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“Funny, that’s what Track said ten days ago. Bullshit in a hermetically sealed bunker is still bullshit.”
She read about a group of people hoarding food, water, and supplies in an elementary school in Queens firing on others who tried to break in.
Five dead, including a woman carrying a ten-month-old baby.
On the other end of the spectrum, a church in the Maryland suburbs was handing out blankets, MREs, candles, batteries, and other basics.
Reports of murders, suicides, rapes, maimings. And a scattering of reports on heroism and simple kindnesses.
Of course, there were the lunacy reports of people claiming to have seen creatures with luminous wings flying around. Or of a man impaling another man with flaming darts shot out of his fingertips.
She read reports of the military transporting volunteers believed to be immune to secured facilities for testing. Where are they? she wondered. And quarantines of entire communities, mass burials, blockades, a firebomb hurled onto the White House lawn.
The fanatical preacher Reverend Jeremiah White, who claimed the pandemic to be God’s wrath on a godless world and proclaimed the virtuous would survive only by vanquishing the wicked.
“They walk among us,” was his latest cry, “but they are not as us. They are as from hell, and must be driven back to the fire!”
Arlys made notes, checked other sites. More going dark every day, she thought as she surfed.
Checking her watch, she brought up Skype to connect with a source she trusted more than any other.
He gave her his rubbery grin when he came on-screen. His hair sprang everywhere at once, a Billy Idol white slick around his pleasantly goofy face.
“Hey, Chuck.”
“Hey, Awesome Arlys! Still five-by-five?”
“Yeah, and you?”
“Healthy, wealthy, and wise. Did you lose any more?”
“I don’t know yet. I haven’t seen anyone else this morning. Bob Barrett’s still not showing up. Lorraine Marsh lost it yesterday.”
“Yeah, saw that.”
“I’ll pick up her afternoon report because I don’t see her coming back. We’ve still got some crew. Carol’s in the booth, and Jim Clayton’s been coming in every day for the last ten or so. It’s pretty surreal when the head of broadcasting shows up to pick up as gaffer or whatever needs filling in. And Little Fred’s still stocking the commissary, writing some copy, playing gofer, doing some on-air.”
“She’s totally cute. Why don’t you set me up with her?”
“Happy to. Give me your address and I’ll bring her right to you.”
He gave her that grin again. “Wish I could, but the walls have ears. The fucking air has them. Your friendly neighborhood hacker needs his Batcave.”
“Batman wasn’t friendly, he was a brilliant psycho. And Spider-Man didn’t have a cave.”
He gave her a cackling chuckle. “Only another reason I’m your biggest fan. You can school me on superheroes. Favorite report you read this morning?”
“The one about the naked woman riding a unicorn in SoHo.”
“Man, I’d love to see a naked woman, with or without unicorn. It’s been awhile.”
“I’m not stripping down for you, Chuck. Not even for the buzz you’re going to give me.”
“We’re pals, Arlys. Pals don’t require naked.”
“So, what’s the buzz?”
The grin faded away. “You caught today’s tally?”
“Yeah.” Both the Times and the Post ran a daily updated total of reported deaths. “We’ve topped a billion by five hundred million, three hundred twenty-two thousand, four hundred and sixteen.”
“That’s the official count for the media. The real count’s more than two.”
Her heart jumped. “More than two billion? Where’d you get that number?”
“I’ve gotta keep that under the vest. But it’s real, Arlys, and it’s going up a lot faster than the people in charge of this clusterfuck are saying.”
“But … Jesus God, Chuck, that’s nearly a third of the world population. A third of the world population wiped out in weeks?” Sick, she scribbled the number down. “And that doesn’t count the murders, the suicides, the people killed in crashes, fires, stampedes, the ones who’ve died of exposure.”
“It’s going to get worse, Arlys. In the saga of revolving POTUS? Carnegie’s out.”
“Define ‘out.’”
“Dead.” He rubbed his eyes, a pale and cagey blue in a lightly freckled face. “They swore in the new one about two this morning. Secretary of Agriculture—the ones ahead of her already hit by the Doom. Fucking farm lady is now running what’s left of the free world. If you report that, the jackboots are going to come kicking down your door.”
“Yeah. I’ll kill the comp like you told me if I decide to go on air with it. Agriculture.” She had to flip back through notes to the list she’d made. “She was eighth in line.”
As she spoke Arlys crossed out those who came between, and saw she’d already crossed out several following.
“If she doesn’t make it, we’re down to the Secretary of Education, and after him, there’s nobody left.”
“Honeypot, the government’s finished. Not just here, all over hell and back again. It’s a hell of a way to get rid of asshole dictators, but it’s a way. North Korea, Russia—”
“Wait
. Kim Jong-un? He’s dead? When?”
“Two weeks ago. They’re claiming he’s alive, but that’s bogus. You can take it to the bank. If there’s still one open. But that’s not the biggest buzz. It mutated, Arlys. Carnegie—POTUS for a day? Well, three days. He had sores, sores broke out all over his body—and inside delicate orifices—before he showed the expected symptoms of the Doom. He was sealed tight, under watch twenty-four-seven, tested three times a day, and it still got him.”
“If it’s mutated…”
“Back to the drawing board with two billion plus and counting. But here’s the big boom: They don’t know what the fuck it is. The bird flu line? It’s bullshit.”
“What do you mean?” Arlys demanded. “They identified the strain. Patient Zero—”
“It’s bullshit, Arlys. The dead guy in Brooklyn, maybe. But the Doom ain’t no bird flu. Birds aren’t infected. They’ve been testing chickens and pheasants, and all kinds of our feathered friends, and nothing. And four-legged animals? They’re just fine and just dandy. It’s just humans. Just people.”
Her throat wanted to close, but she forced out the words. “Biological warfare? Terrorism.”
“No buzz on that, just nada, and you bet your fine ass they’ve been looking. Whatever the hell it is, nobody’s ever seen it before. What’s left of the powers-that-be? They’re lying, falling back on the let’s-not-cause-panic bullshit. Well, fuck that. Panic’s here.”
“If they can’t identify the virus, they can’t create a vaccine.”
“Bingo.” Chuck shot up a finger, made a check mark in the air. “They’ve got another route, and it doesn’t inspire confidence. I’m hearing chatter about military roundups, pulling people who are—so far—asymptomatic out of their homes, and taking them to places like Raven Rock, Fort Detrick. They’ve set up checkpoints, and they’re doing neighborhood sweeps, closing off urban areas. If you plan to get out of New York, sugarcake, do it soon.”
“Who’d report the news?” But her stomach clenched. “And how would I talk to you every day?”
“I figure I’ve got time before they come knocking, and I’ve got an escape hatch. If you use this, Arlys, no shitting around, get gone. Get supplies you can carry and get out of the city. Don’t fuck around.”
He paused, shot her that grin again. “On that note. Hit it, Frank!”
Arlys closed her eyes, let out a weak laugh when she heard Sinatra crooning “New York, New York.”
“Yeah, I’m spreading the news.”
“He sure made it. Skinny guy from Hoboken. Hey, I’m a skinny guy, too. It’s got a ring, right? Hoboken.”
His grin stayed wide, but she saw his eyes—his intense and serious eyes. “Yeah, I did a fluff piece there a million years ago.”
“Podoken Hoboken. It ain’t no Park Avenue, but its number-one boy sure went places. Anyway, gotta book. I was hackedy-hacking till three in the a.m. Three in the morning’s past even this boy’s bedtime. Keep it real.”
“You, too, Chuck.”
She ended the call, pulled up a street map of Hoboken.
“Park Avenue,” she mumbled. “And found it. Number One Park Avenue, maybe? Or … Park crosses First Street. Park and First, three a.m. if I get out of Manhattan.”
She got up, paced, trying to absorb all Chuck had told her. She trusted him—nearly everything he’d told her up to that morning had been verified. And what hadn’t been officially verified had swirled into the anonymous-sources category.
Two billion dead. Mutated. Yet another dead president. She needed to do some research on Sally MacBride—Ag Secretary turned POTUS, according to Chuck. She’d be ready if and when the change of power was announced.
If she went on the air with that, the uniforms—or the men in black—would certainly swarm the station. Take her in for questioning, maybe shut it all down. In the world that had been she’d have risked questioning, risked being hauled into court to protect a source. But this wasn’t the world that had been.
She’d stick with officially verified reports for her morning edition, that and her own observations. Then she’d write up copy from Chuck’s intel. Monitor the Internet—Little Fred could help her with that. If she could name another source, even from the deep Web, she’d protect herself and Chuck. And the station.
