The Scourge (Book 1): Unprepared Page 4

  “No, it’s Sling. I don’t pay for cable.”

  “I don’t know anybody who does.” Brice took the bottled water and held out his hand as Mike shook two pills into his palm. “I just figured since you still shop at the outlet mall…”

  “You’re a funny guy,” said Mike.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Mike sank onto his sofa and propped his feet on the coffee table, avoiding a pair of bottles. He tossed back two Tylenol and took a swig of cold water to chase it.

  Brice turned up the volume. It was too loud. They both winced and he lowered the sound two clicks. The news anchor had a dour expression. Behind her was a superimposed image emblazoned with the words A New Plague?

  There was another, smaller graphic in the upper left corner of the screen that showed the news was a replay of a newscast that had originally aired at two in the morning.

  “…appears to have begun in Iranian refugee camps. The pneumonia is believed to come from a deadly bacterial strain scientists have isolated to Yersinia pestis. It’s airborne, spreads rapidly, and can kill its host within forty-eight hours in extreme conditions. Reporter John Mubarak brings us the latest from a camp north of the Iran-Turkmenistan border near the city of Ashbagat…”

  “I thought it started in Syria,” said Mike.

  Brice took a pull on the bottle and shrugged. He swallowed the mouthful of water. “Who knows, man? But this sounds serious, right?”

  The reporter looked wizened, as if he’d worked for days with no breaks other than a few minutes for smokes and coffee. A black and white beard that resembled the unkempt mange of a homeless man hid much of his face.

  “…through the mountains of northeastern Iran to reach this camp was a challenge enough for the thousands who braved it,” he said. “Now that they’re here, they’re facing a graver danger in this tent city with close quarters. A deadly disease international doctors have nicknamed the Scourge is ravaging those at their most vulnerable.”

  Brice thumbed the remote and changed the channel. It switched to another news channel.

  “Sure,” said Mike. “Change the channel. Make yourself at home.”

  Brice smirked and turned up the volume. He took another swig of his water.

  The screen was split between a news anchor and some communicable disease expert from Houston, Texas. The expert was in a white lab coat with the city’s skyline behind him.

  “What I’m saying is that this is something about which everyone should be concerned. The speed of transmission, the latency, and the mortality rate all contribute to a perfect storm. This strain is powerful. It’s a superbug, and we don’t have an effective way of combating it.”

  “Given all of that,” asked the news anchor, “what do you suggest our viewers do? Should they go to their doctors if they exhibit the earliest symptoms? Should they stay home?”

  The expert paused and looked off camera. Then his eyes found the camera again.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he said, his brow furrowed. “Already eastern Europe is coping with its worst outbreak of disease in decades. There are cases reported in London and Glasgow. Montreal had its first confirmed case this morning. Mexico City reported seven cases within the last hour. Hospitals are already at capacity in some locations. Ventilators are at a premium.”

  The news anchor held up a hand. Concern spread across his face. “Wait, you’re telling me the disease is already in North America, which confirms reports we’ve heard? And that there’s nothing we can do to stop it? Do people even go to work, to school, to the grocery store? Or should they barricade themselves inside safe rooms and turn off the air conditioning to their homes?”

  Mike uncapped his bottled water and sipped from it. He thumbed condensation from the vinyl label on the outside of the bottle. He’d forgotten about Ashley for the moment.

  “I’m not trying to be alarmist,” said the expert. “I’m—”

  The news anchor stared directly into the camera. His face was reddened beneath his makeup. “You are being alarmist. You’re telling us this is an apocalyptic pandemic. What you’re saying is bound to induce panic.”

  Words scrolled along the bottom of the screen. They were more concerning than the expert.

  “20,000 dead in Iran. Syrian State media reports widespread violence and panic, Hundreds dead in Czech Republic. UK on lockdown, France/Germany/Italy declare martial law, international air traffic under review.”

  “Then I’m alarmist,” said the expert. “I’m only telling you that, for my family, I’ve—”

  “I have to interrupt you,” said the news anchor. “We’ve got breaking news. The Federal Aviation Administration has ceased all international travel. There are no incoming or outgoing flights. I understand there’s a press conference in Washington. Let’s take you there live.”

  The screen swirled with a new Breaking News graphic, which spun off the screen to reveal a grim man at a lectern. The graphic underneath him read Jason Leigh, FAA Administrator.

  “…abundance of caution, we’ve come to that conclusion. We understand the inconvenience and the impact of this decision. We did not reach it lightly, I assure you. But given the intelligence provided to our agency by the Centers for Disease Control, the World Health Agency, the International Red Cross, the United Nations Security Council, and the Federal Emergency Management Agency, we are taking what we know to be the best course of action.”

  Mike and Brice exchanged glances, and Mike wondered if his expression appeared as worried as his friend’s. His head pounded and he regretted the Nemiroff. And the hard cider. He pinched the bridge of his nose and turned back to the television. A reporter was asking a question of the FAA administrator.

  “…current air traffic?”

  “That’s an excellent question,” said the administrator. He gripped both sides of the lectern. “On any given day we would have eighty-seven thousand flights over the United States. A good third of them are commercial flights. Then there are general aviation aircraft, otherwise known as private aircraft. Additionally, there are air taxis and cargo planes. And this doesn’t include military aircraft.”

  Administrator Leigh put on a pair of round wire-frame glasses that rested on the end of his nose. He looked down at something on the lectern and ran his fingers along it. He looked up and took off the glasses, gesticulating with them as he spoke. “We’ve got forty-seven hundred commercial flights in the air right now. Once they’ve landed, we’ll initiate the ground stop. There are also more than six hundred airborne general aviation aircraft, additional taxis and cargo. They’ve all been asked to complete the current leg of their flight plans and then hangar their respective aircraft. We expect within four hours, all air traffic in the United States will cease for the time being. That includes the package service and cargo flights I mentioned. The only planes you’ll see in the sky, the only aircraft, will be military. If you have questions about that, I’d refer you to the DoD.”

  Leigh pointed with the glasses at another reporter. He folded the frames and stuck them into the breast pocket of his dark blue suit jacket. The bright red necktie was loose at his unbuttoned collar but still knotted.

  “What about travelers who are stranded?” asked the reporter. “How do they reach their final destinations?”

  Leigh nodded his understanding of the questions. His expression tightened with genuine empathy. “It’s a difficult situation to be sure. We’re talking about thousands, possibly tens of thousands of air travelers who either can’t get home because they’re stuck somewhere, or those who are mid-trip on what was to be a layover.”

  Brice muted the television with the remote. “Dude, imagine how much that would suck. Like, you’re on a trip to LA and you can’t get back?”

  “Even worse, if you’re at an airport like Houston or Atlanta and you can’t get a rental car or anything. I don’t know what I’d do.”

  Brice aimed the remote at the television. “This is unreal.”

  “…will no
t have an answer. The best I can tell you is that this will create an uncomfortable situation for those who cannot find alternate forms of transportation. We did not make this decision lightly. We are doing this because it’s what we believe is the most prudent course of action given the lethality and unpredictability of the illness.”

  Mike’s phone chimed. Another text message. He held the device up to his face and it unlocked. As he thumbed the screen to read the text, Brice’s phoned chirped and vibrated on the glass coffee table.

  Brice muted the television again and reached for his phone. He grunted, leaning as far as he could without getting up.

  “Are you kidding me?” Mike said after reading the text. He sighed and motioned to Brice’s phone, still a half inch from Brice’s fingers. “Don’t bother reading it.”

  Brice sat back, his eyebrows wrinkled with concern. “What?”

  “I bet you got the same text I did,” said Mike. “That’s Hank. He wants us at work. ASAP.”

  “It’s Saturday,” said Brice. “What’s it say?”

  Mike cleared his throat. “Sales team,” he read, “I need you at the station today. We have to clear our third-quarter books. Given the circumstances, not a good idea to wait until Monday to make this happen. This is not optional. It’s not a drill. Be there. I’ll buy dinner and breakfast.”

  Brice cursed under his breath. Then he cursed again, louder.

  “The world is ending,” said Mike, “and our boss is worried about accounting.”

  CHAPTER 3

  OCTOBER 2, 2032

  SCOURGE +/- 0 DAYS

  ORLANDO, FLORIDA

  The airport was a zoo. Orlando’s airport was always chaotic. It overflowed with families unaccustomed to the ritual of efficient travel and clueless, vacation-fogged tourists who didn’t know their left from their right. It always made moving through the airport as unenjoyable as Miriam Weber experienced at any of the many places she traveled.

  She was a social media brand consultant who pulled in mid-six figures and who was on the road two-thirds of the year. Orlando was one place she visited often, working with both a water park and a hospital chain. She’d spent a week working her magic and was ready to be home in North Carolina.

  It was fall in the Triangle, her favorite time of year. The cool air was scented with firewood and charcoal, and the sun shone enough to burn off the chill of early morning.

  She had a date that night. He worked at a software company, and his online profile was promising. She’d scoured his social media profiles. There were a lot of pictures of the guy at sporting events: hockey, college basketball, on the golf course. There were few photographs or mentions of women. She could tell he hadn’t scrubbed his accounts in a while, so he wasn’t hiding anything. Too many men tried to hide things. Not this one, and that was what made the delay unpalatable. She checked her watch and glanced at the crowd of people ahead of her in line for security. Making it back in time for the planned rendezvous at a downtown Raleigh oyster bar was not likely.

  People who were not supposed to be in the line for Pre-Check and who didn’t hold Platinum Premium status clogged the artery that might have otherwise led to a smooth, effortless trip to the twin monorails leading to her terminal and an hour in the Frequent Fliers Platinum Premium Club.

  She was twirling her packed carry-on suitcase on its spinner wheels when the announcement through the overhead speakers drew her attention and she froze. Was she hearing this right? All air traffic was stopped?

  “If you have cleared security, please proceed to the monorail for egress to the main terminal,” said the monotone, disaffected voice. “If you have not yet cleared security, please move to your airline’s ticketing counter for further instructions. Again, all flights are indefinitely delayed.”

  Miriam didn’t wait for the message to repeat. She slid underneath the vinyl barrier, extending it up over her as she stepped out of line. Suitcase in tow, its wheels rolling effortlessly across the floor, she moved toward the big board that gave the latest flight information.

  Her jaw slackened as she stood there, watching the word CANCELED populate next to flight after flight after flight. Every one of the dozens of departing flights had the notation next to it. That included her nonstop to RDU originally scheduled to depart in two hours.

  A crowd was gathering around her, fingers pointing and frustration rising in voices. Children cried. Men cursed. Women soothed.

  Miriam checked over her shoulder toward the escalators that led down toward the baggage claim and the rental car counters. They were packed. Already, people merged in a haphazard, panicked way.

  She pulled her phone from the outside pocket of her cross-body purse and tapped to the ride-sharing app she’d used to get from her hotel to the airport less than an hour earlier. Two more taps and a high-end SUV was on its way to get her. She made a note to have it pick her up from departing flights. It was always easier to get out of an airport from the departing flights level. People were in a hurry. At arriving flights, too many people waited for their passengers. It made getting out of the airport taxing. Miriam didn’t enjoy taxing. She liked Instagram-quality moments twenty-four hours a day.

  There were two people she could call. One was an older cousin who lived in New Smyrna Beach. Another was a like-minded friend of hers from college, whom she hadn’t seen in months, who lived in an Orlando suburb. Miriam had a standing invitation to stay with her. She’d do that. The cousin would be her backup. He was a good guy who’d help her in a pinch. But he had a wife and two kids and, from his social media, appeared boring. Her friend from college was anything but boring. If Miriam Weber was going to be stuck in Central Florida lamenting the loss of a hot date, it would be far better to whine and wine than to feign interest in her cousin’s “basic” existence. Still, she pulled up his contact info, tapped the address to pop up the directions in a mapping application, and took a screenshot. It was easier to pull up a pic than to go searching again, especially if she was in a spot that had bad reception.

  Typing with both thumbs, she sent a quick DM to her friend through a social media app. She told her she was on her way, would see her soon, and the drinks were on her. She closed the app and refocused on getting out of the airport. Wafts of cheap cologne and body odor drifted past her. She drew up her nose and held her breath.

  Miriam turned sideways to squeeze between the two people next to her and moved deliberately through the deepening crowd transfixed by the big board. She gave quick smiles and thank-yous to the people who moved out of her way. Those who didn’t were asked politely at first and then less politely when she shouldered her way past them without regret.

  After it taking longer than it should have, Miriam rolled her bag, and the leather briefcase atop it, through the glass exit doors and back into the surprisingly humid central Florida air. The traffic at the curb was heavier than when she’d arrived. Horns and shouts were drowned out by accelerating bus engines and police whistles.

  Miriam checked her phone. Amir, her driver, was two minutes away. He was in a black Land Rover with Florida plates. She fingered away the perspiration from her temples and dabbed it from under her eyes. Amir had better have the AC on blast.

  CHAPTER 4

  OCTOBER 2, 2032

  SCOURGE +/- 0 DAYS

  LAKE MARY, FLORIDA

  The radio station was south of Lake Mary Boulevard and fronted the eastbound lanes of I-4. On a normal day, in rush-hour traffic, it would take Mike fifteen minutes to drive from the parking spot outside his apartment to the one in front of the station. Today, he and Brice had been in his Jeep forty-five minutes and still had a couple of blocks to go.

  They’d taken his Jeep because Brice didn’t want to put mileage on his. The lease was low mileage. Plus, Brice contended his headache was worse than Mike’s. Mike wasn’t sure how that was possible. He felt every pulse in his temples and across his forehead.

  “This is ridiculous,” said Brice.

  Mike tapped the accelerat
or and the brake simultaneously. The Jeep edged forward and jerked to a stop. “That’s the fifth time you’ve said that.”

  “It’s that ridiculous,” said Brice. “The lines at the gas stations spilling into traffic. The stuffed shopping center parking lots. It’s like ten times what happens when a hurricane is on the way.”

  Mike couldn’t disagree. He’d lived through countless hurricane seasons along the Atlantic coast. June to December always carried the possibility of a threat. Storms bloomed in the Caribbean at first. Then they crossed the ocean from the western African coast. Central Florida was on constant alert. At least it felt that way.

  For days at a time, channels nine, six, and two would post reporters along the coast in Brevard or Volusia Counties. They’d stand in front of the calm surf and talk about what was coming. Their meteorologists or weather people would stand in front of maps that showed the swirling low-pressure systems, talking about different models, all of which pointed to a different landfall location.

  Mike received alerts from the stations to both his phone and his tablet. There would be frightening headlines. Half the time the storms didn’t materialize into anything damaging. Everything was breaking or developing or urgent. Everything.

  Yet Brice was right. Even when a category four or five might churn offshore, people didn’t act like this. Sure, they cleared the grocery stores of water and canned goods, and gas stations ran dry. Never were people this panicked though.

  “Should we be shopping instead of going to work?” asked Brice. “I mean, if the world is coming to an end, we won’t have jobs to get fired from.”

  “From which,” Mike corrected.

  Brice arched an eyebrow. “From which what?”

  “Jobs from which to get fired,” said Mike. “You ended the sentence in a preposition.”

  Brice rolled his eyes. “That’s annoying. You should stop doing that.”