They were scheduled to go live at 4:19, after the current in-studio conversation concluded. George Alderson, his pate shining greasily through the strands of his combover, was interviewing a clinical psychiatrist named Erasmus DiPoto.
“Has there ever been an outbreak like this in the history of the world, Dr. DiPoto?” George asked.
“An interesting question,” DiPoto said. He wore round rimless glasses and a tweed suit that must have been hotter than hell under the lamps. Pro that he was, though, he didn’t appear to be sweating.
“Look at that prissy little mouth,” her tech said. “If he had to shit out of a hole that small, he’d explode.”
Michaela laughed heartily. Some of it was the coke, some of it was tiredness, some of it was plain old terror, suppressed by professionalism for the time being, but just waiting to come out.
“Let’s hope you have an interesting answer,” George Alderson said.
“I was thinking of the Dancing Plague of 1518,” DiPoto said. “That was also an event that affected only the ladies.”
“The ladies,” said a voice from behind Michaela. It was the White House protestor, who had come over to watch. “The ladies. Jesus please us.”
“That outbreak began with a woman named Mrs. Troffea, who danced madly in the streets of Strasbourg for six days and nights,” DiPoto said, warming to his subject. “Before collapsing, she was joined by many others. This dance mania spread across all of Europe. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of women danced in cities and towns. Many died of heart attacks, strokes, or exhaustion.” He essayed a small, smug smile. “It was simple hysteria, and eventually died out.”
“Are you saying that Aurora is similar? I suspect many of our viewers will find that hard to accept.” Michaela was pleased to see that George couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his face or his voice. George was mostly blather, but he did have a small, beating newsie’s heart somewhere under his Oxford shirt. “Sir, we’ve got news footage of thousands of women and girls with this fibrous material—these cocoons—covering their faces and bodies. This is affecting millions of females.”
“I am not making light of the situation, by any means,” DiPoto said. “Absolutely not. But physical symptoms or actual physical changes as a result of mass hysteria are not uncommon. In Flanders, for instance, dozens of women exhibited stigmata—bleeding hands and feet—during the late eighteenth century. Sexual politics and political correctness aside, I feel we must—”
That was when Stephanie Koch, the producer of Afternoon Events, charged onto the set. She was a leathery chain-smoker in her fifties who had seen it all, and put most of it on television. Michaela would have said Steph was armored against any and all crazy guest opinions. But it seemed her armor had a chink, and Dr. DiPoto with his round spectacles and prissy little mouth had found it.
“What the fuck are you talking about, you penis-equipped gerbil?” she shouted. “I have two granddaughters with that shit growing all over them, they’re in comas, and you think that’s female hysteria?”
George Alderson groped out a restraining hand. Stephanie batted it away. She was crying angry tears as she loomed over Dr. Erasmus DiPoto, who was cringing back in his chair and staring up at this lunatic Amazon who had appeared from nowhere.
“Women all over the world are struggling not to go to sleep because they’re afraid they’ll never wake up, and you think that’s female hysteria?”
Michaela, the tech guy, and the woman from the protest were staring at the monitor, fascinated.
“Go to commercial!” George called, looking over Stephanie Koch’s shoulder. “We just need to take a break, folks! Sometimes things get a little tense. That’s live television, though, and—”
Stephanie whirled, looking at the off-camera control booth. “Don’t you dare go to commercial! Not until I’m done with this chauvinist piece of shit!” She was still wearing her headset. Now she tore it off and began to clobber DiPoto with it. When he raised his hands to protect the top of his skull, she slashed at his face. His nose began to bleed.
“This is female hysteria!” Stephanie shouted, whapping him with her headset. Now the little doctor’s mouth was bleeding, as well. “This is what female hysteria really looks like, you . . . you . . . you RUTABAGA!”
“Rutabaga?” the protestor woman said. She began to laugh. “Did she just call him a rutabaga?”
A couple of stagehands rushed out to restrain Stephanie Koch. While they struggled and DiPoto bled and George Alderson gaped, the studio disappeared and was replaced by an ad for Symbicort.
“Baby-now,” the protestor woman said. “That was great.” Her gaze shifted. “Say, can I have some of that?” She was eyeballing the small pile of blow sitting on top of the tech guy’s laminated day-part schedule.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s open bar today.”
Michaela watched the protestor take some on her fingernail and ingest it.
“Whee!” She smiled at Michaela. “I am officially ready to rock.”
“Go on back and sit down,” Michaela said. “I’ll call you.” But she wouldn’t. Combat-hardened Stephanie Koch utterly losing her shit had brought a realization to Mickey Coates. She wasn’t just looking through a lens at this story; it was her story. And when she finally went to sleep, she didn’t want it to be among strangers.
“Hold the fort, Al,” she said.
“You bet,” the tech guy said. “Hey, that was priceless, wasn’t it? Live TV at its best.”
“Priceless,” she agreed, and went out to the sidewalk. She powered up her cell. If the traffic wasn’t too bad, she could be in Dooling before midnight.
“Mom? It’s me. I can’t do this anymore. I’m coming home.”
5
At 3:10 PM, ten minutes past the end of Don Peters’s 6:30 AM to 3:00 PM shift, he sat in the Booth, watching the Unit 10 monitor, watching the madwoman nod off. She slumped on the bunk with her eyes closed. Lampley had been called off for some reason, and then Murphy, and so now Don had the Booth, and that was fine with him—he’d rather sit. Actually, what he’d rather do was go home, like usual, but in the interests of not riling Coatsie up, he’d decided to stick it out for the time being.
The crazy cunt was a hot little number, Don wouldn’t hesitate to grant her that. Even in scrubs her legs went for miles.
He pressed the button on the mic that piped directly to the cell and was about to tell her to wake up. Only what was the point? They were all going to fall asleep and grow that shit on their faces and bods, apparently. Christ, what a world it would be if that happened. On the plus side, it would be safer on the roads. That was a good one. He’d have to remember that for later, try it on the boys at the Squeaky Wheel.
Peters let go of the button. Ms. Unit 10 swung her legs up onto the bunk and stretched out. Don, curious, waited to see how it would happen, the webbing weirdness he’d read about on his phone.
6