Brett Battles - Sick

The only good news as far as she was concerned was Ben. That was the name of the cute college boy. He was from San Mateo in the Bay Area and had been driving home from a skiing trip in Colorado. Luckily for Martina, he wasn’t one of the people flipping out so, naturally, they had gravitated toward each other.

At that moment, they were sitting in a booth at the far corner of the cafe, absently watching the TV. The reporter was a woman who’d been caught inside the zone, and was now at Fort Irwin near Barstow with several other members of the media. Martina wasn’t paying her much attention, though. The woman had pretty much been saying the same thing over and over all day.

“This sucks,” Martina blurted out.

“The news?” Ben asked.

She glanced at the screen. “Well, yeah. That, too. But all of this. It completely sucks. We can’t even call our families to see how they’re doing. It’s like we’re in prison.”

“At least this prison has cushioned seats,” he said, smiling.

“Ha ha.” She turned her attention back to the TV, but could only take it for another minute before she said, “I wish I’d just start coughing and get it over with, you know?”

Ben didn’t say anything.

“Did you hear me?”

She looked at him. He was staring out the window at something in the distance. Finally, as if on delay, he said, “Sorry.” Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he scooted out of the booth. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” she asked, but he was already halfway toward the front of the cafe, so she got up and followed him.

He stopped at the counter near the register and looked around.

“What are you doing?” she asked, walking up.

“Have you seen Molly?”

Molly Cryer was the older woman who, it turned out, owned the cafe.

“Maybe in back?” Martina suggested.

With a nod, Ben passed through the opening in the counter and back into the kitchen. More curious than ever, Martina continued to follow him.

Molly was sitting on a little stool in back, watching a DVD of some old black and white movie on a small TV set on a desk. She had a soda in one hand, and an unlit cigarette in the other.

“The gas station across the street,” Ben said. “There’s a big rig behind it.”

“Yeah,” Molly said without taking her eyes off the screen.

“Whose is it?”

“The rig? That’d be Eddie Jackson’s truck.”

“Is he around?”

“Nah. He’s in…” She paused for a moment. “Reno, I think.”

“Who has the keys?”

“I assume Lance does over at the station.”

“Great. Thanks.”

As Ben headed back out, Martina said, “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

“About what?”

He said nothing.

“Whoa! Where are you two going?” Coach Driscoll asked as Ben and Martina reached the front door.

“I need to check something,” Ben said.

“Well, just stick around right out front. Don’t want to expose anyone else.”

Most of the unexposed group had been hanging out at the mini-market just down from the cafe. No one had really laid claim to the gas station on the other side of the road yet, because there really wasn’t much to claim other than a couple of pumps and a greasy garage.

Once he was outside, Ben started jogging straight for the station.

Before he reached the road, Martina said, “I don’t think we’re supposed to go across.”

“Then you don’t have to come.”

Though she’d bent one or two rules in her life, she wasn’t a big one for breaking them, but given the fact that by this time tomorrow she’d probably be dead, what did it matter? She picked up her speed and caught up to him midway across the asphalt of the empty highway.

“Still not going to tell me what you’re doing?” she asked.

“Still not.”

No one seemed to be around as he led her into the gas station’s small office. He then started pulling desk drawers open, and slamming them closed when he didn’t find whatever it was he was looking for.

After a few minutes, he moved into the garage and took a quick scan around. His gaze locked onto a black cabinet on the wall.

He pulled the door open, then let out a yelp of triumph.

Martina moved around so she could look inside. There were several rows of hooks. Most were empty, but a few had keys hanging from them. Ben moved his finger along the sets that were there, pulling off several.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s see if I’m right.”

As they stepped out of the garage, a voice yelled out, “What are you doing in there?”

Lance Cryer, the guy who ran the gas station, was standing near the highway looking at them. He’d been in the group deemed unexposed.

“Just borrowing some keys,” Ben said.

“Dammit. You shouldn’t have gone in there. That’s my place. Now I can’t use it until someone washes it all down.”

Ben grimaced. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about that.”

“Too late now, isn’t it?” Lance said. “What are you going to do with those keys?”

Ben looked down at the sets in his hand. After a second, he seemed to come to some decision. “Tell Eddie Jackson I’m sorry, too.”

“What?” Lance asked, confused.

Ben touched Martina on the arm. “Come on.”

They circled around the gas station to the semi truck parked in back. The first set of keys didn’t work, but the second opened the door.

“Go around to the other side,” he told her. “I’ll open it up for you.”

By the time she got there, the passenger door was unlocked.

“Okay, so are we going to make a run for it?” she asked, smirking, as soon as she was inside.

“Not a bad idea. But I kind of think I’d rather die of a cold than a bullet.”

That wiped the smile off her face.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was trying to be funny. But…”

Shaking her head, she said, “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” She glanced at him expectantly. “So why are we here?”

Ben put the key in the ignition and turned it enough to get the electricity inside working.

“That,” he said, pointing at a device mounted in the dashboard.

“What is it?”

“CB radio. If we can get it to work, we might be able to get you in touch with your mom.”

Martina looked at him. “You…you think so?”

“That’s the hope.”

It took him a few minutes to get the hang of it, but soon he got it working.

“Hello, hello. Is anyone out there?” he said into the mic. Static. “Hello. I’m calling from Cryer’s Corner inside the quarantine zone. Can anyone hear me?”

Static again, then, “…hear you.”

Martina hit Ben’s arm excitedly.

“This is Ben. Ben Bowerman. Who’s this?”

“…ame’s Marty Zimmerman. Everyone calls me…ee.”

“Sorry, you faded out. Calls you what?”

“Zee. Everyone calls me Zee.”

“I can’t tell you how great it is to hear your voice, Zee.”

“Where’d you say you are?”

“Cryer’s Corner.”

“Kinda near Death Valley?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hell, I know where that is. Tiny speck of a place. Did you say you’re in the quarantine zone?”

“Uh, yeah. Where are you?”

“Sitting in the parking lot of a casino just east of the Cal border along I-15. Stuck here with a load of potato chips I was supposed to be taking to Barstow, while I wait to hear where I’m being rerouted. But better stuck here than inside the zone, I guess. What’re you hauling?”

“I’m…not a trucker. There’s a whole group of us stuck here at Cryer’s Corner.”

It took a few minutes to explain everything, then another as Zee made the requested call on his cell phone before Martina heard the voice she thought she would never hear again.