Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

He trailed off.

Sydney had her own microphone. That would change with the third segment when she alone would hold a microphone. Apparently, the studio execs had discussed this at great length before dispatching the crew. It was their opinion that when Hunz died, it would look unprofessional for him to drop the microphone. Sydney would hold it for him.

“…and Sydney St. James,” Sydney said to the camera audience.

Hunz said, “We’re coming to you live from the Hilton Hotel at O’Hare International Airport, Chicago, Illinois.” He took a breath. “Victor Hugo wrote, ‘All men are condemned to death with indefinitely suspended sentences.’ And while that was true in Victor Hugo’s world, a new world began two days ago when thousands of people had their suspended sentences revoked and the time of their deaths appointed and announced. I’m one of them.”

Hunz held up an email printout.

“Nearly forty-eight hours ago, I received notice that I would die at 8:47 a.m., Pacific Standard Time. I’m not the first to receive a death watch notice; many have received notices with an announced time of death earlier than mine. To the best of my knowledge, without exception, they are now dead. Death Watch has proved itself frighteningly accurate. The night before last I witnessed one man’s death, a victim of Death Watch. Although he was surrounded by emergency personnel at the time of his death, nothing could be done to save him. Which means I have every right to believe that within"—he checked his watch—"thirty minutes, I will be dead.”

Sydney checked her watch too. Thirty-one minutes, fifteen seconds, to be exact.

Hunz continued. “Between now and the appointed time of my death, I will share with you the thoughts of a man who has been abruptly reminded of his own mortality. But, for now, back to the studio.”

A teaser to keep the viewing audience tuned in.

The voices in Sydney’s earpiece picked it up from there.

“Carol, that must be tough,” said the male anchor, “to be suddenly aware of the time of your death, and to know nothing can be done to save you.”

“You’re right, Hal. And the precision of the timing I’ve heard that death watch sentences—for that’s what they are, aren’t they?—are carried out at the exact second. Chilling.”

From behind the cameras, a voice: “The Hugo quote was a nice touch,” Dorian said.

“Thank you,” Hunz replied.

Sydney leaned close. “Hunz? Before we go back on the air, I want to talk to you about. ”

Hunz fiddled with his earpiece. He took it out and stepped toward the lights. “Excuse me a minute, Sydney. Dorian, can you take a look at this? It was cutting in and out during the last segment.”

10:25 a.m., local time.

More prepared clips were aired between the live segments, recorded segments of world leaders reacting to Death Watch. The Prime Minister of Great Britain said the earth was “on the edge of Armageddon.” President Hu Jintao of the People’s Republic of China declared the Death Watch—which had hit his country hard—to be a Western plot to overthrow the Chinese government. As evidence, he cited the number of death watch announcements that had been transmitted via modern communication devices: computers, faxes, cell phones. He likened Western technology to the Trojan Horse.

All around the world, combative nations blamed each other for Death Watch, in many cases launching retaliatory strikes.

A second prepackaged segment documented theories of who was behind Death Watch. The theories ranged from Death Watch being a prelude to an alien invasion, to nanobots that had formed an intelligence and declared war on human life-forms.

Hunz and Sydney were standing on their marks—masking tape Xs on the carpet—ready for the next live portion of the show, though Sydney didn’t know why she was needed, since Hunz would do all the talking on this segment.

It was Dorian who told her to get into position. Another directive from the powers-that-be? Were they concerned Hunz might keel over before his time, possibly from a heart attack brought on by the anxiety? But then, if that were to happen, couldn’t they just cut back to the studio? Maybe they were hoping she’d provide some good old-fashioned female hysterics.

To make a splash.

If that were the case, she could certainly oblige them the way her pulse was racing. She felt like she’d downed a dozen cups of coffee, her nervous system caffeine-charged even though she’d only sipped her latte.

The live feed was passed to Hunz.

“It’s difficult to describe to you the range of thoughts and emotions that have crossed my mind in the last forty-eight hours,” he said to the camera.

“From thinking it was a prank, or a mistake; to getting angry and desperately wanting to track down whoever was behind this; to the realization that the mortality rate for Death Watch was 100 percent, yet still believing that a solution or cure would be found; finally, to realizing that I was soon to go the way of all men and there was nothing I could do about it.”

All men die, Sydney.

But not like this, Sydney thought. Hunz wasn’t dying. He was being executed.

Hunz continued. “More times than I care to admit within the last forty-eight hours, the universal cry of the victim has escaped my lips: Why me? What have I done to warrant death? Am I a random victim, someone who walked into the wrong restaurant at the wrong time and sat next to a man with a bomb strapped to his chest? Or was I selected? Marked for death?

“And not just me. What of Lyle Vandeveer of Pasadena, California, who lived long enough to see his wife and daughter die when a commercial air flight plummeted to the ground, only to die while tinkering with his model trains? To whom was he a threat?

“Or Cheryl McCormick, who even now lies in a hospital bed not far from here at Prentice Women’s Hospital. A compassionate woman, mother of a beautiful three-year-old daughter, heavy with her second child, hoping to deliver before her time runs out and she dies. A threat to whom? What kind of man would dispatch a death watch notice to Cheryl McCormick? What kind of monster would deny little Stacy and her unborn brother or sister their mother?”

Hunz’s voice grew husky with emotion.

Had she been asked, Sydney would have been willing to bet that never once in his career had Hunz Vonner come close to losing control of his emotions on camera. He was close now.

“I am one of thousands of death watch victims,” Hunz said. “Together, we cry out with a single voice: Why? To be sentenced to die is one thing. But not knowing why is cruel and inhuman. Every death watch victim lowered to his grave will have one word on his lips. Why?”

The show was once again transferred back to the studio.

“Hunz, we have to talk,” Sydney said.

He dropped his microphone onto the sofa and pulled out his earpiece. Squaring his shoulders, he looked at her. The weariness he would never show on camera revealed itself now. His eyes sagged. His shoulders slumped.

“Sydney, could we do this later? I’d really like to be alone right now.”

It was a plea, not a directive.

“Sure,” she said.

It wasn’t until he’d crossed the room to the bedroom and closed the door that she realized Hunz Vonner didn’t have any “later” left.

He said your name, Mommy!”

“Yes, he did,” Cheryl McCormick said, staring at the screen in disbelief.

Stacy sat on Josh’s lap as they watched the television in the hospital room. The program went to a commercial following Hunz Vonner’s segment. On the screen a white duck attempted to shout the name of an insurance company. His attempts were repeatedly thwarted by various loud noises at an automotive repair center. Stacy thought the duck was funny.