The Flu 1/2 (30 page)

But Lars didn’t. He shook his head and walked out.

He decided to head outside for a while, maybe fifteen, twenty minutes, give his anger a chance to die down. Lars glanced across the field at the campers that waited to get into Lodi. Those people would never make it into town.

As he wearily stepped away from the trailer, Lars planned on walking off his aggravation.

“Dr. Rayburn,” the muffled voice spoke through the gas mask. “Time’s up for this trailer. Do we let them in?”

“No.” Lars shook his head. “Lock it and then mark it.”

“The flu?” the man asked.

“Yes.” Lars nodded solemnly. “The flu.”

* * *

Los Angeles, California

“You have to admit...” Jeff popped a goldfish cracker into his mouth, “it was pretty brave and ingenious.”

Darrell spoke through his push up routine on the floor, “Smart move by the program director.”

“Looking out for people’s best interest. I mean, it may be the Three Stooges, but it isn’t the news.”

“I thought you liked the news.”

“I love the news. But there’s only so much news you can watch.”

“True,” Darrell agreed.

“So as a...”

Both men let out a disappointed ‘aw’ when, with a diminishing hum, everything went black and the television went out.

“Damn it.” Darrell stopped his pushups. “I knew this would eventually happen.”

“And just when television was getting good again,” Jeff griped.

“Son of a bitch. And it’s pitch black, too.”

“Good thing there’s still some daylight left.” Jeff got off his bed and walked to the window opening the drapes. “There.” Evening light entered the room.

Slowly, Darrell stood up. “No lights. No TV. No phone. This doesn’t look good. Maybe we should just cut out.”

“No,” Jeff was insistent. “We don’t have much time left to wait it out. I consider myself well-informed, and being well-informed about this flu, I am not going out to breathe that air or chance getting shot for two more weeks.”

“But there’s no power, no—”

“You don’t know,” Jeff interrupted. “It may just be this section of the city. How do we know there aren’t bands of snipers just waiting to derive sick pleasure out of shooting people that try to get out of this city? No, if you want to go…go. I’m waiting. I’ll set the alarm on my watch.”

“I’ll wait.” Darrell sat on the bed. “No one’s left in the hotel anyhow. I’ll go down and lift the freezer goods before they go bad.”

“Good idea.”

“So, let me ask you a question. Where do we go after the three weeks are up?” Darrell asked.

“Where do you think? Lodi,” Jeff said smugly. “We have to pick up Rodriguez.”

“Do you think we still have to do that? I mean, we haven’t talked to the Captain in three days.”

“Absolutely,” Jeff stated adamantly. “Who knows? What happens if we fail to get Rodriguez and all is fine in Ohio? This could be a big test for us.”

“In the meantime we just hang around in the dark and wait?” Darrell tapped his hand on the bed. “It’ll get boring.”

“What are you, nuts? There’s lots to do. We can sleep. Have in-depth conversations. Exercise. We’re past the awkward stage so sex is always an option. And...there’s still all those magazines in the gift shop we haven’t even touched.”

“True.”

“So don’t worry about it. We don’t have much time left. It’ll be over before you know it and we can officially call ourselves survivors.” Liking that thought, and happy he at least made Darrell feel a little better, Jeff proceeded to set the timer on his watch for their ‘freedom’ day.

* * *

Lodi, Ohio

A light trickle of bourbon poured from the bottle over the ice in Mick’s glass. Cigarette clenched between two fingers, he swished the alcohol around.

“Go home, Mick,” Lars instructed as he took the bottle, poured a little then passed it to Patrick.

“Yeah, Mick, go home,” Patrick reiterated. “Why are you still up?”

“Afraid of trouble, that’s all.” Mick sipped his drink. “I just feel better knowing, right now, I’m here.”

“How many did you take out today?” Lars asked.

“Sixteen,” Mick replied.

“Why are you bothering?” Patrick reached for Mick’s pack of cigarettes, looked at him for approval, then took one. “I mean, why don’t you just light the whole camp on fire? Burn it, take out your problem all at one time.”

Lars turned a quick view to Patrick. “Isn’t that just like a criminal to say that?”

Patrick gasped. “I’m joking. Besides, I am not a criminal.”

“Aren’t you under arrest?” Lars asked.

“Well, yes.”

“Well, you are then.”

“Nobody knows.” Patrick lit the cigarette. “And I just like to refer to myself as a money-conscious borrower.”

Mick interjected, “Who borrowed over a hundred mil.” He whistled. “Do you still have any of it?”

“Yeah,” Patrick answered. “Why? Do you need some?”

Before Mick could answer, Lars interceded. “Are you trying to bribe the law?”

“Yes. Would it work, Mick?” Patrick asked with a smile.

“Could. A cool two mil might do it,
if
it mattered. It doesn’t matter. No one will show up for you.” Over his drink, Mick noticed the look Lars gave him. “What’s wrong?”

“You disappoint me, taking a bribe,” Lars shook his head. “You are a man without morals, Michael Owens.”

“Please,” Mick scoffed. “I have plenty of morals. Look, I don’t want to take Patrick’s advice and wipe out our campers, do I?”

“That’s because they pose no threat, just camping there,” Lars said.

“Or do they?” Patrick swung a questioning look at Lars. “I’m curious. If they get sick, all of them, that’s an awful lot of flu being breathed into the air. This thing is airborne; won’t it strike us?”

“Yes,” Lars answered without hesitation, then saw the looks he received. “Wondering why we’re going through all this trouble then? It’s fun.” He held back a laugh in their stunned silence. “I’m joking. Reiterating that I know this flu, I can tell you of tests performed. In the immediate area of the campers, it is highly contagious. But here’s an example: Say you lock a man with the flu in an eight by eight room. He’s coughing, expelling the germ. Now send a susceptible man in there with him. Boom. That man will catch the flu. Same scenario, but this time take the sick man out. Send in the healthy man two minutes later, his chances decrease. The flu is given to us by nature, therefore nature can diminish it. It loses potency the longer it is in circulation. The pollutants in the air start breaking down the flu within five minutes, separating it and making in nonviable within ten. Now, had this flu been synthetic, manmade, we’d be up shit creek. It would lace the air like molasses and never leave.”

Patrick shuddered. “Thank God for...God.”

“Nature has a way of population control, that’s for sure,” Lars chuckled.

Mick laughed. “Nature went a little overboard this time.”

“Did it?” Lars asked.

“Yeah,” Patrick said. “I mean, look at your slide presentation. Which, by the way, gave me nightmares. That Inez Eskimo guy has been the Freddy Krueger of my dreams.”

“Barring your Freddy digression,” Lars said, “my question was did nature go overboard?”

Both Mick and Patrick answered at the same time. “Yes.”

“No.”

“How can you say this?” Mick argued. “Lars, be realistic. When this thing is finished, how much of the world’s population are you guessing will have died?”

“From violence and the flu, at least seventy-five percent.”

Mick laughed. “And that’s not overboard?”

“No.” Lars shook his head.

“Right,” Mick said. “There’ll be nobody left.”

“Hardly,” Lars scoffed. “They’ll plenty left.”

Patrick was confused. “After seventy-five percent die?”

“Consider this,” Lars explained. “In 1976 there were two hundred million Americans. At the millennium there were roughly four hundred million Americans. The birth to death ratio, meaning, every day, after everyone that is to be born is born, and everyone to be dead has died, the world increases by eighty thousand people per day. Eighty thousand people a day.” Mick and Patrick were stunned into silence. “In 1800 the world population stood at 1 billion people. Right now we’re over 6 billion people. If our flu wipes out seventy-five percent, we’ll be back to the 1800 population. If I’m thinking correctly, I don’t believe the folks back then would tell you no one was around.”

Mick stared hard at Lars. “I hate that scientific reasoning shit.”

Patrick seemed pleased. “So the world isn’t going end?”

“Not by a long shot. This isn’t the end of the world,” Lars said. “But it is the end of society as we know it. Things are down. They’ll break down even further. Society will go to pot. People will have to faction off, begin new domains, and start all over again. To get back up could take decades, maybe even a century. Who knows? So....” Lars patted Patrick’s hand, “put those fears to rest. Even though mankind will still be around, I don’t think you have to worry about being the shower stall queen for a big man named Bubba at the state penitentiary.”

Mick laughed long and hard and finished his drink. “That was great. See, Lars? This is why people love you.”

“Stop.” Patrick held up his hand. He looked around at the empty bar. “Before anyone bursts in here, before an emergency occurs, before the subject can be changed, I need to know: Why are you, Lars, a legend around here?”

“I told you it was ridiculous,” Lars replied.

“Yeah, still. Tell me,” Patrick requested.

“All right.” Lars prepared to speak then noticed Patrick gazing about. “I thought you wanted to hear this?”

“I do, but I’m waiting for an interruption.”

Lars continued as he snickered, “I believe I was a young man of twenty-five when I acquired the status. It grew as time went on. But there was a big rally in Washington, DC. I was fortunate enough to be right in the front of a roped-off section. And it was there, on television, that the president walked by greeting people, and he shook my hand.”

His hands folded on the table, Patrick waited. “And?”

“And what?” Lars asked.

“And what else?”

“That’s it.”

“No. You’re lying,” Patrick said with disbelief. “You’re lying because I’m curious.”

“Right hand to God....” Lars raised his hand. “That is it. Ask Mick.”

Mick shrugged. “I don’t remember when it started. But I do remember it was always a big thing to be told by your parents or teacher, ‘You want to grow up to be like Lars Rayburn, don’t you? He shook the president’s hand.’”

“Forgive me, Lars,” Patrick said. “That sucks. That has got to be the lamest reason for someone to be a legend.”

“See,” Mick interjected, “I agree. Who the hell gives a rat’s ass if he shook the president’s hand? But that’s not the reason, in my opinion, that he became a legend. The people of Lodi grasped on to the president thing, and Lars ran with it. Lars was the one that did things for the town. When—what the hell was the name of your second novel?”

“
Quips of the Scorned Mistress
,” Lars answered proudly.

“Yeah, that one. When it became a romance bestseller, Lars redid the playground. Next big book, the sidewalks. He built his own status, and people ended up loving him. Hell, I really thought ten years ago the council was going to approve changing the name of the town to Lars, Ohio.”

Lars sighed as he tilted his head in consideration. “That would have been very nice.”

“Unbelievable.” Patrick poured another drink. “And here I thought Lars saved the mayor’s life in front of the whole town or something.”

“I did,” Lars stated. “Two mayors ago, during the corn festival. He was choking. But no one remembers that.”

“I certainly don’t.” Mick gathered up his cigarettes. “Well, you alcoholics have a goodnight. Me, I’m going home.”

“Well, it’s about time,” Dylan’s comment reached their ears before they saw her.

Mick smiled as he stood. “Hey.” The smile fell. “What the hell are you doing walking around by yourself?”

“Mick, please. It’s Lodi. Aren’t you supposed to be keeping us safe?” Dylan asked. “Of course, I don’t know how you do that loaded.”

Mick fluttered his lips. “I am far from loaded.”

“Good.” Dylan held out her hand. “Maybe I’ll make you work that big body of yours. Walk me home.”

“Ah,” Lars smiled and capped the bottle. “A romantic walk. Let’s go Ricardo, shall we walk like teenagers behind them and taunt them?”

Patrick finished his drink. “Sounds like fun. You don’t mind, do you Mick?”

Mick grumbled.

After hearing Lars’ comment to Patrick, Dylan, really offended, stopped at the door. “Lars, why did you call him that? Ricardo?”