by Mara, Wil
He asked Andi how the kids were doing; then they both went upstairs to check anyway. One of the two windows in their room faced the back. They peered through the blinds and saw red and blue lights flashing down Grover Avenue, one of Carlton’s main thoroughfares. Dennis checked to make sure the window was locked.
By two in the morning, they were about ready to go. Dennis made the third-to-last trip (he was counting) to the van and shut the hatchback yet again. Now there were fire engines racing somewhere, sirens howling and horns blaring. It reminded him of the night of Christmas Eve, when he and his family stood on Main Street and watched Santa Claus go by. That seemed like a million years ago—another lifetime. He felt strangely detached from everything now, emotionally unplugged. He was jolted from this by a series of distant screams: a set of three, all of the same pitch and duration. It was a young woman, perhaps a teenager, and the terror was unmistakable.
He detected movement nearby. A figure appeared on the sidewalk, and Dennis stopped. It was an older man, slightly heavy around the middle, in dark cotton trousers and a button-down shirt pulled free at the front. The shirt was sopping wet, as if he’d been pelted with tiny snowballs. He lumbered along awkwardly, favoring one leg, and his face was an elephantine mass of pustulate swellings and eruptions. Regardless of the disfigurement, Dennis recognized him at once, and a roiling horror came alive in his belly—Jack McLaughlin, the crossing guard he and Chelsea saw every morning on the way to school. Dennis didn’t know that much about him: only the bits and pieces he’d overheard in other people’s conversations. He was a retired AT&T employee, lived somewhere in town. His wife had died some years ago, and had three kids and a few grandchildren. He had to be in his mid to late seventies now, and he had bothersome knees. Yet he was there bright and early every morning, sitting in his old Buick at the corner until the first wave arrived. Then he’d get out with his handheld STOP sign, ready to admonish any motorist who didn’t give the right of way to America’s next generation. He had a prodigious memory, too, remembering the name of every child and parent. He retained little details, like which child had just lost a tooth or got a new backpack or came home with a handful of Mylar balloons because they’d just won the Student of the Week Award. Everyone loved Jack.
Dazed and confused, he altered course when he saw Dennis. Whether or not he actually recognized him was unclear. He tried speaking, but this produced only a series of garbled, hitching grunts and hisses, like someone with sleep apnea trying to recapture enough oxygen to continue breathing.
Dennis locked the van wirelessly and leaped onto the stoop, disappearing into the house and locking that door, too.
Andi, hearing the slam, came hurrying into the room. “What’s wro—?”
“You know Jack, the school crossing guard?”
“Yeah?”
“He’s outside.”
“What, right now?”
“Yeah, and he’s got the infection. It’s all over his face.” Dennis made circular motions around his own for emphasis.
“Oh no…”
She went into the living room, Dennis trailing close behind. Kneeling on the love seat, they peered through the hanging blinds that covered the bay window. Then they screamed together.
Jack had climbed the steps to the front porch and was no more than ten feet away—a relatively thin pane of glass was all that separated them. Then he began slapping the screen door and yelling like an angry drunk. Andi deciphered commands such as “Open up!” and “Let me in!” through the wet, phlegmy clog in his throat. He was also coloring his speech with a healthy dose of profanity.
When Jack realized the screen door was unlocked, he yanked it back and started hammering on the other one. It had two locks, which were always engaged. But they weren’t made for this kind of abuse. If Jack started ramming with his shoulder, it would be only a matter of time before he was in their living room.
Andi grabbed a chair from the kitchen and tried to wedge it under the doorknob, but it was too small to provide a sharp, tight angle. (It always worked in the movies, she thought crazily.) She tossed it back into the kitchen with a curse.
“Jack! Go away!” Dennis shouted. “Go back home!”
Amazingly, this worked … for a moment. The pounding ceased, and Dennis could hear sirens outside again. Then Jack launched a new attack, using his whole body.
The door shook with each blow, the top and bottom bending before snapping back. When the wood cracked the first time, Andi screamed like Dennis had never heard her scream before.
He ran into their bedroom, threw open his closet door, and dropped to his knees. There was a row of shoe boxes on the top shelf, and he reached for the last box on the left. The lid slid off and fell away as he brought it down. Inside was a second box of slightly lesser proportions but much better quality—varnished walnut. There was a small keypad set in the top, and Dennis played the five-digit combination. The lid popped up slightly, and he lifted it to reveal a black .357 Magnum. He’d planned to bring it along when they left, the last item to take after everything else was ready. He stuffed it into his back pocket, then turned the box over to shake out the false bottom. Underneath was a fully loaded magazine. He grabbed it and rammed it into the butt of the weapon.
He was back in the living room in less than fifteen seconds. Jack was still pounding away, Andi trying to brace the door from her side.
When she saw the gun, she said, “No, Dennis…”
“What choice is there?”
He had always been serious about gun ownership and had taken shooting lessons. Without further pause, he told Andi to step aside, then pointed the weapon high and fired a warning shot. The sound was like ten firecrackers exploding at once. The bullet ripped through the wall, about two inches above the doorframe, as if it had gone through tissue paper.
The silence that followed was puzzling. Did the shot temporarily deafen them, or did Jack get the message and leave? Cautiously, Dennis knelt on the love seat and fingered back the blinds again. Jack was still there, looking up as if watching a bird fly overhead.
“That broke his concentration,” Andi whispered.
Dennis nodded. “Yeah. Good.” Maybe he’ll forget what he was doing and move off.
Jack remained there for a time, clearly puzzled. Then he did something Dennis and Andi would never forget—he brought his head down and leveled his gaze until they were staring at each other. I’m looking Death in the eyes, Dennis thought, wanting to pull away but oddly unable to.
The sound of their daughter’s voice came, as if rehearsed, at the same moment Jack began throwing himself at the door again. She had come down the stairs and was standing on the first landing, just two steps from the living room floor. Even if she couldn’t grasp the minutiae of the situation, she understood intuitively that something bad was happening, and that her parents were scared. This, in turn, made her own fear ten times worse.
“Jack, go home! Go on home, Jack!”
Dennis got off the couch and positioned himself about ten feet from the door. He was trying to keep the weapon out of Chelsea’s view. And what happens if he gets in here? Do I shoot him, in front of my daughter? What will that do to her mind?
“I’ll get her back upstairs,” Andi said.
“Okay.”
“Dennis, please don’t…”
The pounding was getting harder.
“I’ll try not to.”
Harder …
“Jack! Jack, listen to me!” he shouted.
“Let me in, gobbammit. Open ub!”
“Jack, stop!”
The wood in the doorframe was cracking louder now, groaning like the keel of an old ship.
“Jack!”
The sequence of events that followed seemed to unfold in slow motion. The door finally gave way—the side of the frame that held the locks ripped free, bits of splintered wood flying in every direction. Then the gruesome sight of Jack McLaughlin stood in the doorway. Chelsea screamed like a character in a horror mov
ie. Dropping to one knee, Dennis fired a shot into Jack’s right shoulder. It spun him around with a bizarre kind of gracefulness as blood exploded in a pink spray. Jack stumbled backwards across the porch in the same surrealistic ballerina fashion, his eyes wide with bewilderment, then fell down the steps and landed in a heap on the lawn. He did not move again.
Dennis kicked the door shut and said, “Okay, time to go.”
“Yeah.”
“Get Chelsea out to the car, and I’ll go get Billy.”
Chelsea clung to her mother, crying uncontrollably, as they hurried out of the room. Dennis went up the staircase three steps at a time and found his son still curled in a fetal position. Luckiest kid in the world, he thought, tucking the gun into the back of his pants and lifting the child, blankets and all, into his arms.
Billy, thankfully, did not stir as Dennis strapped him into his car seat. Chelsea was gasping for air in the other one, her tears drawing bright track lines down her cheeks.
“I’ll be back in a sec,” he told his wife.
“I’ll start the engine.”
“Okay.”
He went inside and pulled out every plug he could find: another pre-vacation procedure. Then he went to lock all the doors. When he got to the front, he paused. Damn … He remembered the screen door had a lock on the tiny handle. He opened the inside door slowly, but drew back when he saw that it was covered with pale, bloody fluids, some running an unhurried race to the bottom. Jack’s body was still lying there, little more than a shape in the darkness. Is he dead? Dennis wondered. Could a shot in the shoulder really have killed him? No chance, he told himself. If anything, the fall did it.
Yes, but you still caused the fall, said the voice of his conscience.
He felt a twinge of guilt and pushed it aside. I’ll deal with it later. Using his foot, he kicked the main door shut. If someone wants to break in, they’ll break in.
He took one last look around. There were so many memories here, just about all of them good. Andi was right—they loved this house, loved the neighborhood and everyone in it. Would it ever be the same? Was there any chance of them coming back and picking up where they left off? It was doubtful. This was one of those events that altered everything, caused a paradigm shift. Nothing will ever be the same, he thought, and within the sadness he also felt anger now.
He shut off the kitchen light and closed the door. As he backed the minivan into the street, he found himself unable to avoid glancing at Jack McLaughlin’s body one last time.
It was still lying there.
SIX
DAY 9
The CDC, along with New Jersey’s Office of Emergency Management, urged all residents to remain indoors and travel as little as possible. A CDC circular outlined everyday tips to reduce the risk of acquiring the disease, such as frequent hand washing, wearing masks and gloves, and minimizing unprotected contact with your eyes, nose, and mouth.
New Jersey State Police set up checkpoints along major roadways and watched for signs of infected passengers, but since they were not medically trained and had little interest in acquiring the infection themselves, results were varied at best. One middle-aged computer engineer was detained while entering the toll plaza at the George Washington Bridge because he was red-eyed and sneezing. It turned out he was a lifelong sufferer of ragweed allergies, and no one had considered the fact that the pollen count was particularly high that day. Another man in his late twenties driving an aging Toyota Corolla with multiple primer patches tested positive not for the illness but for both marijuana and cocaine. Authorities found two more joints and a vial of crack in a guitar case in his trunk.
The suggestion by New Jersey’s governor that public water supplies could become tainted triggered a stampede to local supermarkets to purchase bottled water. The CDC added to the fervor by reminding people that water was essential not only for drinking but also cooking and personal hygiene. Examples of price-gouging—in spite of stern warnings from both state and federal agencies—inevitably followed. In one instance, a gas station in Paterson that formerly sold cases of Poland Spring for $4.99 upped its price a few dollars each day. When it reached $22.99, a couple in a black Dodge pickup pulled into the station during the night and tag-teamed the lone attendant on duty—the husband held him at knifepoint while the wife loaded the remaining fourteen cases into the truck bed.
Public schools in northeastern Jersey’s six main counties—Bergen, Essex, Hudson, Morris, Passaic, and Union—were ordered closed until further notice. The Department of Health and Senior Services also considered shutting down all restaurants in the area, then decided this was unnecessary since most were closing on their own. Other public places, such as parks and nature trails, were abandoned. Swings and seesaws stood unused, parking lots empty. Shopping malls were desolate, and people began using their sick days until they had to tap into their vacation time … then their personal time … then time they really didn’t have.
In spite of all precautions, the virus continued to find its way around; there was always someone willing to help out. A widow from Riverdale who hadn’t missed a Mass at Christ Church since the Reagan administration decided to disregard all official warnings and attend services in spite of feeling feverish, fatigued, and more arthritic than usual. One sip from the chalice during the Eucharist was all it took to infect the eleven parishioners who used it next.
One of those eleven worked night shift in a convenience store. The following day, just after 1:30 A.M. and while the store was empty, she experienced her first sneeze while making two fresh pots of coffee. Ten minutes later, a truck driver in filthy jeans and a flannel shirt came in. He was hauling a load of unpainted furniture from North Carolina to a warehouse in Maine. He hadn’t heard about the outbreak, because he didn’t listen to the radio on the road and didn’t watch the news in any of the cheap hotels along the way. He hated people as a general rule and tried to have as little to do with society as possible. He poured himself a large cup of the infected coffee, didn’t acknowledge the woman when she smiled and handed him his change, and climbed back into his rig. He was the first person to import the disease into the state of Connecticut.
A teenager visiting her boyfriend at college brought it into Pennsylvania.
A father of four who had been recently laid off carried it with him to a job interview in Delaware.
Hundreds of New Jersey commuters took it to work with them in Manhattan.
And so on.
* * *
The main chamber of the White House Situation Room could pass for a high-tech conference center in any large American corporation. It is long and narrow, with cream-colored walls, a white drop ceiling, and bright lights, all working in unison to create the illusion of greater space. It is rumored the easy colors and copious illumination were intended to lift the mood of the occupants; the incarnation prior to the 2006–2007 renovation, with its navy carpet and walnut paneling, was often compared to a dungeon. The modernized version also has six recessed flat-panel monitors, adjacent glass-encased booths for making and receiving secure phone calls, and ceiling sensors to block all unauthorized signals in and out. Colloquially known as the Sit Room, it is located in the White House basement beneath the office of the president’s chief of staff.
Barack Obama sat at one end of the long table with a pile of briefing memos in front of him. There was also a three-ring binder opened to the first page, upon which he had jotted some notes in his elegant-but-still-legible script, and a half-full bottle of his beloved organic green tea.
Several members of his staff and cabinet were seated around him, but his attention was focused on the woman talking from the large monitor at the far end of the room. CDC director Sheila Abbott was dark-haired and pretty in a way that was somehow mature and girlish at the same time. She wore square-framed glasses and an Italian Cavalli business suit. Her preference for high living was well known to the public, and her detractors—the media included—felt it created an air of vanity and excess. T
hey didn’t realize she was not only aware of this perception but cultivated it on purpose. On a personal level, she genuinely enjoyed the finer things and the pride they inspired. But more important, it made people underestimate the devastating intelligence that percolated behind those pretty eyes. She had learned long ago that it was better to be underestimated than overestimated.
“What’s the fatality count now, Doctor?” the president asked. He was leaning back in the chair and swiveling gently, but his plain expression gave no doubt as to the solemnity of the occasion.
“As of twenty minutes ago, two hundred ninety-seven confirmed deaths. That includes six teachers and sixty-two children; twenty-one physicians, thirty-four nurses, and sixteen EMTs; forty-nine law-enforcement officers and eleven firefighters. The high rate among law-enforcement and firefighters is due to responding to emergency calls without proper protective equipment. When the outbreak first occurred, of course, they didn’t know what they were dealing with. In one instance, all but three police officers were infected on the same force when the virus was brought back to the station after a local call.”
“And how many more citizens, of any demographic, have been infected?”
“It is impossible to give an exact count, Mr. President. New cases are being reported every few minutes. At present, I would say between six hundred fifty and seven hundred. And it has a mortality rate of ninety-three percent, with the other seven percent either deeply comatose or with severe brain damage and physical disfigurement.”
“My God,” mumbled Janet Napolitano, Secretary of Homeland Security.
