Cough

by Druga, Jacqueline

  “Stokes, got it.”

  “What do you got, Al?” Wells asked.

  “Let’s go to the computer, shall we.” Albert turned.

  There was a curtain that Stokes supposed led to the kitchen and right by it on an old desk was the epitome of a vintage computer. A clunky unit complete with a double floppy disk drive.

  Stokes laughed. “A Tandy? The world’s greatest Hacker has a 1984 Tandy computer? Oh my God.”

  “Don’t judge,” Wells told him. “Go on Albert.”

  “That reaction is why I hate when you bring outsiders in here,” Albert crouched down, rolled back the lop throw rug and slipped his fingers into the plush shag carpet. When he retracted, he lifted a hatch.

  “Whoa. Wait. I thought this was a trailer,” Stokes said.

  “It is,” Albert replied. “More of a trailer decoy.” He stepped down.

  Stokes followed. The hatch opened up to a staircase that led below. All the way down the stairs, Stokes couldn’t believe he missed the fact that the trailer wasn’t propped up.

  The underground computer lab took Stokes completely off guard. Tables of computers lined the concrete walls, and what appeared to be a server was positioned in the corner.

  “How does one have all this stuff and not be found?” Stokes asked.

  Albert answered, “You set up shop in a small town with a really cool sheriff.”

  “Uh huh,” Stokes nodded. “You guys know each other more than hacker and the law.”

  Albert smiled. “I’m his big brother.”

  “That’s why,” Stokes said. “This is amazing. What do you hack.”

  Albert blinked. “I hack for information. I don’t cause problems.”

  “Were you able to find out anything?” Wells asked.

  “How could he?” Stokes said. “Internet is down.”

  “Please,” Albert scoffed and sat down. “How do you think you got local calls back up? I did that.” He pulled forth a keyboard. “Okay, when Eugene stopped by this morning.”

  “Eugene?” Stokes asked.

  “Me,” said Wells.

  “Your name is Eugene?” When Wells gave him a glance, Stokes held up his hand. “I know. I know. Don’t judge. Go on, Albert.”

  “I started digging. Good news is the world still exists.”

  “Did we think it didn’t?” asked Stokes.

  “Hell yeah, especially the FBI Chasing some German with a germ around,” Albert said. “Who by the way left a nasty trail of sickness at each stop in his itinerary. Story would have been hidden better, but seems places are all popping up with some new bug, each one daily.”

  “It has a seventy-two hour delayed effect,” Stokes told him. “So he probably timed them all.”

  “You know this bug?” Albert questioned.

  “I’ve been chasing it for years,” replied Stokes. “I turned the antidote over to the feds the other day.”

  “Not all,” Wells winked at Albert.

  “Hmm,” Albert hummed. “So I take it that wasn’t a measles vaccine you gave me.”

  “You were exposed,” Wells said. “Okay so, the sickness is popping up everywhere. What is the news saying?”

  “Reporters are scrambling. The news got big on the last one,” Albert clicked on his key board. “Outbreak hit Vegas. Hit pretty hard. Chatter suggests he dropped it and people just took off and went home. So whatever he dropped in Vegas left with about twenty-thousand tourists. That is what they estimated have fallen ill since ten PM last night. They quarantined a plane, refused to let it land, until they discovered the German’s girlfriend was on that flight. Then it just blipped out. Disappeared in Ohio.”

  “Was it shot down?” asked Wells.

  “I think it landed,” said Albert.

  Stokes questioned. “So the next question is. Did the government or whoever did this, did they black out the whole country on communications.”

  “No,” Albert shook his head. “Just around this town. Plus, it looks like orders came in evoking a 441A-550 on Littlefield.”

  Wells explained. “Involuntary quarantine. They’re shutting down the town.”

  “Any idea why us?” Albert asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Wells nodded. “We’re next.”

  <><><><>

  Darke County, OH

  June 29

  The cough woke her. It wasn’t hers, it was someone else’s, someone in the distance. A single cough. Sharon jolted awake and then rested back again after realizing it wasn’t another victim. The night before after twenty passengers died, four more succumbed to the same thing. Each one on their own. At least the death didn’t come in the midst of pandemonium.

  Despite their medical emergency, no one would let them land. After two hours, they were redirected here and there, each time telling them no, they could no land. Finally, after running on fumes, the pilot contacted a friend who used Google Earth to find him a place to land.

  A secondary road just outside a slew of farms in Ohio.

  Sharon recalled that it wasn’t an easy landing. The slowly, eyes closed it all came back to her.

  The pilot announced he was going to make an emergency landing and it was going to be rough. She prepared the cabin for such a landing, and then Sharon was barely strapped in her five point belt when the pilot put down the plane. If felt smooth at first and then for some reason, the plane banged around, the brakes squealed and it felt as if he weren’t going to stop. Luggage fell from the overhead compartments, people flew from their seats and just before the plane stopped, just as Sharon felt safe, something flew at her.

  She didn’t know what it was, but she felt a world of pain against the side of her head and it was lights out.

  It was still dark when they landed and now the daylight pressed against her eyelids.

  Get up. Check on passengers. Check the pilot.

  The fog cleared from her brain, her head pounded and instantly Sharon sat up when her brain registered they could have crashed.

  She was still in the seat just behind first class.

  She opened her eyes. People moved about. A bright light carried into the plane.

  Daylight.

  She undid her buckle and stood. Legs weak, Sharon held on to the plane as she walked into first class. That was when she noticed that the sun, the bright light, came from the back. The tail section had separated.

  Where did it go?

  The section missing was the section with the deceased.

  A woman passenger was aiding another with a bleeding head, and Sharon asked her, “How long ago did we land.”

  “Not long," she replied. “Ten minutes.”

  “Have you seen any of the crew?”

  “I saw the guy a minute ago, he went back there.” She pointed.

  Sharon lifted her head. In the coach section people were searching their luggage. The she spotted Todd. He was back by the tail section. He was disheveled but didn’t appear injured.

  “Todd,” Sharon called him and inched her way back.

  “Sharon, you’re ok.”

  “Yes. What’s going on?”

  “I’m trying to get people off the plane. Maybe call for help.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “What?” Todd asked shocked. “Of course it is. We have sick and injured.”

  “We also just came off a plane that was quarantined and refused permission to land.”

  “And that means what right now?”

  “We could be contagious. It’s not responsible and it certainly isn’t safe. If they didn’t want us to land what will they do about us when they find us?”

  “This isn’t a conspiracy program, Sharon. I’m sorry. We need to call for help. And if that doesn’t work, we go find it.”

  As if he dismissed her, Todd turned away and helped a passenger to stand. Sharon watched. He and two others were guiding passengers out of the plane.

  Following protocol. But did the situation at hand warrant protocol.

 
Sharon was at a loss. It didn’t feel right, it felt to her that leaving the plane was worse than staying. But there was nothing she could do except help.

  <><><><>

  Las Vegas, NV

  June 29

  Charles had absolutely no concept of time. There wasn’t a clock in his room. Or at least none that he saw. From what he saw and learned it wasn’t even a room. He was still in some sort of Intensive Care Unit.

  The doctors and nurses, for that matter, didn’t want him to be awake, in his medical opinion they were short of putting him some medically induced coma. Medicating him right after he regained consciousness.

  The last time he was aware, they spoke to him as if he were some sort of idiot.

  “You’ve been in a car accident Mr. Kimble.”

  Doctor Kimble please.

  “You’ve suffered a severe head injury and chest trauma.”

  Not that bad if I know what’s going on.

  “We need your brain to rest, so we’re going to keep you sedated.”

  More times than not, Charles wanted to scream. Each time he woke he was more agitated. They brought a portable scanner into the room, and the next he recalled, he heard them say. “Put him under again.”

  It had gotten to the point Charles didn’t want to let them know he was awake. But somehow the damned monitors alerted the medical staff.

  When he opened his eyes the most recent time, no one rushed in. Had it been hours? Days? Weeks? There was no way of knowing, but Charles knew why they hadn’t medicated him again … there was an abundance of activity.

  The noise level had risen in the usually quite hospital space. When Charles looked about he had to wonder if indeed his head injury was causing hallucinations.

  They were moving his bed and making space for another.

  It wasn’t a room, why were they doing that? Wasn’t intensive care more private, with exception of the curtains?

  “Put him over there,” one woman said. “We can fit two, maybe three.”

  “What about Mr. Kimble?”

  “He’s probably immune. Wouldn’t you be if you were him?”

  What was going on?

  “This one’s going into arrest. Get me the cart. STAT. Move that patient.”

  “I got him,” The woman replied and made her way to Charles bed. She grabbed the railing and that was when Charles saw, she was wearing biohazard gear. Her voice female, yet her face hidden in the mask. She grabbed his bed railing. “You’re awake. We’ll take care of them. Just a second.”

  Charles felt the bed being shoved. He listened to the commotion in the room. Someone was dying, they were desperately trying to save the person.

  Calling out medication. Procedures. Using the defibrillator.

  Charles tried to see. Whoever it was that was fighting a battle of life or death was right next to him. Then, another healthcare worker in protective gear stood over him.

  “Mr. Kimble. We need to keep you sedated. Just give us a few seconds.” She grabbed his IV line and injected something in it.

  Charles shook his head. He could do that.

  “It’s imperative,” She turned her head, speaking to someone else. “This dose should do it.”

  Do what? Charles screamed in his mind. But that was the last coherent thought he had. The noises of the room took on an echoing effect. He began to drift. Floating towards a peaceful cloud of sleep.

  “We lost him.”

  Lost who? Lost what? Am I dead? No, no, I’m not dead. It’s someone else. Who died in my room?

  Charles fought, but the medication kicked in.

  He closed his eyes.

  TWENTY – BIG SALE

  Littlefield, AZ

  June 29

  Stokes never met anyone that could whip up a lie of the top of their head like Chief Wells. On the way back to his office, the town was a bit more buzzing and people stopped to ask him what was going on with the cable.

  “Looks like some sort of solar anomaly took it out, we’re working on it,” he told them.

  “Thanks, Chief.”

  Solar anomaly. Working on it and people just bought it.

  What he didn’t lie about was what the town faced, and he disclosed that to a group of people in his office, two hours before countdown.

  His two deputies, a few volunteer fireman, the doctor and EMS worker.

  He told them what was happening outside of their town and what could possibly happen in Littlefield. Being less than honest about the ‘when’ he found out about the virus.

  “Bastards,” Hendrix the fireman blasted. “So they lied to you. Said it was measles. Bastards.”

  “Afraid so,” Wells replied. “Now we have to get ready. Put aside the lie and prepare for what will go down.”

  “What will go down?” Hendricks asked.

  “People will get sick. All of the sudden,” Wells explained. “They may be in their homes, out in the streets, who knows. It hits at once. And to the minute on its delay time of seventy-two hours. What we have to do is prepare.”

  Another asked. “Are these folks gonna die?”

  Wells was honest and blunt. “Yes, they are.”

  A round of groans resonated across the room.

  “And as sad as that is,” Wells said. “We have to focus on those not sick. Meaning we encourage those not exposed to stay in their homes. We’ll bring them what they need.”

  Stokes asked. “What about those around the sick.”

  “Well … That’s where this group comes in. I wanna position us, except Doc here, all around town. Keep an eye out for when it happens. Those who don’t get sick …we take them. We quarantine them. This town may get shut down, that doesn’t stop the bug inside. That’s up to us.”

  Stokes asked, “I would like to volunteer to be in a busy place. I don’t know these people like you folks do. I’ll be less effected and be able to help. Where would that be?”

  “What’s today? Saturday?” Wells said. “Breyer Market. It’s their annual sale. You don’t get much more crowded than that.”

  “Then that’s where I’ll be,” Stokes said.

  “Better you than us,” Wells replied.

  He continued on with the small meeting, hashing out details.

  The chief was good. Stokes was impressed at how calm and organized he was. He wondered if the chief would be the same if he didn’t get the antidote. Stokes guessed he would be.

  That just seemed to be the kind of man Chief Wells was.

  When Stokes arrived at Breyer’s, his first thought they weren’t kidding. Even in the bigger cities he never saw a grocery store so packed, then again, he never saw Bologna on sale for a steal at fifty cents a pound. In his entire life he never saw a price that low.

  When he stepped into the store, the line from the deli was dozens deep. Instead of lunch meat, people looked as if they were waiting to meet some famous person.

  It was countdown time, and Stokes was in the best place he could be. For sure someone in the store was exposed.

  He made his way to the deli number machine and pulled.

  “You have got to be kidding me.” he said to himself after looking at the number and then to what order they were on. He showed the ticket to the man behind him. “Is that number right?” he pointed to the digital display.

  “Oh, you’re that drifter,” the man said. “So you haven’t been to a Breyer’s Blast. You only have forty-five to wait. Last year I had seventy-four to wait. It goes fast.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Then he spotted her.

  He knew her or at least recognized her. She was in the Dollar Barn the day of the accident. The ceiling fell down on her. She looked a lot prettier without all that dust and blood on her.

  He felt bad at that moment, because he knew she was there. She was exposed. More likely than not, she was going to die before his eyes.

  One thing was for sure, he was sticking near her.

  She would be his clue it had begun.

  Inconspicuo
usly, or at least he thought he was being inconspicuous, Stokes inched over to her. She kept looking at her number and her phone, then back to the digital counter.

  He wanted to strike a conversation with her, engage her. She would be his virus invasion contact. Then he saw the number in her hand.

  She was twenty or so ahead of him.

  Conversation segue.

  “Aren’t you just the lucky one,” he told her, whispering in her ear. “Number sixty-five. And here I thought I was hitting the lottery with eighty-nine.”

  She looked at him and smiled politely. Stokes would have taken it as flirtatious but then she freaked a little as if to say, ‘who is this stranger trying to talk to me’

  Thinking that first line didn’t go well, he thought he’d try again. “Tell you what,” Stokes said. “I’ll give you twenty-five dollars for that number.”

  “No, I’m in a hurry.”

  If you were in a hurry, Darling, he thought, why you are in the traffic jam of a deli line.

  He tried again. “Suit yourself, that twenty-five will buy a lot of bologna.”

  She was trying not to show it, but she inched way from him. At that point Stokes was insulted. What was wrong with him?

  “Fifty,” he then said, “I’ll give you fifty.”

  Macy laughed.

  The deli worker announced another number, but Stokes was stuck on why she laughed at him. Did she think he couldn’t afford the fifty?

  Her phone must’ve beeped, Stokes heard it and she reached into her purse. That was when he picked up on conversation going on around him. He was certain ceiling tile woman did too. Her eyes shifted like his.

  They talked about three military trucks rolling into town. Someone mentioned one stopped. Stokes knew exactly what that meant. The quarantine had started before the virus even showed.

  Then he heard a cough.

  A single cough, then double.

  Was that it?

  He knew it started with a cough.

  Ceiling Tile woman pulled out her phone and glanced down. That was when, Stokes whipped out a hundred dollar bill. It was no longer a ply to get her attention, it was a mission to get her number. “Last chance. Last offer. One hundred.”