by Mara, Wil
The woman tried in vain to get moving again, like a bug that had just been slapped but wasn’t quite dead yet. Then she rolled over onto her back and lay still. This was when Dennis realized why she had only been using one arm—the other was holding a child against her. It was very small, probably not even a year old, and wrapped in a brightly colored blanket that was now ruined with blood. Its tiny head flopped back like that of a doll, the mouth open, before it ultimately rolled off its mother’s chest and disappeared from view. There was little doubt in Dennis’s mind the child was already dead.
Wrenching away his terrified but fascinated gaze, he looked into the cab of the vehicle to see who’d been driving. Jettick’s flashlight beam did not follow, and Dennis could see only another dark shape. It was a man, that much was distinguishable, slumped to one side with his head against the window. Like the rest of his family, he was no longer exercising the God-given right of independent movement.
The Jettick kid was frozen, his legs spread apart and his right hand still holding the flashlight by his right ear. His other arm hung down and a few inches away from his body, like that of a gunslinger ready to draw. Dennis got the impression he simply didn’t know what to do, his gung-ho nature unable to override his youth and lack of experience. In spite of whatever training he might have received, this situation was beyond him.
Although later he would barely remember doing it, and in spite of Andi’s voluble protests, Dennis jumped out of the car and yelled, “Don’t go anywhere near them! Don’t touch them!” Jettick looked halfway back—a sign that he’d heard—but didn’t appear any more enlightened as to what he should do next. Then the mother began moving again. She turned to Jettick, her bloody hair spilling into her face, and tried to speak. What came out was not diction but rather a garble of choked and dissonant sounds. Then she coughed once, her entire body seizing together like tempered coil, and a gush of discolored fluid exited her mouth in a lazy geyser.
That was enough for the kid. He strode lithely to the side of the road and, just getting his hat off and mask down in time, vomited noisily into the shrubbery.
“Oh my God, Dennis…”
“Yeah…”
Feeling his own constitution rapidly diminishing, he turned to Jettick’s partner—who looked deathly pale—and said, “Call for help now! Don’t try to handle this yourself. And get this road closed, too!”
Unable to take his eyes off the horror-movie scene before him, the cop said, “Uh-huh,” and began a delicate walk to the squad car.
Dennis hopped back into the van and pulled the door shut. After one last glance back—Jettick was still on all fours, and the family members were all as still as statues—he said, “We’re going to our cabin now. If you want to stop me, you’ll have to shoot me. But I’m not keeping my family around here any longer.”
Jettick’s partner gave an absent nod, but Dennis never saw it. He already had the van in gear and was gaining speed.
* * *
He finally gave up on the coffee and set the cup in the basin. Then he rubbed his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He was more tired than he’d ever been in his life. The medicinal value of the scented morning breezes, usually able to cure all spiritual ills, was minimal today.
“Trouble sleeping again?”
He turned. “Huh? Oh, I didn’t even hear you come down.”
Andi stood there in her flannel pajamas and fuzzy slippers: vivid reminders of home. She had insisted they maintain as much of their normal routine as possible—the kids up at seven, showered and dressed, then a short walk for Scooter, followed by breakfast. Billy had been told they were just “going away for a few days,” as it was something a five-year-old would accept without fuss. Chelsea, quite mature for seven, had gone along with the story like a trouper. So far, so good—on that front at least.
Andi came close and wrapped her arms around his waist. “More bad dreams?”
“Yeah.”
“The roadblock?”
He laughed softly. “The roadblock. Jack McLaughlin. All manner of wondrous things.”
She set her head on his shoulder. “They’ll go away, don’t worry.”
“Yeah.”
He marveled again—for perhaps the millionth time in his life—at her inner strength. Their perfect little world had been shattered, yet here she was offering reassurance and comfort. He was better at handling crises when they initially struck, but she was the one who held everything together in the long run. No matter how frazzled she became, no matter how worn or weary, she was, at her core, a rock. He had become dependent on her in this respect. When he had a bad day at work, he knew he could talk to her. When his mother died seven years ago, she was at his side every minute. Nothing ever brought her down. She would bend, but she never broke. He found that amazing.
“Why don’t you take Scooter for his walk by yourself this morning?” she suggested. “Maybe see if Mr. Barber is home.”
Josiah Barber, nicknamed by Dennis “the Old Man of the Mountain,” had one of the other cabins in the area. There were many others, in fact, but only a handful were visible from their upstairs windows. Barber was a former railroad worker who had sold his house in southern New Jersey after his wife died in the late ’80s and had lived in his cabin, which he previously used only for weekend hunting trips, ever since. Although he could be crabby and standoffish to some, he had taken a liking to the Jensens and always remembered to keep a civil tongue when Chelsea and Billy were around.
Dennis sighed. “Okay, sure. Why not?…”
Scooter was standing behind him, waiting patiently with his ears perked. Dennis knew this without having to look. He and Scooter had become brothers over the years; Dennis loved him as much as he loved Andi and the kids. He was the best pet anyone could ever have—sweet, gentle, playful, always ready to lick your face, tail going like crazy.
He reached over and took the coiled-up collar off the counter. “Okay, big guy, let’s go,” Dennis told him. He clicked the spring-loaded hook a few times because the sound drove Scooter into a delighted frenzy. He jumped up and down, bouncing off his master with his front paws. Dennis managed a smile.
“See you in a few,” he said, kissing Andi on the cheek. She gave him one in return and rubbed his back.
They got outside and began climbing the same trail as yesterday. Narrow, pebbly, and well worn, it cut a winding path through the heart of the surrounding hardwood forest. Some stretches were sharply tilted, others grassy and overgrown. He didn’t know how far it went, as he had never taken it to its natural conclusion. For that matter, he wasn’t even sure where his family’s property ended and the next one began.
Scooter sniffed along like a bloodhound in a murder movie, following the scent of the missing heroine. His senses were still sharp, Dennis could tell. Nine years was a respectable age for a large dog, an age when the basic faculties began diminishing. But not ol’ Scoot’s. He was as healthy and as happy as a puppy.
The woodland breezes and canine company did Dennis’s soul good. The guilt was eating away at him ferociously. It was more than just the shooting of Jack McLaughlin now—much more. Yesterday, Chelsea wanted to call her friend Paige to see how she was doing. Andi told her maybe later, then lied when “later” came by, saying they did try her house but got no answer. The truth was they’d read online that Paige and her parents had been found dead the day before. This led to a conversation that night, after the kids were asleep, where the decision was made not to contact anyone else from the neighborhood. Dennis was the one who finally said it: “We can’t. If we do, they’ll ask where we are. Then they’ll come here, and they could bring the infection with them.” They wanted desperately to do something—anything—to help. But the risks were enormous. For Chelsea and Billy’s sake, they had to remain hidden and follow the latest developments via their laptops. More than eight hundred dead, an estimated seventeen hundred more heading to the same conclusion. Andi commented it was like watching an earthquake
from a helicopter. She felt like a coward; Dennis knew what she meant.
The trail leveled off when it reached a sunny cluster of trees. The air was warm and humid here, thick with the scent of pine sap. Scooter began to pull hard against the leash, wanting to go off the trail into a tangle of low-lying shrubs. Same as yesterday, Dennis thought with some surprise. He wasn’t the type to pull while he was being walked, unlike some dogs. Andi’s father had a mutt that damn-near pulled your arm off. Scooter had never been like that.
“Scoot, what’s up?” Dennis said, gently trying to draw him back. He didn’t want Scooter going anywhere that might earn him a few ticks. That might require a trip to the local vet for Lyme treatment.
But the dog was insistent. Still in his nose-to-the-ground posture, he carved long ruts into the sandy, loamy soil with his front paws while Dennis held him back. He smells something in there, Dennis thought, then envisioned another nightmare scenario—Scooter getting bit by some rabid thing. Wouldn’t that be great, him foaming at the mouth like Old Yeller … and my having to shoot him, too.
“Scooter, let’s go,” he said firmly, giving him a tug. He hated doing anything that hurt the animal, but there was no way he was letting him wander into the brush.
Scooter whimpered as he reluctantly abandoned the pursuit, but he kept looking back as they continued down the trail.
EIGHT
Abdulaziz Masood opened the front closet of his Hoboken apartment and took out the cream-colored L.L. Bean barn coat he’d bought last year. It was one of only two coats that hung there, the other a slightly heavier Gore-Tex he’d received in the same online order. Otherwise the closet was as empty as the day he’d moved in, almost three years ago.
He chose L.L. Bean products because he figured they would help him blend in. L.L. Bean was “American wear,” as red-white-and-blue as hot dogs and apple pie and corrupt politicians and nearsighted corporate decision makers and a middle class being systematically hammered out of existence. The Bean clothes, the iPod Shuffle, the twice-daily visits to Starbucks, the tiny New Jersey apartment with an across-the-river view of New York City and the criminally high rent … It was so easy to fool these people, he’d thought a million times. Nearly three years and no one ever came knocking—not the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, or the Department of Homeland Security.… He figured one of them would show up sooner or later, having discovered his association with Lashkar-al-Islam and Ahmed Aaban el Shalizeh. And he was prepared to go down fighting if it came to that. But it never did. He marveled at their stupidity.
He slipped his arms into the coat and adjusted it to sit comfortably on his broad shoulders. He was a very handsome thirty-six, lean and trim and in excellent health. His primary care physician had assured him of the latter during his annual physical. Dr. Bateman was his name. The year before that it was Dr. Clark, and Dr. Evans the year prior. The company where he’d worked kept changing health-care plans. He didn’t really care one way or the other, but he made sure to complain along with his coworkers each time. Complaining was an American thing to do.
He slipped his hands into the large side pockets out of habit, and he found the greeting card. The phrase Good Luck from All of Us! stretched across the front in a gentle arc, surrounded by butterflies and flowers and a bright yellow sun. On the inside, over two dozen people had written little comments along with their signatures. Nothing surprising here—Best wishes! and Keep in touch! and Really enjoyed working with you! A guy named Leonard with long hair and wicked acne wrote, Abduligan the Hooligan—Rock on, man! You’re the best! He worked, at least in theory, on the maintenance staff, but he never seemed to do anything. He’d taken a liking to Masood since day one, something Masood did not want or need. There were a few like that, including a herd of young collegiate types who thought it would be cool to have a genuine Middle Eastern guy for a friend, and a girl named Tabitha who hated her parents so much that she wanted to date him just to get under their skin. She was particularly tough to shake. She had big boobs and a pretty face, and he admitted that he was tempted on a few occasions. But then he’d experience feelings of disappointment and self-disgust. Ultimately he told her he had a fiancée back in Pakistan and was trying to stay faithful. At first this seemed only to motivate her further, but she eventually gave up and set her sights on another target—a black kid in the sales department with nose rings and tattoos swarming around his arms and neck. He’d serve the purpose.
Masood told his boss he’d landed a new job in California. The truth, of course, was a little different. The email arrived last Friday: the one he’d been waiting three years for. It looked like spam, as expected. It had graphics, products, prices, and a fictional company name replete with phone number. He felt an excitement inside like none he’d ever known. The time has come, he thought with something close to giddiness.
He ripped the greeting card in half and replaced it in his pocket; he’d throw it in the public trash can by the front door when he got outside. Then he turned and took one last look around the apartment. This was not a gesture of sentimentality, but rather practicality. He scanned for clues to see if there was anything left to do. It still seemed like such a luxuriant place, especially in comparison to the mud-brick house in rural Sukkur, where he’d spent the first sixteen years of his life. Varnished hardwood floors, an icemaker on the door of the refrigerator, Jacuzzi jets built into the sides of the bathtub … The apartment had been fully furnished, too. The only possessions of consequence he had acquired were a copy of the Koran and a prayer mat, and he had donated both to a local mosque yesterday morning, leaving them in a box on the back step. He came with nothing, and he would leave only what he had been instructed to leave.
Satisfied, he opened the door and went out. He had a severe coughing jag in the hallway—the third in the past hour—and made no attempt to cover his mouth. It was a warm, phlegmy hack that came from deep down. The infection was taking root.
Good, he thought. Very good.
* * *
Contracting the virus hadn’t been much of a challenge. There was a hospital a few miles away acting as a crisis center. New cases were coming in all the time, and the scene was often chaotic and disorganized. He simply waited by the emergency-room entrance until each victim arrived, then pretended he was a hospital employee rushing to lend assistance. Finally, he began showing the early symptoms—fever, chills, general malaise—late last night. By this morning, he was coughing and sneezing every few minutes. Based on what he’d learned about the illness via television and the Internet, he knew his window of opportunity would be small. He estimated he had about ten to twelve hours before he became incapacitated.
He got on the ferry in Hoboken, a good place to start. In spite of the outbreak, it was still jammed with commuters. The great American rat race, he thought as he stood on the lower level, staying inside so the contagions would have a better chance of spreading. Rat race was a phrase he’d heard several times. They live to work, no matter what the risk. Some of them were wearing surgical masks; others stood by the railing outside, in the fresh air. The rest were apparently comfortable taking their chances. He walked by as many of these types as possible, taking in deep breaths and blowing them out slowly. He had to fight off the coughs and sneezes, but he was getting good at it. He didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself.
When the ferry reached the other side, he strolled casually down a very busy West Thirty-ninth Street. He noticed a street vendor, and an idea occurred to him. He bought four large coffees, black and hot, and sat down on a window ledge. Removing the lids one at a time, he took a long sip and then regurgitated it. Then he walked around until he found four homeless men, giving one cup to each. The last man shook his hand and told him he loved him. Masood smiled back.
He ate lunch in the most crowded restaurant he could find—an ESPN Zone—sitting at the bar near the front door so as to infect as many people as possible. The bartender, a bald and muscular man who looked like he attended neo-Nazi rallies
in his spare time, eyed him suspiciously. This made Masood nervous. He tried some friendly chitchat, but the guy wasn’t interested; he just kept watching. This forced Masood to leave earlier than planned. Before he did, however, he went into the restroom and soaked a cocktail napkin with a copious wad of phlegm and saliva. Then he tossed it onto the counter when the bartender wasn’t looking. Maybe Nazi Boy would pick it up.
By midday, everyone was back in their offices, and the sidewalk traffic thinned somewhat. Masood adjusted his strategy by getting on one bus after another. The fever had fully established itself by now, and he was feeling faint and dizzy. At Thirty-third, amid a hail of complaints from the other passengers about his occasional coughs and sneezes, the driver requested that Masood please disembark. He chuckled as he went listlessly down the stairwell, saying harriedly, “Okay, boss, I disembark, I disembark.” On the street again, he saw an ambulance zoom by. The driver was wearing a PPE suit. Everyone stopped to watch, petrified. This delighted Masood enormously. It’s starting to seep in, starting to saturate.
He spent rush hour on the subway. He found a seat in the third car, picked up a discarded copy of the Times, and did his able best to act as though he were reading it. A lot of eye contact was being made; the air was thick with tension. It was as if everyone had abandoned hope of fending it off and simply decided it was only a matter of when. He had to work hard to suppress any coughs or sneezes here, as his final destination was coming up and he couldn’t afford to get thrown off again.
