The Final Strain

By Brian Gates

The world ended in neither fire nor ice, but blood. It began with the news reports of a rampant flu-like virus that killed all who got infected. It induced panic when the CDC admitted no cure existed. It escalated when the Federal Government declared martial law and proceeded to throw the world into chaos. It ended in blood.
To make matters worse, the McGuiness brothers discover their sister has been kidnapped. The earth shattering revelation forces them to depart their safe haven and venture out into a world stripped of societal morals. They meet up with other immune survivors along the way, each affected differently by the D.C. Virus and each with their own story. The group proves to be as different as can be, brought together only by one common cause: survival. Together, they set out following a cryptic radio transmission promising salvation in the Midwest, though the journey proves difficult. Violent encounters with other survivors shake the assemblage, and a shocking revelation tears their reality apart: the virus was released on purpose! When the shadowy organization responsible for the genocide sets their sights on the survivors, the group must run, hide, and fight their way to safety...or die trying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melange Books, LLC
• Release date: Sep 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781680468113

Brian Gates

Brian Gates grew up in a small country town in North East Ohio with a younger brother and sister. He had a passion for writing from a young age, and spent countless hours in and out of class writing stories, and he even gave his senior speech on various writing concepts. His love of stories eventually led him to pursue and English Degree in college. During his time there, several professors were impressed by his writing ability and encouraged him to pursue writing as a career. He graduated from Kent State University in 2014, and continued to pursue his passion for writing. Brian prefers a handful of literary genres, but two of his personal favorites are psychological thrillers and works set in post-apocalyptic worlds. Two of his biggest influences are Dean Koontz and D.J. MacHale.

Book preview

1

The Council

Six men sat in a dimly lit room, discussing, as they had often before, the necessary courses of action the world must undertake. The room itself and everything in it reeked of money drawn out of bottomless bank accounts, from the impeccably carved sandalwood table at which they sat, to the forty-eight-light crystal Baccarat Zenith chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. The room sported immaculate wooden floors polished to a spit shine and chairs bound in the finest maroon leather, embroidered with solid gold buttons running up the armrests. The six men in the room had been the only ones to ever take a seat in those chairs.

In fact, no one else knew of the room’s existence. The location was a mystery to all but the six. They had met there annually for over a decade, but never on the same calendar date twice. Their identity remained as mysterious to the public as the location of the room itself. Over the centuries, their numbers had increased and decreased; currently their count remained a mere half dozen.

The group had no name. That was the way it had always been, and why would they bother to label themselves with one? What was a name besides a means for organizations to give their members a symbol to rally behind, a way to define their identity against rival assemblages? It had been said that there was power in a name.

The six did not require the kind of fanciful influence a name provided, and they had no rivals.

That was not to say names had not been assigned to them over the ages by proletarians, whom could only speculate as to the nature of their existence (or if the group even existed at all) based on rumors that wafted in hushed tones from the lips of the terrified. Those who spoke openly in the streets were either branded as insane or removed altogether, if necessary.

They were viewed as devils. They believed themselves to be angels. But no matter what, they were always ghosts.

A tall man in a black suit and matching tie stood at the head of the table with both palms placed firmly on it. He had managed to retain most of his handsome looks, despite having entered his early fifties. His chestnut hair was flawlessly combed, and his defined jaw line flexed as he gritted his teeth. He appeared calm, and only his piercing blue eyes gave away his trepidation. When he spoke, it was slowly and deliberately, his voice unwavering. Do you fully understand the gravity? He turned to his left and stared at an old man.

The old man, who was well into his eighties, wore a gray suit and had stark white hair that was surprisingly thick for his age. His voice wheezed as he spoke. We have known the gravity of this situation for a long time, Cryo, he said, using the tall man’s last name, an informality rarely used. We have only ever debated the timing.

Sitting next to the old man was the youngest of the group, a middle-aged man with glasses who wore only khakis and a white dress shirt. So the question persists: Is this the proper time to initiate the agenda and put The Event into action.

Across from him sat a man dressed far more exotically than the rest. He wore an old-school tartan suit with a matching tailcoat and boiler hat straight out of the eighteen-fifties. He smoked a fat stogy and let the ashes float down into a green, glass ashtray, next to which sat an electronic tablet that he took notes on. Is the virus even ready yet? From what I’ve garnered, complications remain with certain mutations, and you are all aware we cannot have that.

The man in the white dress shirt replied, You know my company has been funding tens of millions of dollars to Bio-Cure over the last decade, yet all we hear is there are more ‘kinks’ to work out. How long will it take before we get a final product that will perform as needed? How long before that team of scientists produces viable results, Mr. Miller?

His question was directed at another older man in his late sixties, who wore a priceless gold Rolex watch and a plain suit. As you know, producing a virus to match our unique requirements is no easy task. It takes time, but I have talked to my lead scientist, Dr. Cross, and he does seem to believe that the strain he’s recently finished is acceptable for our purposes.

Acceptable? the old man questioned.

There is no way to ever rule out the possibility of mutation with this particular kind of virus, but the odds are good, Miller said.

How good? The fate of the human species is at stake, so I’d rather not gamble, the old man said.

Very good, Miller replied. So long as we can obtain the Eleven, then everything will go as planned.

Cryo said, The eleven are being monitored. That is not a concern. What is a concern is the fact that the world’s population has reached critical mass. There are shortages of virtually everything: the fuel supplies have nearly run dry, food is scarce, even for people in first-world countries, and if the sea levels continue to rise, we continue to lose more and more space. The displacement of people will only compound the current problems. We have all known this was coming, and we all know what our choices are. He turned and looked at the man in the white shirt.

The sixth member, a bald black man who sat at the far end of the table opposite Cryo with a glass of brandy on the rocks, replied with a noticeable but fading British accent. We can either watch mankind’s slow decline waste them away into bloody oblivion, or… he hesitated, we can take the necessary steps to ensure the species progresses into the future. He took a sip.

Mr. Dangote is right, the man in the boiler hat said. We face an existential crisis one way or another, and my research supports it, he turned to his left and looked at Miller, as I know yours does as well, that planet earth has reached a tipping point. The long-term effects of Climate Change exacerbated by overpopulation are reaching a point of irreversibility. If we wait too much longer, it won’t matter what we do. The planet will react in such a way that conditions will be unlivable. It will, in time, snuff out human beings along with the records of everything they have ever accomplished. It will be as though we never existed.

The old man said, Then it seems to me that we have no choice at all. We decided long ago that the eradication of the human race was not an option. He stood up and placed an unlabeled manila folder on the table, engorged with papers. Long ago, I introduced this agenda to the United Nations, and, despite some hullaballoo, they pledged their support. Not all of them, but many at the UN understand the situation we are facing. If now is the time to act, then let us act.

There was a moment of silence, his words hung in the air like a fog.

Finally, Cryo said, You all asked me about the gravity our actions will have. Now I propose a counter question: Do you understand the gravity of what will happen if we don’t?

No one spoke. Mr. Dangote stopped rattling the ice in his drink, and the man in the boiler hat let his cigar smoke in the ashtray.

Then I propose we make a decision today. Cryo placed a hand on the envelope and felt the slightest shake in it as he did so. All in favor of taking action?

One by one, six hands made their way into the air.

2

The McGuiness Family

Brian and Nick McGuiness stood on either side of a red-felt pool table centered in the Paddy Wagon, the apotheosis of janky dive bars. Most of the illumination came from a variety of scattered neon lights, and stale cigarette smoke hung in the air like a fog, in flagrant violation of Massachusetts’ Smoke-Free Workplace law. Drunken clamor filled the room with a steady, monotonous drone, as all of the seats had found patrons to occupy them. An old-school jukebox sat in the corner beside the bar playing a dark country song that doubled down on the atmosphere of the dusty hole in the wall.

Your break, Nick said to his older brother Brian, staring at the fifteen colored balls pressed together in a neat triangle.

Brian sipped a Jameson on the rocks, set it down on a nearby polished wood table, and proceeded to line up the cue ball with the triangle before him. The clack of ceramic on ceramic split through both the music and conversation like a guillotine blade through the neck of a French monarch as the balls scattered. Nothing, Brian muttered and retrieved his sweating glass.

Nick surveyed the table, preparing to line up a shot as he had thousands of times before, when two attractive women got up from the bar and approached them. Nick’s military-trained brain processed every detail and noticed they’d been sitting amongst a group of men whose appearances could only be described as lumberjack-ish. Each wore flannel and sported beards that, if allowed to continue growing without seeing a razor, would quickly qualify them to be wizards, and each had the body type that suggested they not only ate their Wheaties every morning but also took a healthy dose of steroids to boot. He addressed the approaching women. Hello there, ladies. Do you come here often? As a regular himself, he knew they didn’t.

The blonde giggled. No, this is our first time! At the bar, the grizzliest of the bunch cast an irritated glance over his shoulder at them before returning to what appeared to be an intense conversation amongst his friends.

But we like it here! It’s such a relaxed atmosphere, her brunette friend added.

I absolutely agree. Nick smiled, charmingly. My name’s Nick, and this is my brother, Brian. He motioned in his direction.

Brian, who had been staring at a cell phone, glanced up. A pleasure, he said absentmindedly. The blonde introduced herself as Star and the brunette as Brandy.

Hey, watch this, Nick said. He gently placed the pool stick between his chalk-dusted knuckles, lined the cue ball up with a seemingly impossible long, angled shot, and knocked it in with ease.

Oh, wow! Star said.

Impressive, Brandy added.

I’d be happy to show you my secret technique, Nick winked.

Brian rolled his eyes, but the women didn’t notice the expression.

Star giggled, Okay that sounds great!

Great! But you ladies don’t even have a beverage. We’ll need to remedy that. What are you drinking? It’s on me, Nick said, smiling.

Another glance from Grizzly, the irritation evolving into anger.

Before Star could speak, Brandy interrupted. We need to use the ladies’ room first, she said and ushered her friend in that direction.

After they’d left, Brian strode over to Nick. Must you hit on every hot girl?

Yes, sir.

Brian shook his head and held his cell phone so Nick could see it. Matt sent this.

Nick sipped his beer and glanced at the little glowing screen and read it aloud. The message from their cousin read: Where are you guys!? Urgent!

What’s got his panties in a wad? Another chem trail plot by the government? Nick chuckled. Their cousin, Matt, was a notorious subscriber to conspiracy theories, some more outlandish than others. He spent much of his time researching everything from extraterrestrial cover ups to the tragic events of nine-eleven, which, he assured them, had been an inside job.

Who knows? Brian replied, and messaged back their location. Mere moments after sending the message, his phone buzzed again with a reply, suggesting that Matt had been waiting to respond with baited breath, antsy fingers poised over the touchscreen keys. The text read, On my way. Brian shrugged. Guess we’ll find out soon, though. He drained the last of the whisky and took his turn at the billiards table.

When Star and Brandy returned from the ladies’ room, only the eight-ball remained on the table. Nick let his cue rest against the wall and swooped over. So, what are you two lovely ladies drinking? he said, escorting them toward the bar. Brian followed with a detached look on his face, staring at the glowing screen.

I don’t need anything, Brandy said.

A vodka cranberry! Star requested.

What a coincidence! That’s my favorite drink, too! Nick lied. He preferred whisky. Hey, Sal, he said, leaning over the bar to address the elderly gentleman behind it, two vodka cranberries.

Sal grinned, revealing flawless teeth and well-worn smile lines. Coming right up, Mr. McGuiness. How’s work been treating you?

Brian approached the bar and answered for him, Military surplus is a boring gig. Honest wages for honest work. The most exciting part of my day is watching some dumbass freak out when his card gets declined.

Sal chuckled as he added Skyy to the cranberry juice. Miss the action overseas?

Brandy interjected, Wait, you’re in the military? She raised an eyebrow at Brian.

Well, not exactly… Nick said. Sal handed them the beverages. Nick clanked his glass against hers and downed it. Upon doing so, he casually touched Star’s waist, an action that proved to be the straw that broke the camel’s back for Grizzly.

The bearded lumberjack slammed his Bud Light bottle onto the table and rose to his feet. All conversation in the bar ceased with the abruptness of one lifting the needle off the vinyl record, and everyone’s eyes shifted in his direction. He sauntered his burly frame over to the end of the bar where Brian and Nick stood, and his three friends followed. He seized Star’s small-boned arm and said, Come on, it’s time to leave. He spoke with a tone that not only exuded ironclad authority, but an innate possessiveness.

Whoa, take it easy now, Nick said.

Grizzly snarled at Nick. And you can fuck off.

But I don’t want to leave yet. I’m having fun, Star said and attempted (unsuccessfully) to yank her arm from his grasp. Brandy quietly backed away, as one backs away from a rabid animal.

Nick stepped in the way of Grizzly. Hey, now, she is a strong independent woman who has the right to do as she wishes. She doesn’t have to leave if she doesn’t want to.

Brian added, He’s right you know, women do have rights here. Good ol’ nineteenth amendment and all that shit. A half smile edged his face.

Susan B. Anthony was a champ, Nick added.

God bless the suffrage movement, Brian confirmed, nodding.

Star laughed, and Nick winked at her.

The anger in Grizzly’s eyes flamed beyond any manageable sense of self-control, the basic kind promoted to most as children by Mr. Rogers, and he released her and blasted Nick in the face, knocking him backwards onto the floor.

Bad move, Brian said and drove his fist into the man’s dense beard with a swift uppercut, causing him to stumble back. Before Brian could make another move, two of Grizzly’s friends simultaneously rammed fists into his torso. The impact hit him like a defibrillator blast to the chest, but rather than bringing him back to life, it knocked the air out of him as he careened to the ground next to his brother.

Please do your best not to break anything, Sal said calmly to the McGuiness brothers as he washed a pint glass behind the bar.

A semi-circle of people formed around them, and Nick noticed money exchanging hands as bets were placed, as they always were when brawls broke out at the Paddy Wagon. The brothers launched themselves to their feet and stood back to back in the center of the bar as the crew of lumberjacks encircled them. Brandy and Star protested the squabble, but no one listened.

I really just wanted to have a drink tonight, Brian muttered. The blonde bearded lumberjack charged at him, and Brian managed to sidestep at the last possible second, letting him crash headfirst into the billiards table with a crunch reminiscent of broken cartilage.

You were just complaining about being bored, Nick replied. A black bearded one with a bull nose-ring took a swing at him. Nick ducked, barely avoiding contact as a fist sailed over him. Before he could throw another punch, Nick brought a hand up and managed to slip his pointer finger through the silver loop. He yanked down, ripping the ring clean out in a squirt of blood with one quick stroke. Gross, he thought, and made a mental note to wash his hands after. Black Beard wailed and put both hands up to his face.

Jesus. Brian raised an eyebrow. And no, I meant like take a vacation or something. Not get into more bar fights. The last lumberjack along with Blond Beard, who now sported a bloody and disfigured nose thanks to his billiards collision, ran at Brian together. He executed a move that only ever succeeded against the intoxicated. When they came within reach of his lanky frame, he punched the first in the face, and then brought the elbow of the same arm directly back, crashing it into Blond’s already disfigured snout. The first landed flat on his back and Blondie careened sideways and fell on a table, knocking it over and breaking one of the wooden legs.

Sal sighed.

Three of the four lumberjacks lied on the floor, writhing in agony. Only Grizzly remained standing, and Brian and Nick turned to face him. All of the confidence had departed his eyes and the color had drained from his face. However, before either could make a move, a beer bottle broke over the bearded man’s head, knocking him out. His body slumped to the floor, revealing the wielder. Behind him, holding the remains of the broken glass, stood a tan skinned, curly haired individual wearing a plain gray T-shirt.

You got here fast, Matt, Brian commented, straightening out his shirt. The semi-circle receded, and normal chatter resumed as it became clear the fight was over.

Come with me, you’ve got to see this, Matt said, failing to acknowledge the crowd, the fight, or his part in it.

All right fine, let’s go, Nick said, rubbing his sore knuckles.

Brian dropped a fifty onto the counter as they departed. Sorry about that.

No worries, Sal said with a smile, and proceeded to collect and pocket cash from several of the gamblers.

Brian, Nick, and Matt exited the stuffy bar into the warm night air. It was quiet except for the sound of their footsteps on the concrete and the neon buzzing of the Paddy Wagon’s sign as one of the D’s flickered, threatening to go dark and leave the word misspelled. They were alone.

So what’s this radical emergency you’re so hyped up about? Brian asked.

Matt turned to face them, raised both arms and said, It’s the end of the goddammed world!

3

The Crown Family

Noah and Colleen Crown had the perfect life. They were the ideal upper-class nuclear family with Jesus, a nice house, baseball, and apple pie.

At that very moment, a Red Sox game played on TV and a pie baked in the oven. It was, however, blueberry.

Noah helped Colleen set the table for dinner. Their kitchen and dining room were painted a warm peach color. Collen had picked it out when they’d renovated the house. She had said it was a peaceful color. It hadn’t been Noah’s first choice, but his wife had had her heart set on it, so peach it was.

As Noah finished putting the last of the silverware next to the ceramic white plates, he brushed by his wife, who had her hands full with a salad she’d been preparing. I’m going to take the pork out of the crockpot.

Collen smiled as Noah’s hand brushed against her back in the tight yellow blouse she wore. All right, honey, it’s been simmering since 11:00 a.m. this morning so it should be nice and tender now. She returned the touch by placing her hand on his arm. She gripped his strong bicep beneath the pressed and slightly starchy white dress shirt. Noah had returned from the office only ten minutes ago.

On the counter next to the crockpot, a small radio played The Beatles song, Yesterday. As the radio was competing with the volume from the television in the adjacent living room, Noah switched it off right as John Lennon proclaimed how he believed in yesterday.

He glanced over at his two boys, Duke and Regal, who were lying on their stomachs with their legs cocked skyward, watching the game. Duke was eight years old and Regal was five. Both had taken a liking to the Sox after Noah had taken them to several games over the past couple years. Noah suspected Duke’s interest revolved around peanuts and cracker jacks, but it remained a great bonding experience for them, nonetheless.

In the living room, Regal half rolled over and inadvertently kicked Duke’s foot.

Hey, Duke said and shoved his brother back.

Stop it, poop-head! Regal replied.

Duke went to shove him again but stopped at the sound of his mother’s voice.

Duke, Regal, knock it off, she scolded without even turning around to look at them.

Noah chuckled.

Both ceased their activities and went back to watching baseball.

Colleen shook her head. Those two…

That’s boys for you, Noah said, smiling.

I don’t recall Sarah ever acting like that.

Girls are just different to raise than boys. Sugar and spice and all that.

Colleen cocked her head in agreement. Frogs and snails.

Noah began systematically taking the roast out of the crock pot and portioning it onto five white china plates with a decorative blue design around the edges. The pleasant smell of roasted meat and vegetables filled the kitchen.

The doorbell rang.

That must be Sarah now, Noah said, glancing at their cherry wood-trimmed door.

Colleen let her salad tongs fall back into the salad bowl as she stepped back from the counter and headed over toward the door. She opened it to see her twelve-year-old redheaded, freckled faced little girl. She wore a Girl Scout cadette uniform. A tan sash with numerous patches hung over one shoulder. She smiled, revealing several absent baby teeth in a mouth that had yet to lease the space to their adult counterparts.

Hi, Sarah! How was it? Colleen smiled.

Hello, ma’am, would you like to buy some cookies to raise awareness for…um, Sarah hesitated, and her face took on a look of frustration. Oh, I can’t remember for what, Mom.

Oh, that’s all right, sweetie, Colleen said. We can practice some more tonight before you go selling tomorrow.

She should really know why she’s selling the cookies, Noah, who had been listening to their conversation over the baseball announcers, commented from the kitchen.

So long as it’s for a good cause, Colleen replied over her shoulder.

Noah chose not to respond but continued finishing dinner preparations.

Are you hungry, Colleen asked Sarah ushering her inside and closing the door.

Mmm, hmm, she said, skipping through the living room toward the kitchen. On her way through she intentionally but subtly let her striding feet kick both her younger brothers, who remained on the floor.

Hey, both said simultaneously. They made a grab at her, but she proved too quick and skipped out of range.

Sarah, Colleen scolded.

Sarah ignored her mother and hugged Noah’s torso. Hi, Daddy!

Hey there, sweetheart. He smiled and patted her head. Noah looked up and made eye contact with Colleen, who had her hands on her hips. Sugar and spice, he said and shrugged.

Colleen shook her head but couldn’t help but smile. She returned to the salad which was nearing completion. Kids, go wash up for dinner, it’s almost ready.

Sarah released her father’s leg and proceeded to skip around the kitchen. Tomorrow if I work hard and sell enough boxes then I’m going to get my cookie badge!

That’s great, Sarah. I know you’ll do great, he said as he brought plates of the roast over to the table.

Noah glanced at Regal and Duke he remained in front of the TV. Boys, come on, go wash up. Aren’t you hungry?

Just wait, Dad, it’s the ninth inning and the Red Sox and Indians are tied!

Noah placed the last of the plates onto the table and strolled into the living room, intending to turn off the TV. However, as he entered, he noticed that his boys were correct. The game was indeed tied and in the bottom of the ninth. Being an avid baseball fan himself, he couldn’t help but stop and watch as the Indian’s closing pitcher prepared to throw to one of the better Sox batters. He starred at the television, momentarily forgetting he was trying to get the boys away from it.

The pitcher wound up to throw. However, right as the ball was about to be released, the channel abruptly cut out and was replaced with a news broadcast. On the screen sat a woman wearing a gray pantsuit and a grim expression. She had dark hair and skin that suggested a Latina heritage. When she spoke, her voice held a sturdy but solemn tone. We have interrupted this broadcast to bring you this breaking news.

Aww, what happened? Duke yelled, casting both arms in an accusatory motion at the TV.

Put baseball back on, Regal yelled at the Latina woman, who continued her speech.

Noah shushed his kids.

We are receiving recently confirmed reports of the virus, currently being called The D.C. virus, cropping up as far west as Baltimore, Maryland, and as far North as Jamestown, Pennsylvania.

A virus? Noah wondered aloud. The children were still whining, but he ignored them.

Honey, did you hear anything about a D.C. virus? he asked Colleen without turning around.

Actually, at book club yesterday, Marcy did mention it. She said the symptoms of it are terrible. I can’t remember how the topic cropped up.

The reporter continued, This new bug was only first recognized to be a lethal threat two days ago when the first symptoms were reported. A man known by the name of Charles Hill died of bizarre symptoms that baffled doctors. It is believed he died roughly thirty-six hours prior to virus exposure. Many are calling Charles patient zero. The screen split in half, one continued to hold the reporter, and the other, a man in a suit and white lab coat. I’m joined now by physician Ryan Cross to tell us more about it.

Thank you, Maria, the doctor said. They exchanged pleasantries.

Oh, that’s right, Colleen said. At book club Marcy said her husband had been to Washington for a business trip and had come down with some unknown disease. That’s what they’re calling it: the D.C. virus.

Doctor, Maria said, this virus is spreading at an alarmingly fast rate, and we still know so little about it.

Well, you aren’t wrong, Dr. Cross chuckled warmly, a gesture that somehow proclaimed he was both in control and unflustered. We know, as you mentioned, it originated in the D.C. area and that symptoms become apparent around six hours after exposure.

Is it fatal? And how long until it becomes so?

Well it’s too early and we have too few documented cases to say for sure whether or not this is always a fatal virus. But as you mentioned, time of death is roughly a day and a half after contact. But, he added quickly, this should not alarm anyone, as there are only a handful of fatalities we’re aware of, and as far as we can discern, it is not an airborne virus.

If it is not airborne, how do you explain the virus’s rapid spread across state lines? she grilled him.

It’s a simple explanation, really. It transfers from person to person as, say, influenza might. It can be passed through individual’s bodily fluids. If someone coughs or sneezes on you, those germs carried in the mucus can then infect another host.

"But does that explain the swiftness with which it’s spreading? How could a non-airborne disease travel across state borders in just a couple of days?"

Well it’s important to realize just how much contact is made between people in a few days. One person gets it and comes in contact with ten people throughout the day, then those ten each touch another ten, and one-hundred people are now exposed. Then it’s a thousand. It’s a continuing series of exponential multiplication. Before you know it, the virus has crept over to another state before we even really know what it is.

The reporter smiled and nodded. So what can you tell us about the virus itself? How bad are the symptoms? We’ve all heard the stories of blood excreting from the eyes and— The reporter was cut off by a blank screen as Colleen turned off the TV.

I don’t think we need to be hearing about this right before dinner. Regal, Duke, I thought I told you boys to go wash up.

But— Regal started to protest.

Now, their father said sternly.

They scrambled to their feet and retreated to the bathroom.

After they’d departed, Colleen looked at her husband with just the slightest bit of concern in her eyes. Do you think we should be worried about that virus? It’s not too far from here.

Noah shook his head. No. It’s always something. Last year it was the big Ebola scare, but it turned out to be nothing. Before that, it was swine flu; nothing happened. And before that, it was Bird flu, still nothing happened. This won’t be any different. The media will hype it up for a few weeks, maybe months, and then the same thing will happen that always does—nothing.

She relaxed, and the worry in her eyes evaporated. That’s why I love you, sweetie. You always make me feel safe.

Noah kissed her on the forehead. Come on, kids, time to eat!

4

The Whitamore Family

Beverly Whitamore bubbled with excitement. She would get to see her grandson for the first time in six months since he had left for college last September.

She shuffled about her kitchen, which was nearly as old as she. The kitchen sink and cabinets had a retro nineteen-fifty’s style appearance, and the reddish tile could have been taken straight out of an old-school diner. Only the fridge had been replaced with a brand new, double doored, stainless steel version. To say it looked out of place would be an understatement.

An old phonograph played the Ink Spots It’s All Over but the Crying in the corner. Her husband, Richard, sat in the other corner of the living room, watching The History Channel with the volume muted. It was something World War II related, and as a result, the Ink Spot’s song cast an oddly well synced music video to the graphic battle images displayed.

A large throw rug covered up the majority of the space on the hard wood floors. Pictures lined the walls; many were of their grandson and others were older pictures of his parents. One was of them on the beach, another outside playing in the yard with a dog, now long deceased. Older photographs still pictured her husband, Richard, posing in his military uniform alongside old comrades. Some had been taken before he had been shipped out. If one was discerning enough, they could tell the befores apart from the afters based on the look in his eyes. Richard rarely spoke about Vietnam.

Beverly let her husband watch the show uninterrupted and continued to prepare dinner for her grandson, Taylor. She loved the boy as much as her own children. It had been a terrible tragedy when Tayler’s parents, her son and daughter-in-law, had been simultaneously killed in a freak car accident. Tayler had been five years old at the time and riding in the back seat. Unlike his father and mother, he’d been pulled from the car unscathed. It had been a miracle.

She was cooking chicken parmesan. The pot of water on the stove came to a boil, and she shuffled over to put the spaghetti noodles in it. On the back burner, marinara sauce simmered in a smaller pot. It smelled as divine as any professional Italian chef’s cuisine.

As she stirred it, the doorbell rang, her doorbell being a recording of wind chimes set to play throughout the house upon the push of the button. It had been Taylor’s birthday present to her when she had turned 65.

Come in, dear! she called as loud as her old voice would allow. The door was unlocked; she almost always left it unlocked. There was no real crime in the area of the Boston suburbs where she lived.

She heard it creak open, and then shut. Hi, Grandma! a voice shouted.

Beverly noticed his voice sounded raspier than usual. She would address it later. For now, she turned to go and greet him as he entered. Oh, it’s so good to see you! How’s college been?

Taylor entered the kitchen. He was around six feet tall, blond hair chopped into an almost military-like crew-cut, and he wore a Georgetown T-shirt and jeans. Great, he said and set a backpack on the couch across from his grandpa. Hi, Grandpa.

Hello, Taylor. It’s good to have you home. He gave a dentured smile.

It’s nice to be back. He walked over to the kitchen and gave Beverly a hug.

Oh, it's nice to finally have you back home. The embrace ended. You know I miss having someone to help with chores around the house. She lowered her voice but kept it purposefully loud enough for Richard to hear. Your grandpa doesn’t like doing chores.

I help out, Richard grumbled.

She raised her eyebrows and shook her head.

I see you two are still fighting like an old married couple, Taylor joked. He turned away and coughed briefly into his arm.

Are you feeling all right, dear? she asked.

Ugh, yeah, he said, and reached for a tissue. He coughed once more into it and then blew his nose. I’m fine. He discarded it into a small wastebasket.

Beverly became concerned when she noticed a slight dab of blood on the discarded tissue. Oh, dear, Taylor, you don’t look so good. Let me get you some lemon tea.

Lemon tea?

It helps with everything.

Thanks, he said.

She put the kettle on the back burner behind the pasta, which was very near al dente. Steam rose from the boiling water as well as the simmering sauce. She turned the burner under the kettle on and the one underneath the spaghetti off.

Can I help with anything? Taylor asked politely.

Oh, no, dear, I’ve got this kitchen under control. Why don’t you go rest on the couch next to your grandfather?

Okay. He went over and plopped down on the center cushion of the couch. His grandpa sat in the armchair to his right, and the History Channel continued to play.

Tea will be ready in a few minutes, Beverly declared.

The World War II documentary featured a black-and-white close up of Adolf Hitler doing the Nazi salute to