by Hart Johnson
“So what about this flu? What if the Zombie Apocalypse turns out to be the real deal?”
Nathan had to bite back his first response–no such thing as reanimated dead. But Stig was right. The flu was a bigger deal to him, too. “With this flu, we really should have gone with the Black Plague.” He was only half kidding. A real life epidemic would be better practice.
“Oh, yeah! Those bird men were totally creepy!” Shana said.
Nathan laughed and shook his head. The medieval doctors with their strange masks were iconic in public health.
“Bring out your dead!” Stig called.
Nathan ignored Stig. “The plague doctors were invented later—symbolic of the plague, but not actually present.”
“Some say,” Shana countered. “Other historians disagree.” The two loved to debate and Nathan liked that she could hold her own.
“I'm not dead yet,” Stig said.
Shana snorted. “You would be if you'd seen those horror contraptions coming at you. Plague doctors, my ass! Increased the death toll, I say—scared people to death.”
Nathan had to agree. They were creepy.
“Seriously, though.” Stig's face was straight again, as if the interaction had never happened.
The reversal caused Shana to burst out laughing again. She was an easy target where laughter was concerned. “We'll be fine here,” Shana said. “Young, healthy population thousands of miles from a coast. Not even any humidity to carry the germs.”
While there was something Nathan loved about Shana's attitude, he wasn't so sure. He was doing a research rotation at Boulder Community Hospital. He didn't work directly with patients, but he heard stuff, and a lot of people had died from the flu already. Shana was right about the population, but they still seemed to have been hit hard. It was elderly and people with compromised immune systems who were dying, but he'd never seen a flu so bad. He figured his career would be better bolstered by studying that than the course of a Zombie Apocalypse.
When they broke into communities for executing the Zombie Apocalypse, Nathan signed up for 'command central'. It was where he saw himself in real life: keeping track of the big picture, coordinating resources. There was a lot to prepare, and because it was less trivial than some of the other tasks in this silly scenario, he managed to feel productive and even like it was good practice.
The event itself was a week away, so in the meantime, he decided to track the flu and all its elements: vaccines distributed, sick days claimed on work records, people checking into the hospital, and of course, deaths. If he did it well, maybe he could use the material for one of the courses he was teaching. Nathan had access to hospital information through his research rotation and he figured out fairly quickly how to find employee records, which included recorded sick days. It wasn't representative of the whole Boulder population, but it was a good snapshot. The hospital was one of the larger employers, aside from the U.
The number of sick days surprised him. At first he decided he hadn't understood how many people were sick regularly, but a quick examination of monthly trends showed this was a huge jump from the month before, and more importantly, an even larger one from the same month a year earlier. The flu was hitting Boulder hard.
It was curious because the demographics were wrong. They should have fared better than other towns of the same size—certainly better than towns with older or poorer populations—but there was a national flu registry that showed that wasn't the case. Phoenix, with all its retired people, had fewer cases than Boulder. Even Denver was faring better, if he looked at percentages.
“Maybe we should be practicing the Black Plague,” Nathan said.
“What?” He'd convinced Shana to be on his team even though she'd really wanted to dress like a zombie.
“Look at these death rates.”
“Hey, you're the epidemiologist. I'm public policy.”
“Which means you have to be able to look at maps like this and decide what policies might help,” he teased. “What do you see?”
“College towns are bad for your health?”
“Right. And does that make sense to you? In any universe?”
“A zombie one.”
To prepare the master's students they'd been sharing the systems used to track epidemics in the past, so her misunderstanding was understandable. “But this is the flu.”
“It's real?” She moved closer and turned the screen to see better. “Only makes sense if they're spreading the virus in the beer. Or sexually.”
Nathan felt his jaw drop, not at her tongue in cheek suggestion of the how, but at the implication.
Shana didn’t catch it. “What did I say? The beer is fine. We just had some.”
“You said, ‘they're spreading’.”
“You know what I mean. It's an expression,” she said.
“But look. This pattern fits human decision better than anything natural.”
“Okay, can we get through the Zombie Apocalypse first and worry about conspiracy theories later?”
He judged her response to be one of fright, more than denial, but she was right that they could get back to it. This wasn't going away. Still, Nathan didn't think it was possible not to continue to worry about it, but the reality was, the zombie exercise might prove to be good practice after all.
1.3. Sarah McGrath:
Portland, Oregon
The Payoff of Double Shifts
Sarah wondered if her feet would ever regain feeling. Sitting had been a really bad idea after her double shift—sixteen hours of nursing was about ten too many. Once her feet started to tingle, she knew she couldn't stand again. Not for days. Thankfully she had four of them off now. And she was home. If she needed him to, David could carry her up the stairs to bed. She loved the look of the old foursquare house they lived in, but there were days the stairs were too much.
For the time being, she'd eat his cooking and let him refill her wine as needed. And change the channel. Some televangelist was shouting about the end of the world.
“Do we need to watch this?” Sarah asked from her sprawled position on the recliner.
He was starting dinner and chuckled like it was a great treat. He patted the remote that sat on the island that divided the kitchen from their main living space; it was out of her reach. “The world's ending, babe. You don't want to miss it!”
“Babe? Isn't that a demotion?” She'd been working at her Montana-raised fiancé's political correctness for almost three years. He was learning, but sometimes these things crept in.
David came over and knelt in front of her. “Lover. Ma bien aimée. My chocolate éclair.”
“Stop! The éclair can't be beat! I will forever be your cream-filled, flaky goodness... wait. You did that on purpose.”
He grinned wickedly. “Exactly!” He stood and snapped a hand towel at himself—self flogging was a habit he'd picked up to forestall any lecture. “Besides, Brother Beau will grow on you.”
“Like a cancer?”
“Yes. A lot like a cancer. But like a cancer you like.” He pointed and winked.
Sarah sighed. She enjoyed David's quirky sense of humor too much to stifle it, but the man on TV was likely to give her a rash if she had to keep watching it. And David had left the remote on the counter, so there was nothing she could do about it except complain.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Sid saying she was coming home early—on her way now. Sarah suspected she and David had been a bit too exuberant and in love lately, with their engagement. Sid was probably worried about walking in on them cooking naked. It was a fair concern. They'd done it just two days ago. Grant, their fourth roommate, had had a couple of long shifts and spent eighty percent of his time at his boyfriend Ricky's anyway, so they'd taken advantage of the privacy. Grant claimed to only live with them because about two days a month Ricky kicked him out, saying he needed some alone-time. But Sarah knew she and Sid were his best friends. They had fun living together.
Sid's text had an ima
ge attached that looked like sand dollars on the beach—really cool, and not remotely a reason to come home from the beach a day early. So Sarah sent it to her computer, which sat on the end table beside her. She opened it up and checked more closely, realizing it was actually dead birds.
“Oh. That explains it.”
“Explains what?” David's mouth was full when he asked, so she turned the computer screen, but reprimanded him. “Swallow that before you come over here. That's disgusting.”
He came a few steps closer then wrinkled his nose. “Not before dinner.”
“Exactly!” They were talking about different things. David was referring to the image, and Sarah, as a nurse, could deal with gross images, but not bad manners. Or snacks before dinner. All their intentional miscommunication added to how much they laughed together. She wouldn't have traded it for anything.
The sky outside was gray and drizzling. It was normal for Oregon in November. And December. And January. Oregon was rainy nine months of the year, but in terms of averages, November was the worst of it. She hoped it wouldn't interfere too much with Sid's eighty-mile drive. The road through the coastal range was winding and rarely in great condition. Rain wouldn't help.
The bright, homey house should cheer her up after the ugliness at the beach. Sarah figured a couple of happily in love roommates was exactly what the doctor ordered, provided she reminded David to keep the PDA to a minimum. And the evangelist. The television was still blaring when Sid came in through the back door.
“…drawing near. It’s clear that the almighty is saying it’s time! The earthquakes that rock the heathen nations, the hurricanes that wash away the signs of greed. The time is upon us! Repent!”
Sarah tried to get up as Sid came through the door with her arms full. Sid shut the back door with her foot and could have used some help, but Sarah's feet prickled so badly when she set them on the floor that she couldn't make herself stand. David was still intent on the television as he tore lettuce into a bowl and was oblivious to Sid's need for help.
“What the heck are you watching?” Sid asked as she dropped her bags on the floor at the base of the stairs.
“Didn’t you hear? The world is ending!” David said, dancing a little as he talked.
Sarah rolled her eyes from her chair and finally heaved herself up, giving her feet a minute to adjust before taking a step to hug Sid.
“I saw this guy for the five minutes I had the TV on in Lincoln City,” Sid said, “but I thought it was just a small town cable limitation.”
“No. He’s everywhere.” Sarah’s tone was one of bored tolerance, but David was giggling.
“He’s a hoot. He’s gone viral.”
“Why?” Sid asked.
“He says the end of the world is coming…” David said, like that resolved the issue.
“Which happens about every six months—like that guy in Florida who spent all his money on billboards a couple years ago.” Sarah stuck a spoon in David's sauce.
He stopped watching the TV long enough to swat her hand. “Yes, but this guy needs everybody’s money to spread the word and people are actually sending it.”
“Why does this please you?” Sid asked.
“It’s like a train wreck. You should cover this.”
“I’ve been trying to avoid tabloids, thanks.”
“No, seriously.”
Sarah shook her head at David's determination to sell them on this story.
“I’ve got other stuff to deal with. That dead bird thing down in Lincoln City…”
“What dead…” David began.
“The picture I showed you,” Sarah interrupted. “Sid sent it.”
“That was Lincoln City? You saw that? In person?”
Sid nodded. “Yeah. Pretty creepy.”
“Why’d it happen? Didn’t look like a spill or anything.”
“Bird flu,” Sid said as Grant came in the front door.
“Welcome home,” he said giving Sid a huge kiss, then coming over to kiss Sarah and David. Sarah obliged and David frowned and avoided it when it was his turn.
They all knew the kisses were platonic. Grant had been in his committed relationship with his partner for more than four years. Longer than Sarah and David had been together, in fact.
“Good thing I already got my flu shot,” Grant said.
“Oh no! Jeff said not to,” Sid said.
“Why not?” Sarah said. She'd gotten an order at work to get the shot herself.
“He just thought they rushed it out—that this one won’t fight the bird thing,” Sid turned to Sarah and David, “so don’t bother.”
“Guess we’ll get another when they get it fixed,” Grant said.
Sarah knew why they’d been so on top of it. Grant had come to her as a brand new nurse nearly four years ago when he found out his new love interest was HIV positive. Compromised immune systems made people pretty eager to get early vaccinations. So did nursing, but she had a little time before they'd require the proof at work, so she would see if she learned anything new about it before then.
Sarah was physically exhausted, but her head still had a committee of trouble-makers shouting absurdities at her when she finally crawled into bed. She let her head fall heavily to her pillow, but knew sleep wouldn't come easily.
David came out of their bathroom shaking his back side and turning in circles. It was his nightly dance, a ritual of theirs. Usually she shouted commands, but tonight her laugh was half-hearted. He lifted the sheet at the end of the bed and kissed her toes, but still only got a smile.
“You okay?” he asked, giving up the play.
She loved him for his concern. She knew some men could be oblivious.
“I'm just worried. You don't think Jeff's warning about the shot was anything, do you?”
“Maybe, maybe not. When do you need yours?”
“They want it by my next shift. If I don't have it, they'll probably give me forty-eight hours.”
“So that's a week, right?” He put his arms around her as he crawled into bed next to her and Sarah rested her head on his shoulder.
“About.”
“Wait until they make you. We'll have better information then.”
She hugged him. “That's why I need you. Permission to procrastinate.”
“And for a little hanky-panky?” he asked.
She grinned. “Maybe a little panky, anyway…”
1.4. Matt Jacobs:
Miami, Florida
SNAFU Defined
“Fuck!”
Matt Jacobs wasn't a man to mince words. And he wasn't thrilled to work his ass off, only to have some numbnuts screw it up for him. His time in the military had taught him the definition of SNAFU–Situation normal: all fucked up–but he didn't have to like it. He'd made it to Miami four days ahead of schedule knowing he always had to make up for somebody else's bungle. He was ready to be out of the country for a while and there was a high-paying job to do. He'd be damned if he missed the opportunity.
The mission was in Venezuela, but they were flying into Trinidad and taking a boat from there. Or that had been the plan before the fucking National Air Safety Board had grounded everybody. Worse, the people who had means to bypass NASB were suddenly all MIA. He'd checked a map, wondering if it was possible to boat the whole way, but it was way too far and fall wasn't known for kind seas.
He barreled up I-75 in a formerly-military-issue Jeep because he hadn't gotten hold of command on the phone. He'd never seen Eagle Corp run in such a shoddy way, and by the time he took 10W in the Florida panhandle, he was fuming. In Matt's experience, mercenaries normally made the military look like a half-assed Boy Scout troop in efficiency, but every step of this had been botched. In his anger it barely registered how sparse the traffic was.
It took a few more hours of driving, but finally he pulled into the Eagle Corp headquarters in Pensacola, fit to spit. Not even the decency to return his fucking phone calls.
His Army fatigues were way too h
ot, even in November. A sultry breeze came off the Gulf but it didn't cool him. Sweating gave him yet another thing to be pissed about as he slammed his door and strode to the cinderblock building that could have been any warehouse, but instead housed one of the military's most frequently-used contractors.
Matt scanned his ID for access. When the door opened, not even the air conditioning could hold off the stink of something rotting inside.
“Jesus! What's wrong with you people? Who died?” he shouted, before covering his mouth with part of his sleeve and going in. He pulled out his weapon with his other hand, the silence giving him chills. Something was wrong.
Determining what took only as long as approaching the bullet-proof glass and peering into the reception area. The young man manning the booth had slid sideways off his chair. Matt figured, based on his unnatural position that he'd died and then fallen.
That was disconcerting enough, but the smell suggested it had been a few days and nobody had found him yet, which meant nobody had been here. He tightened his grip on his gun, even though logically the gun was the last thing that would help. Nobody finding this was huge. Catastrophic. At central control, somebody was supposed to be in control.
He let himself through the main entry into the line of offices and mission rooms. Three more people were lying dead in their offices on sofas or in chairs, suggesting they'd needed to sit or lie down. A lot of blinking phones suggested people had been trying to reach them. It crossed his mind that just being here was marking himself as a dead man, but there were no bullet wounds or cuts, or signs of fighting, or anything to suggest this was inflicted from an outsider. Maybe someone had leaked a noxious gas in here, but that didn't explain no one finding them.
He finally worked his way back to the central commander's office and found Strauss, dead like the others. Last time Matt had seen Strauss he'd been barking orders to a cadet, using sweeping arm movements and with spittle flying from his mouth. He had a temper and Matt couldn't say he liked him, but he'd always seemed so vital. When he'd died, he'd been poring over a list of soldiers, the only employees Eagle Corp had, and their last known location and status. In what Matt recognized as Strauss's jerky pencil marks, eighty percent were marked dead. The rest, himself included, had been far afield or in locations unknown.
