by J. D. Bishop
“What the hell did you think you were doing with that move, Pat?” Her boss, Timothy Walters, a middle-aged, white-haired man, asked. He didn't look his usual self today. He looked very pale—sickly.
Pat glanced around the chaotic newsroom. “I had to go see about my brother. He was in a very bad car accident.”
Tim leveled a stern gaze. “You could have at least warned me so I could have found a suitable replacement, not put Elijah on live with Matt. That's too much cockiness in one place. I'm surprised the damn TV screens across the city didn't blow up.”
Pat was not perturbed. Tim could chew her ass later. There were more important things to worry about. “There was no time, and you were nowhere to be found.”
Her boss sneezed violently, and Patricia quickly drew back from him in alarm. Luckily, she still had on her germ mask and gloves from the hospital.
“What?” he asked her when he recovered. “I don't have that virus that's going around. I was sick before all of this mess started.”
Patricia relaxed but still kept her distance. “Speaking of which, I just came from the hospital. It's much more serious than what we're being told. Whatever it is, I know what I saw. Military, and it’s not some summer cold.”
Her boss snorted. “That's not the worst of it. People seem to have gone mad with hysteria because of it.” He nodded to all the journalists running about. “People are calling in talking about the dead coming back to life. They're saying they’re eating people.”
Patricia's blood froze. She had just heard this very same thing from her brother and his friends, minus the eating part. It couldn't be possible. It had to be mass-hysteria. That type of stuff only happened in the movies. “I don't know about that, but I do know this sickness is very dangerous. I came back because I want to report all of this, to tell people about how serious this is.”
Tim seemed annoyed about something. “That's the thing, Pat. We've been ordered by the military not to do any reporting on this matter besides just telling people to stay in their houses, or they threatened to knock out our broadcast systems. They have their damn nerve, I tell you that!” Tim let out another turbulent sneeze. “They quoted the PATRIOT Act at us, but that wasn’t as bad as the fucking M-16s in their hands.”
Patricia intently studied at her boss, noticing all the signs of sickness. “You’d better hope you don’t have that virus that's going around, because if you do, you won't live to see the next sunrise. Who else in here is sick? They need to be told about how serious this thing is.”
Tim fought back another sneeze. “I told you I had a cold before all this started, and it appears that April, Matt, and a few others have gotten a cold since this morning.”
Patricia's blood ran cold again. It was starting to look like nowhere was safe. “Like I said, Tim, the military was at the hospital when I went to see my brother. They were trying to make my brother change his story on what happened to him and his friends. I don't know if I believe it, but it's starting to seem more plausible with these reports coming in and what I've seen of everyone getting sick. They are trying to cover something up. Good Lord, maybe the dead are rising.”
Her boss choked in disbelief as he wiped at his nose. “Come on, Pat. You're one of the most logical-thinking people I know. Surely you can't believe this horse shit flying out of people's mouths?”
Pat shook her head, eying all the confusion in the newsroom. “An hour ago, I would’ve agreed with you. I don't know what to think anymore.”
Overcome, her boss let out another sneeze, spraying the air around him. He pulled a bottle out of his pocket, taking a swing and snorting at the picture on the label. “This damned cold medicine is not working worth a damn. Sniffling and sneezing, my ass.”
Patricia was starting to think her boss didn’t have a cold at all. He had to be infected. But he was on the defensive, so it was no use trying to convince him that his life was in peril. She had a broader problem to deal with. “Why don't we just say the hell with it and do a re-broadcast on this virus?” she pleaded. “If they knock us out after it, oh well, at least we would have gotten a message out there for the people.”
Tim was not having it. “Despite their arrogance, the military does have merit in trying to keep this thing under wraps. You weren’t here in the Easy during Katrina, Pat. I saw what can happen. They don't want mass-panic because that can incite riots and mass-violence. As journalists, we do bear a certain responsibility. It would be irresponsible to tell people that they’re going to die, causing a breakdown of our city. As much as I’d like to, I think we should stay quiet on this matter. Sorry, Pat.”
Patricia felt anger rising in her stomach. “This is wrong, Tim. The people are going to be looking to us for answers. If they can't get answers from us, who will they get answers from? They sure as hell won't get it from the military, who seems to be the cause of all of this. There are people suffering and maybe dying because we can’t get the fucking news out. How many are going to be because we sit here on our asses?”
“I'm sorry, Pat. There's nothing I can do. I've got to go get some work done. Maybe you can field questions for callers and soothe their worries.” Her boss walked off to his enclosed office, coughing and sneezing along the way.
Patricia watched him, shaking her head. Did he really think the best thing to do was to lie to the public? Finally, Patricia pulled out her cellphone and dialed her mother's number.
Hello, this is Patsy. I'm not here right now, but if you leave your name and number, I'll return your call.
Patricia tried to control the fear in her voice. “Hey, Mom. It's Trish. Just checking in. Listen, there's a nasty virus going around and I need you to stay in the house with Daddy. I sent Greg to pick Natalie up from school and to take her home safely. I hope you're okay. Bye, love you.”
As she hung up her phone, Patricia shook her head ruefully. That was probably the most heartfelt message she had left her mother in years. She sincerely hoped that Greg or her daughter didn’t contract the virus. If it happened to her little girl, she might just kill herself. Greg had been in the hospital around all the sick people, so he could already have it. There was a good chance she might have the virus herself since she came close to many infected in the same hospital.
In a weird way, she had sent Greg for his niece because if she were infected, she wouldn't have been the one to seal her daughter's fate. At least here, she could do one last act of good, helping others who might have a chance to survive. She decided right then. To hell with it—if she was going to die, if she was going to never have a chance to see her daughter again, she would do her damndest so that, on the slim chance that Natalie could get out uninfected, she’d know that her mother was trying to do good.
Grabbing one of the many megaphones that lay around the newsroom, she began yelling for her co-workers. When nobody listened, she pushed the siren button. The bullhorn whooped twice, and then she shut it down to talk again. “Listen up, everyone. The virus that is going around is as serious as it gets. I've just come from St. Adrian's hospital, where I've witnessed many sick people. We're talking on death's door sick. It seems the survival rate for this virus is almost zero percent. For those of you who have suddenly contracted what seems like a cold, I’m sorry. You are infected. The longer you stay around others, the more chances you take with their lives and infecting them.”
Everyone around the office stopped what they were doing, whether they were running around or furiously typing out stories. She had their undivided attention. “My brother and his friends were in a car accident last night. Before that happened, they claimed to have come in contact with someone who was carrying the virus. This person died right in front of them. They claim that several minutes later, he was on top of their car acting like a wild animal, causing them to suffer an accident. They were taken to the hospital, where military men questioned them all night. They spent all night trying to get my brother and his friends to change their story. Why would they do such a thing if what th
ey said was so ridiculous? After being at the hospital and seeing all the sick people, I realized they were doing it to control what gets out. People who contract this virus are dying, and if reports are true, they’re coming back after death.
I did not believe this aspect of the virus at first, but now I'm not so sure anymore. I suspect that in just a few hours, we will all have the answer, but for now, all those who aren't sick, you must get to a safe place with loved ones who aren't infected. For those who are, you should quarantine yourselves here, because you’re a danger to society at large. Call your loved ones and tell them goodbye, because you have only a few hours to live. I myself might be a carrier, having just come from a place that's filled with infected. I’m giving myself time here, staying away from my daughter so that I don't infect her. I sincerely urge all of you who are well to leave now. Every minute you spend here is putting your lives and the lives of others in serious danger.”
There was a moment of stunned silence as Patricia’s words soaked in, and then the newsroom erupted in chaos. Patricia expected her boss to come flying out of his office, firing her on the spot. She was surprised when he didn’t. People were now arguing, yelling furiously and shoving each other. This was not the reaction she had hoped for.
“Please, everyone, stop arguing. Leave now if you’re not sick.” Her co-workers didn't hear her this time, too busy shouting and shoving one another. It was pandemonium, the world broken down to the law of the jungle.
Patricia sighed. She didn’t know what to do, and she needed a moment to think.
Elijah came rushing up to her, knocking squabbling people out of his way in the process. “Is it true?”
“Is what true?” Patricia snapped. Her tone came out harsher than she intended, and she immediately regretted that.
But Elijah's feelings weren’t hurt. “That the dead are coming back to life?”
Patricia shook her head. “I don't know. I really don't know what to believe anymore, ‘Lijah. What I do know is that this virus is as deadly as they come, and you are in danger being here. You should leave now.”
Elijah grabbed onto her arm. “Only if you come with me. I'm not leaving you here.”
Patricia pulled away sharply. “Don't be foolish. I might already be dead. There’s time left for some of you here. The longer you stay, the higher the chance is that you’ll end up infected."
Elijah crossed his arms stubbornly. “Nope. Not budging.”
Patricia huffed in exasperation. “Well, if you insist on dying, help me clear out the building. We're going to need some sort of weapon to enforce this evacuation. I need this room cleared for what I’m about to do. Do you still keep that gun inside your desk?”
Eli nodded. Ever since getting shanked on a story down in the Ninth Quarter and nearly losing a kidney, Elijah had learned how to use a gun—and use it well, from what he said. “Always.”
“Good. Go get it quickly.”
Elijah returned with the gun, a Glock 19, a few minutes later. He held it cradled to his chest, wanting to keep as many people from seeing it as possible to minimize the level of panic he created.
Patricia stuck her hand out. “Thanks. Give me that gun.”
Elijah hesitated, unsure. Carrying a gun under your jacket in the Ninth Quarter was one thing, but waving it around a newsroom was another. “Do you know how to handle one of these things?”
Pat glanced over at their boss's office. “I sure do. I had to do a segment on guns a while back, after that nightclub shooting, remember? There was the big debate on women and handguns, so I got the story. I was shown how to handle, load, and fire these things on several training scenarios. I'm good.”
Elijah hesitated for a moment, then nodded, handing it to her grip-first. Patricia took it, and Elijah turned around, keeping his eyes on the crowd to protect her while she did whatever damn fool idea she had in her head. Patricia climbed atop someone's desk, knocking over a stack of papers. Her high heels were killing her, and she was considering taking them off. She stood tall on the desk, overlooking the whole room. She could feel her dress rising slightly up her thighs. She pretended not to notice Elijah looking at her exposed legs when he glanced back before turning his face away, reddening slightly.
Raising the gun in the air, she fired a warning shot into the ceiling. Several cries rang out as everyone fell silent.
Patricia dropped all pleasantries. Since having a child, she’d learned about being mama lion strong, and right now, her inner mama lion was in charge. “This is not a fucking game. I want everyone but the sick on the stage of the building. Those of you who are sick, I want you on the newsroom side. I take back the words I said earlier. At this point, anyone leaving would be risking suicide without knowing if the virus is airborne or transmitted in some other way. Move now!”
The people in the building parted like the Red Sea until there was a small group of people standing together on the newsroom side and a large group of people on the stage side. Patricia breathed a sigh of relief. The uninfected still outnumbered the infected by at least three to one.
Matt, April, and a small handful of people stood in the sick group. Seeing April’s fearful face, Patricia swallowed down her sadness. She’d have time for tears later.
Patricia stared at them. “April, I want you to tell me everything you can remember that you did before you got sick.”
April looked around nervously at the gathered crowd. “I felt fine all morning. I came into work as usual and nothing was wrong. I don't know what I could have done to cause this. I did nothing different from what I normally do.”
Patricia studied her quiet friend. “There's got to be a reason or something you did. These other people and I should have been sick by now if it's airborne. I spent at least an hour around a sick ward in the hospital, but I can't make an assumption based on that. We've got to know for sure. Think, April. Think.”
April furrowed her brow in thought. A lot of people discounted her as a bimbo because of her job, but Patricia knew the girl had good brains between her ears. “Well, I was still fine when you got here and I did your hair. I remember when you left and I had to do Elijah's hair. I hadn't eaten anything all morning and the lights were starting to make me feel dizzy. I didn't have change for a drink out of the machine so I took a drink from the water fountain and then . . .”
April's voice trailed off as her eyes widened in surprise. Patricia waved her hand. “Go on, April.”
“That’s it,” she said, her voice starting to quaver. “I started feeling the first sniffles about fifteen minutes after I had a drink from the fountain.”
“So did I,” one of the other sick people said. “I woke up feeling great, but then I took a shower, and well, you know, you drink water in the shower, and I started feeling bad on the drive to work after that.”
“The virus is in our water supply," Patricia whispered, the horror creeping over her as the pieces started to line up. She looked at Matt. “Did you drink out of the water fountain, Matt?”
Matt glared angrily at her. “Pat, Come. The. Fuck. On. This doesn't mean—”
“Cut the bullshit, Matt. Answer the fucking question!” Patricia yelled, pointing the gun at Matt.
“Hey, I can have you thrown in jail for that. You need to put that—”
Patricia cocked the hammer on the Glock, her eyes ice cold as the snick cut through the quiet studio. “Last chance, Matt. Did you drink any tap water?”
Matt looked around and saw no allies in the group. He raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, you crazy bitch. Yes, I did. I used tap water to make an instant iced coffee after the morning news.”
Patricia’s eyes roamed over the rest of the group. “The rest of you?”
They all nodded their heads fearfully. A few muttered what they’d done, but it all had something in common—they’d all drunk unfiltered or unboiled tap water at some point in the past twelve hours.
Tears stung Pat's eyes as she recognized the unfairness of the death sentenc
e. She had no love for Matt, but to know that April was doomed, a sweet person if Pat ever knew one, hurt. She also felt a little relieved to know that she was not infected. She’d only had bottled water in the past day and some wine last night.
She said a little prayer inside and hoped that Greg had gotten Natalie before she could take a drink out of the water fountain at school. She knew Nattie usually drank the Perrier at home, but at school, there was only tap water available. She knew a lot of kids did that without giving it a second thought.
Drawing herself up, she told the gathered group, “All of those who are not infected, you can leave. Call your friends, family, and whoever and tell them not to drink out of water faucets or water fountains or any other place that water is dispensed. I would suggest being prepared for the worst because some of your loved ones could have already drunk from the contaminated water. If that is so, you’ll have to say your goodbyes to them, because staying around them could be deadly. It was an honor working with all of you. Please go now.”
This time, people began filing out of the building, saying their goodbyes to the affected group, Patricia, and Elijah. April got a lot of hugs, and it was with a certain amount of satisfaction that Patricia saw that almost nobody had kind words for Matt. He’d always been that much of an asshole to everyone.
“This is madness,” Matt grumbled when everyone was gone. He looked very angry at having no say in his fate. “This is total and absolute bullshit.”
Elijah carefully helped Patricia down from the desk, mindful of her nice looking legs but still being gentlemanly about it. “Well, excellent work, Trisha. At least we know we're not infected. Let's leave now.”
Elijah began walking off toward the exit of the building, but he was stopped dead in his tracks by Patricia's words.
Frozen in place, Pat announced, “I'm not leaving.”
