Chapter 1: Jonathon
I turn up the volume on the television set. I had muted it as I finished my geometry work, but I took note of the banner across the bottom of the screen. I read it again and again. The information is nothing new, but I still find that my eyes fix themselves to the screen when they see the words:
...60 MILLION MORE DIE OF MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS...
Ever since last month, people have been mysteriously dying all over the country. It keeps getting worse, and people are getting more and more restless outside of our apartments. The news and the president keep reassuring everyone that it will be okay. And when I say president, I mean the new president. The first was one of the initial victims to the “mysterious illness.” The vice president soon followed. I guess they had presidential succession for a reason.
It starts with a rash with blisters, and then evolves into a fever. Then the body burns up so badly that it shuts down. Scientists, they say, are trying, but no one can stop it. School was suspended indefinitely two weeks ago, but I find myself still doing math to ease my mind. When I am engulfed in a math problem, my mind temporarily stops worrying what will happen tomorrow, next week, next month. Or next year. If there will be a next year. Finishing my senior year looked bleak.
I move from the beige carpeting up into the comfort of the couch, bringing my work into my lap. My sister looks over from the dining room table. In front of her is a small cake she had prepared earlier that morning. Our dad loves the chocolate cake that my sister makes. She somehow added mint cookies to the recipe and it was to die for, but now it seems that someone is living for it. Our father woke up yesterday; a grotesque redness had emerged up from under his shirt and onto his neck. We had prayed that he wasn’t going to get it. Today, he woke up with a 104 degree temperature. Now, he is resting in between vomiting episodes.
Tomorrow, he will be dead.
My sister found comfort in preparing the cake and possibly letting him enjoy it the best he could before he slipped away. I want, or rather we want, to do more, but we can't. The hospital is overwhelmed with patients and is no longer accepting anyone. Yesterday, I drove down and pleaded my case to the nurse at the front. After shoving through the sidewalks and pushing my way into the busy lobby, I made it to the hospital desk. She looked at me with sad eyes and just said, “Keep him comfortable.” I hadn't been kidding myself; not even a single recorded patient had recovered. Every woman or man who took ill was dead within three days. Mysteriously however, no one under the age of nineteen has gotten sick. Not even a single child has fallen ill. My dad begged us to just drop him off at one of the Red Cross's “sick” tents that were up all over the city, but we refused. The tents were in pitiful condition and it was just somewhere else for him to die. We are going to stay a family as long as possible. It isn't going to be much longer anyway.
My sister, Jocelyn, sets down the icing and walks over behind me, placing her hands on the back of the couch. Jo, as dad and I call her, gazes at the television. The news has been trying to keep the country updated, but everyone is dying. On the screen, a newswoman looks back blankly at us. She seems to have more make-up than normal and beads of sweat roll down her face. Her teal blouse looks worn. She is dying too, but she works on. I imagine people like her are barely keeping the city together. Her words are labored as they escape her fatigued body:
“It has just entered the newsroom that another estimated sixty million deaths have been confirmed across the U.S. Some reports indicate this number is even higher. A rough poll seems to show that nine out of every ten adults is or has been infected and doctors believe all adults will succumb. Children have been shown resistant to the plague, even with direct exposure. Despite America still being in quarantine, foreign aid continues to pour in from Canada and the UK. However, they still aren't letting anyone leave the country and have set up military roadblocks along all major roadways. Unconfirmed reports have said that even patrols and fences have begun to appear at the border between these roads. Canada is not taking any chances on the disease spreading to its land. There are still no reported instances of the disease in any other country. Mexico, on the other hand, lacks the resources to prevent the mass immigration of children and unaffected adults into their country.
“If you or someone you love has become infected, the remaining doctors are encouraging you to stay at home. Hospitals are beginning to shut down across the nation as doctors and nurses are becoming scarce.” The newscaster already seems tired from talking. She coughs. Her eyes turn from the camera to her left. She seems to be listening to someone. I share a glance with my sister before the newscaster returns her eyes to the screen. The newscaster’s bloodshot eyes are now filled with tears.
“My manager has just informed me that this will be our last broadcast. Nearly all of us at the station, including myself, have begun to show symptoms. We have done our best to continue to keep you informed of the horrific events of this last month. We ask everyone to remain calm throughout the dark days ahead. To the young viewers, it will be okay. People are working around the clock to create a plan for you. Stay calm, and await help.” She pauses momentarily, seemingly out of words. “May God be with all of you. Good-bye.”
A tear flows down the side of her cheek as her composure finally gives in during her final words. She begins to cough. Then all of a sudden the television goes blank and an eerie pitch yells from the speakers. I fumble for the remote and turn it off. I feel Jocelyn's hand rest on the top of my head. Her fingers clench my hair tighter than she realizes. It hurts, but I don't say a word.
“What are we going to do?” she says. Her voice seems to be devoid of any emotion. I turn my head up and see her hazel green eyes between the bangs of red hair. Tear stains line her pale cheeks. These stains have not left since dad became sick. She keeps disappearing into her room and comes back with bloodshot eyes. She’s a year younger than me, but she wants to look strong for me. I don't know how to answer her. I have been trying to figure out a plan ever since the news suggested yesterday that 99% of America's adults would be dead by the end of next week. No more cops, firefighters, doctors, or utility workers. I know that we need a plan.
The city is going to become chaos, and I don't want to be around when it all falls apart.
A piercing, explosive ring rises above the murmur of the streets below. It’s too late to avoid the chaos, I guess. It wasn’t the first gunshot we have heard in the past few weeks. I wonder if that was a shot meant to kill. The thought forces me to close my eyes and exhale completely. I don’t know if I could ever justify taking a life.
“Jon,” Jo's voice snaps me out of it, “what the hell are we going to do?”
“I'm working on it.”
“Well can you clue me in just a little?” Her shortness with me begins. Ever since all of this chaos started we have been getting along.
“We are going to need to get out of here. Apparently some parts of the city have already lost power and water,” I respond. Yesterday, when I walked to the hospital, crowds of people in the streets described how parts of the city were deteriorating.”
“Let’s start thinking of what to do.” She pauses, looks down, and then back up to me. “I know the news says we should be okay, but do you think one of us could get sick?”
Her eyes go back to dad's bedroom. The thought of losing him has been thrown to the farthest recesses of my mind.
“I hope not.”