for the entire community?”
“I didn’t say that I would be doing that. I’ll see what it’s like out there and where we can go to get supplies. I’ll be your scout.”
The residents nodded and agreed, and they soon began to admire the quiet, single man who lived among them, a man they knew little about. He gave them hope, and for a moment, they forgot about all their suspicions and animosity toward each other. There was still a chance that they could make it, and John was showing them the way.
***
When he returned late in the afternoon, John hoped that his lengthy absence hadn’t allowed the community to resort to their old ways. He hoped that he wasn’t going to find them all dead after turning on one another. He had a new plan. It was cynical, but there was no denying the reality of the way things were. He would encourage them to turn all their rage, doubt, and fear on an outsider, and in the process take the supplies they needed. John presumed that he had stumbled upon the house of a prepper, and if he knew preppers, he knew they had more than what they needed.
The loss of water was especially difficult for the community as the residents struggled to maintain good hygiene practices. It only multiplied their fears of germs, infection, and disease. Who among them wasn’t staying clean? Who among them could be a potential carrier? After being gone for two whol
e days, John felt he was arriving at just the right time. The entrance gate was closed and locked with a chain and padlock. The giant “No Solicitors” sign over the gate made John chuckle. Some things never changed.
He called out to Hector, one of the volunteer guards who was sitting in a folding chair under the shade of a large tree inside the gate. Hector fumbled with his rifle and jumped out of his chair. He squinted between the iron bars and saw John standing there.
“Well, holy shit. Look who’s back! John Elliot in the flesh!”
“Pleasure to see you too, Hector.”
The man went to the gate, holding a large key ring in his hand. He was wearing shorts and flip-flops, and his shirt was unbuttoned and open, revealing a tan chest. He looked as if he was ready to go to the beach, or was at least pretending he was there. He unlocked the gate and pulled one side open, letting John enter.
“What’d you bring us back?” Hector asked.
“News of the outside world,” he said, removing his surgical mask. He took some steps forward, and Hector stopped him while backing away.
“Hold on there. You know the rules. Doc’s gonna have to check you out before you go walking around in here. As you know, there’s a lot of scared folks around here.”
John stopped and sighed. “Yeah, I get it. They haven’t all killed each other yet, have they?”
Hector laughed. “Oh, don’t worry, they’re close.” He turned to face the winding road that led into the blocks of homes packed closely together on each street, so close that one yard seamlessly spread into the other. “You wait here and I’ll go get the doc,” he said, running off with his flip-flops slapping against the road.
Dr. Winsted, or “Doc,” was the resident MD of the community, and his presence and expertise provided the people much comfort amid their Ebola fears. He knew the signs and symptoms of the disease fairly well, even given its mutation, and was on call for most of the day to check anyone who expressed so much as complaints of a headache.
Dr. Winsted, a quiet man with thick gray hair and light stubble on his wrinkled face, eventually met John at the gate, wearing a medical garment, face mask, and hood. He didn’t appear to be taking any chances.
“Everyone is so excited that you’re back,” he said to John while shining a light in his eyes. “You’re quite the celebrity here. They’ve called a big meeting and everything.”
“Well…” John said, holding his arms up as Dr. Winsted lifted his shirt and examined his chest and torso. “I’m honored.”
“So far so good,” the doc said. “How long have you been gone?”
“About two days,” John said.
“So what’s it like out there. How bad?”
“Not good,” John answered. “I’ll fill them in soon enough, but I’d rather not think about it at the moment.”
Dr. Winsted stopped his examination and looked John in the face. “I understand. I don’t see any discoloration, sores, or any other signs, so you should be good to go. Just monitor yourself closely. You don’t want to wake up sick and have to tell this bunch the news.”
John laughed. “They’d probably burn me at the stake.”
“Not too far from reality,” Dr. Winsted said.
They walked together down the street to the HOA office, where a large meeting had been called in anticipation of John’s arrival.
***
After a quick change into different clothes—a T-shirt and jeans—John walked to the main office ready to tell the residents about his journey. He could feel the tension in the air. Several homes had their blinds drawn and doors locked. He took it as a sign of the growing distrust occurring throughout the community. No one was outside, and he figured that everyone had probably packed into the meeting hall, some fifty people in all, eagerly awaiting the news. The main office was a gray single-story stucco building with a large flagpole sticking out of the mulch, and an American flag waving in the air.
He entered through the front door, and he could already hear the chatter of the packed meeting room. He didn’t understand why they couldn’t have just met outside instead of cramming into some stuffy, darkened room, but the HOA President liked to stick to tradition.
John walked over the red carpeting and past the office desks, going straight to the meeting room in the back. The door was closed to a crack, and he pushed it open as several faces turned to him with expectation and worry. Some were lucky enough to find chairs around the rectangular table in the middle of the room. Others were standing. At the head of the table, naturally, was Ed Tillman, HOA President.
“There he is!” Ed announced.
The men and women, worn and tired-looking, tried to look enthusiastic and began to clap. Color began to come back to their now hopeful faces, due to his mere presence.
There’s the love, John said to himself with a tinge of sarcasm. He politely pushed his way to the white board in the front of the room as men slapped him on the back and said things like, “attaboy!” and “welcome back!”
John took his position with all eyes on him as Ed rose up and shook his hand. The crowd grew raucous, and Ed raised his arms, signaling calm.
“People, please! I’m sure John here has quite a lot to discuss. As you know, he was gone for two days. Dr. Winsted checked him out and everything and found no signs of infection, so I’d like to officially welcome him back and ask that he tell his story.”
Ed motioned to John as the room applauded again. The ages of the men and women varied, from people in their thirties to those in their sixties. Two months without power or running water had its effects. The men were unshaven and their skin oily, while the women were plain-faced, without makeup, their hair wild and messy. John looked over the crowd, their eager faces exciting him. They would hang on to his every word, and he had to admit that he was going to draw pleasure from it.
“Thank you, thank you, everyone,” he began. The room suddenly got quieter. John grabbed a red dry-erase marker that had been placed near the white board and then continued. “I was out there for two days and covered an area of roughly five to ten miles. While that doesn’t sound like a long distance, keep in mind that I spent a lot of time investigating homes, trying to find others, and searching for supplies.”
John fidgeted some with the marker, looked down at the carpet, and took a deep breath. His eyes shot up, intense and narrowed, as he continued.
“On my journey, I saw misery and death. That much is undeniable. Most homes I came across were vacant, and it appears that most people have complied with the government’s mandate to report to official quarantine stations. Stores are closed and their shelves are emptied.”
The faces of the men and women in the crowd dropped. They were expecting a silver lining somewhere and were noticeably disappointed. However, John wasn’t finished.
“The dead lay in the streets like roadkill. I don’t know where everyone is at, but we can only assume. Most homes I came across had already been pillaged of supplies, and I did my best to stay off of main roads and not get too close to the city. Like here, there appears to be no power, and I can strongly say that I hold the government responsible. They shut off the power because they’re trying to discourage us from staying in our homes.”
The charge against the government was quite outlandish, ultimately nothing but rhetoric. But he was giving the people what he knew they wanted to hear.
“Through all of this, I came across one home. One home out of a hundred, that likely has all that we need. I can’t say for sure what they have, but I know that it’s big. I watched the house for a day and tried to see who lived there, but the windows were boarded, all but one, which I assume they’re using as some kind of lookout.
“Some of you may have heard of them on TV or somewhere else, but this, I believe, is the home of a prepper. Preppers are the kind of people who prepare for natural disasters. They have months, if not years of supplies they keep in waiting so that they can survive. Roughly five miles from here, you’ll find this house.”
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John turned around and began to draw the diagram of Greg’s house on the white board. It was rough, but the basic layout was accurate. There was a garage to the left, and the front of the house with two windows extended to the right. He turned to the people and began to mark entry points with an X.
“You have the garage here. I heard people talking in there, a man and a woman. This is one possible entry point, and something tells me that they’ve got supplies in there, because there were two cars in the driveway. The front door, here, could be rigged with explosives for all we know. I saw trip wire in the yard, and who knows what other traps exist? These preppers are serious people, and they’ll stop at nothing to protect their supplies.”
The crowd followed along intently. Their collective envy of the prepper house was gradually building into resentment, just as John had planned.
“We have to hit this house hard. But this will not be without risk. While looking through the window, I was seen by a man. He came after me with a rifle, and it was a miracle that I got away.” A necessary exaggeration, he thought. “The occupants are obviously armed, so we have to be ready for that. We have to take them by surprise and overwhelm them.”
A frizzy-haired woman shouted out from the crowd, “Are you suggesting that we kill these people?”
John thought to himself then responded. “I’m suggesting that we do what’s necessary to get their supplies. If we can avoid it, sure. But I can guarantee you that preppers do not go down without a fight.”
The crowd grumbled in ambivalence.
“Is this house really worth all this? What did you see?” a bespectacled man asked.
