Playing God

by Douglas Moore

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jake cut him off.

  “Well maybe you should save it for the road son, before that NSA hit squad lands on this fuckin’ payphone you were taking such good care of.”

  Paul chuckled and nodded. Jake put his hand on Paul’s shoulder as they walked towards their rooms.

  “You all right son?”

  Paul didn’t answer.

  “You need a hug.” Jake pulled at Paul to give him a hug and lighten the moment. He knew the moment would not last.

  Chapter 25

  The two vans crept along the I-40 corridor with the speed of an injured sloth. Stagnant pools of traffic pushed south into Memphis and then turned west, crossing the suspended deck of the M-Bridge.

  Jake keyed his radio. “Paul, you there?”

  “Three cars back, Jake,” Leslie answered.

  “Look to your right.”

  Flashes of light reflected off the stainless steel mirror finish of a truly remarkable land mark structure.

  “The Great American Pyramid,” Jake said. “It’s said that man fears time, but time fears the pyramids.”

  Ramses himself would have been impressed and honored by the tribute to Khufu's Horizon on the Giza Plateau. To see that more than 4,500 years after King Cheops built the Great Pyramid of Khufu, the pyramid still held sway over man’s imagination.

  They journeyed on.

  The endless snarl of traffic lumbered past the bridge’s immense web of structural steel that formed a double arch. Thus the M-Bridge. Memphis natives referred to it as the New Bridge but its official name was the Hernando de Sol Bridge, named for a Spanish explorer who had died just south of Memphis.

  The radio delivered sporadic news reports of quarantines in New York, Boston, Knoxville, and Philadelphia. Seattle and San Francisco where areas were locked down. Was there anywhere they could go?

  The vanishing point changed as trendy Mud Island disappeared. The Mississippi became a memory, tributaries a reminder, and Arkansas came into view as traffic passed north of West Memphis.

  Arkansas was very different than Tennessee with the exception of the tangled, slow procession of vehicles. Vast treeless tracts of land stretched out toward the horizon in a giant patchwork of greens and browns. Terra-cotta, burnt umber, chestnut. The cultivated fields might have inspired Crayola color swatches.

  Cotton was the older, more traditional crop, but it needed drier soil. Soya beans and rice farming arrived later and were more suitable in the wetter areas of the alluvial plain. The tiered rice fields looked like topographical maps from the air and were gaining favor in the area.

  “Diner on the left, Paul.”

  “Good. The kids are just waking up,” said Paul, keying the radio.

  “Slow ride.”

  “Almost put me out.”

  “Short stop should wake you up.”

  The sign out front of the diner read “Still serving all day breakfast.” The restaurant was just outside Forest City at Highway 1 and Interstate 40. It was packed yet calm, as if everyone had tacitly agreed upon entry that they all just needed a place to relax their shattered nerves and take a break from the unbearable congestion on the roads.

  The diner normally catered to truckers and advertised a “gear jammers breakfast special." There was nothing special about it. Jake was reminded of an old joke about two women at a senior’s home complaining about the food. ‘The food here is terrible,’ says one. The other answers, “And such small portions.”

  Paul ordered the special. It was clearly short a few advertised items, but it hit the spot.

  Jake and Leslie opted for eggs and toast. Their orders were right but as they looked around it became apparent that scrambled was the only option. The kids ate silver dollar pancakes minus the syrup, complaining the whole time. June went for a bagel and a bowl of fresh fruit which turned out to be a fruit cup. Even as they ate with the kids complaining about the lack of syrup, half portions and price gouging, they all knew things were likely to get much worse.

  After they were finished eating, Jake took out the map and let everyone have a look. They all came to the same conclusion. Highway 70, which ran parallel to I-40 looked good. They could take 70 to 31 just east of Littlerock and hopefully avoid some of the congestion.

  “You really think it’ll be quicker?” Leslie asked.

  “Can’t say. This is unreal, four-and-a-half hours for a two hour drive,” Jake grumbled. “Hope so.”

  “You wanted to go to Beebe and cut back. Is there another route?” June asked.

  “Thirty- one runs north to Beebe, but I don't know how much faster it will be. It has to be a group decision.”

  The clock on the wall read 1:30.

  “Maybe traffic will thin out at night,” Paul said.

  “I can drive a shift,” June added, then looked at Jake. “You can take a nap.”

  “I don’t know if I trust you women drivers,” Jake said, closing his eyes for the impending onslaught.

  But June and Leslie just laughed. Jake could see they were already worn out.

  “Well,” said Leslie as she stood up, “I’ll go along with whatever you guys decide. I’m going to go call Felix. He was expecting to hear from me by now.”

  “Jake and I will get in line to fuel up, then.”

  “Are the five gallon cans full?” June asked.

  “Nine cans at fifty bucks each, plus five dollars a gallon for the gas to fill ‘em. People are hoarding and gouging and when there supply is gone, they’ll run, too.”

  “Where are they all going?”

  They all turned to look at Christopher, who was usually so quiet they barely knew he was there. But he was always listening and watching.

  He was looking out the window at the never-ending line of cars exiting and entering the freeway.

  “To be with their families or somewhere safe. Just like us,” answered his father. He could see his son was concerned, and that made him concerned.

  “What’s going to happen to us? Are we going to be all right?”

  “Of course we are,” everyone answered at once.

  Christopher noticed that they hadn’t answered the first question.

  “Okay, guys. Let’s pay, gas up, and get out of here.” Paul said.

  “Yeah.” Leslie chimed in, a little more excited than she felt. “I’ll meet you guys at the pumps. Gonna make a phone call.”

  They all started to get out of the booth, when Christopher asked another tough question. “Mom, why can’t you call from your cell phone anymore?”

  They all looked at each other. It was one of those awkward moments when a child asks an honest question, whose answer is fraught with danger. How could they answer that question honestly?

  But Cassandra came to their rescue with an answer so simple that none of the adults thought of it, even though it was, at its essence, the truthful answer.

  “She left it at home, silly.”

  Then she punched him in the arm and ran toward the door, their grandmother following after.

  As quickly as that, the moment passed, and Leslie took Paul’s phone card and made her way to the payphone outside.

  The phone rang several times, which Leslie found odd. It was a direct line to Felix’s office, and during the workday, he rarely left.

  “Hello, Felix Morton.”

  “It’s Leslie.”

  “Leslie. I was worried about you.”

  “I’m sorry. This was the first chance I’ve had.”

  Leslie looked at the line to the pumps, trying to judge how much time she had. The smell of gas was heavy and hung in the air as the vehicles jockeyed for position. ‘$10 per gallon - Cash only!!!’ read a large, homemade sign outside. A ‘$7’ had been crossed out just since they sat down. Looked like the boys had gotten a deal when they filled their cans. There were men at the pumps carrying rifles.

  “Wow!”

  “What is it, Leslie?”

  “We stopped f
or gas and there’s armed men at the pumps.”

  “Get used to it. A lot of stations here have run out, all over the eastern states.”

  Leslie got back to business. “Are you going with the story?”

  “Leslie, it’s not that easy!”

  “Did someone get to you?”

  “No. Not at all. It’s the fallout from a story like this. I’m not saying we’re not interested because we are. But I’ve been told to ask you for other journals.”

  “Why? They have nothing to do with this. I’ve given you everything that’s relevant.”

  “Stein wants to check other stories to make sure this isn’t just a piece of fiction.”

  “That’s a stall. You’re scared!”

  “Damn right I’m scared. This story could start a nuclear war, for Christ sake! We have to be sure.”

  “By the time I jump through all these hoops, there won't be anyone left to go to war with,” Leslie shouted. She knew that would not be the case. By now, most governments would be hidden away in underground bunkers. Top secret facilities like Mount Weather might be used for Strategic Command, quarterbacking missile silos and nuclear subs capable of staying out long enough that the mouse pox would run its course and die out.

  “I’ll fax you what I have, and if that doesn't do it for Max, tell him I’ll take the story elsewhere.”

  “Leslie, we’re at one third our regular staff and the ship is sinking fast. If he doesn’t approve this story soon, we won’t be able to run with it, anyway.”

  “How’s circulation?”

  “Sold out every day.”

  “Takes an apocalypse to revive the newspaper business, I guess.”

  He laughed.

  “Listen, Felix. This story would reach a lot of people. Maybe even save some lives. We recently received information that Dr. Bryce in St. Louis and Dr. Evans at Walter Reed have disappeared.”

  “Your source is reliable on this?”

  “Check for yourself. Bryce was operating on the assumption that the mass vaccination program is using a placebo.”

  “You can substantiate that?”

  “We’re being chased by NSA hit men and the mouse pox. We’ve been a little busy, but this came from one of Bryce's colleagues who is very concerned about his whereabouts. According to her, they’re positive you would need a series of shots, at least two. I’ll fax you the notes. I have to go.”

  “Leslie. You have to know this wasn’t my call. Believe me. But get that info to me quick and I’ll push it to print. You have my word.”

  “Okay, Felix. Take care of yourself.”

  “Good luck, Leslie.”

  Leslie hung up the phone, turned and started a slow jog to the pumps. She was stopped by a man with a gun.

  He was a Neanderthal, at least six-eight and heavy set with dark scraggly hair. The barrel of his shotgun was trained on Leslie, dead center mass.

  All the air whooshed out of her lungs, and she struggled to find her voice. Behind him, she could see Paul and Jake on the other side of the pumps, their backs to her and her assailant.

  His eyes looked black and empty, like a doll’s eyes, but then they glinted and she could see dark pupils boring into hers, and suddenly she could feel his eagerness, as if he was waiting for the least little excuse to blow a hole in her chest. His finger moved slightly on the trigger and she thought she was going to die.

  Leslie took a deep breath. Her mouth was like cotton.

  Get a grip, for fuck’s sake.

  She found her voice.

  “My husband is just over there filling up,” she said. “With my children.”

  “You shouldn’t be running. It could be taken fer aggression.”

  “What’s with all the men and the hardware?”

  “You’se pushing it lady.”

  “Why?”

  “What’s with all the questions? Yer some kind a reporter?” The big man asked, slow and surly.

  Leslie shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyebrows as if the question was ridiculous.

  “As a matter of fact I am.”

  “That so?”

  “Yeah.”

  Leslie looked toward the pumps. There were so many cars and people roaming around, she could barely see Jake and Paul, and she damn sure knew they couldn’t see her.

  She shifted her eyes back to the big man’s.

  His eyes had lost a bit of their flinty edge, and he lowered the barrel of his shotgun. Not all the way, but enough so that Leslie figured he no longer wanted to shoot her.

  “Wez almost out a gas. You best git to yer vehicle ‘fore the trouble starts.”

  He said it casually, as if “the trouble” were a regularly scheduled event.

  Leslie searched the man’s eyes and didn’t like what she saw.

  She scurried over to Paul. He had been totally oblivious, as was Jake, their view partially obstructed by a beat up trailer.

  “Paul, I hope you’re done.”

  “Waiting for Jake to pay.”

  “We just made it. That hillbilly told me they’re almost out of gas and they’re waiting for the trouble to start, whatever that means.”

  “Jesus. I thought the guns were to keep people from stealing gas.”

  “They may have been but they’re probably expecting trouble when they run out.”

  They both looked at the long line, which now seemed to stretch for miles along the service road. If they ran out of gas, Leslie didn’t know if those shotguns were enough for crowd control. She decided not to mention the man had threatened to shoot her. No sense. They just needed to get out of there.

  Jake and June walked toward them from the cashier’s booth with Cassie and Christopher between them. They looked like two people out for a casual stroll with their grandkids.

  “What took you so long, Leslie? It’s getting a little crazy around here.”

  Leslie didn’t know whether to kiss him or kill him. She just nodded.

  “I’ll radio you from the road and you can fill us in on Felix.”

  They climbed into the vans and pulled out. It wasn’t until they were a mile down the road that Leslie realized Jake’s gun had been tucked into his jeans.

  He’d known, of course. But he was watching out for the kids.

  *

  Time marched on, but Folkstone and his men didn't. They were holed up, waiting for a break. They were at an army base set back in the Mark Twain National Forest in the heart of the Ozarks. It was just southwest of St. Louis and used primarily to train military police and the U.S. military Corps of Engineers.

  Their break came shortly after two o'clock on a secure landline in yet another office lent out as a courtesy.

  “Highway 1 and I-40, Major,” said the raspy drawl. “She called Felix Morton at the Times from a payphone at a gas station near Forest City, Arkansas.”

  “They’re heading west?”

  “And getting help. They received information that Dr. Andrew Bryce and Dr. Evans have disappeared. They also know the vaccine is a placebo, and that a real vaccine will require a series of shots.”

  The raspy drawl continued.

  “Leslie Sardis said when asked about confirmation on the vaccination being a placebo and I quote ‘Felix. We’re being chased by a team of NSA hit men and the mouse pox. We’ve been a little busy but this came from one of Bryce's colleagues who is very concerned about his whereabouts. According to her, they’re positive you would need a series of shots. At least two.”

  “Her?”

  “Dr. Lisa Harmer is the only female on his team,” answered the man with the raspy voice.

  “You check her phone records?” Folkstone asked.

  “One long distance call to District Eight Highway Patrol in Lillington. One call to Walter Reed from District Eight regarding Doctor Evans. Any ideas, Major?”

  From the sound of his voice, Folkstone could tell the raspy son of a bitch already knew the answer to that question, and it was his own goddamn fault.

  “N
osy first sergeant named Pat Michaels from the crash site at Loop Road.”

  Folkstone knew everyone was expendable, and Michaels was his fuck up.

  “I’ll take care of it, sir.”

  “No, you will NOT!” The rasp screamed, causing Folkstone to draw the phone away from his ear.

  The raspy drawl paused, and then continued in a normal tone as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “We’ll take care of that. You stick to your objective. I’ll fax transcripts of the calls. Maybe you’ll hear something I missed.

  Yeah right, Folkstone thought.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Two days, Folkstone.”

  The line went dead. Fucking asshole. I’ll put that cocksucker in the ground. Maybe open up a spot for my fuckin’ daughter.

  Folkstone dialed the phone.

  “Ten minutes Toombs. Tell the men and get clearance.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “And Toombs. Extra hardware.”

  Toombs smiled. He liked the hunt, but he loved the kill.

  Chapter 26

  No motels. Put some distance between them and the turnpike. Jake knew he’d messed up. He was tired, but he’d refused to let June drive. His goal had been Perkins, Oklahoma. He told Paul, but Leslie was at the wheel and must have had no idea. After so many hours following the ribbon of blacktop in heavy traffic, Leslie had been lulled into a mild tunnel vision and was more than content to follow Jake’s tail lights. He had pushed south, back toward I-40, and just passed a small spit of a town called Arapaho on highway 183 when the van began to sputter. Jake knew he needed gas, but it was late and every gas station he passed was either closed or out of fuel.

  “Jake, you okay there?” Leslie asked into her headset.

  “Yeah. Needed gas, but I was hoping to make Stafford on I-40. Everything we passed was closed or out.”

  “It’ll give me time to stretch, anyway. Gas easy to get at?”

  “I’ll make it quick.”

  Leslie slowed and swung in behind Jake on the shoulder, spitting loose gravel that pelted the underside of the van. Her headlights cast long beams that splashed out over the field. The tall grass flowed in great rolling swells as a gentle breeze washed over the hills. The field looked as if it hadn’t been worked in years.