Will McIntosh - Hitchers

That’s what I’d have to do, I realized. If I couldn’t get her on the phone, I had to get to her. I couldn’t leave her stranded in her apartment. The first thing I had to do, though, was shower.

As hot water pounded the back of my head I puzzled over my vision of Lyndsay in her apartment. I was sure I heard on her TV that the outbreak began in the subway. Either I had to chalk it up to coincidence, or believe, what, that my soul had left my body and witnessed what was happening?

Maybe as you die your mind unleashes everything it’s got, to the point that you can pick up on things around you in an extra-sensory way. When the dust had settled I’d have to check the Internet for any mention of that happening in other people’s near-death experiences.

I tried Annie again after my shower. No answer. She’d only been mildly sick when I talked to her last night; was it possible she could be so sick now she couldn’t reach the phone? I turned on the news, trying to get more information about how someone might walk through the worst-hit area without getting sick. The emergency personnel were wearing masks, gloves, and clothes that left no exposed skin. I could put together everything but the mask, and one of the shots on the news showed National Guard troops helping themselves to masks from a truly huge pile.

From what the feds had pieced together so far (and were willing to share with the public), the terrorists had used light bulbs filled with “weaponized” anthrax. They’d dropped the bulbs from between moving MARTA cars onto the tracks at the Five Points station, where four separate lines use the same track. As trains flew by, the spores were drawn up into the cars, infecting the passengers. Those passengers got off at malls, bus stations, and the airport and spread the anthrax.

The incubation period was twenty-four to forty-eight hours—time for hundreds of thousands of people to inhale the spores and carry them to other places on their shoes, fingertips, clothes before anyone knew what was happening.

I dragged myself off the couch like an octogenarian and donned heavy flannel sweats and brown leather gloves. The very last thing I wanted to do was march into the eye of the storm, but someone had to help Annie.

I was momentarily confused by the absence of my Jetta in the gravel drive, then remembered it was at the bottom of the reservoir. I went back inside to retrieve the key to Lorena’s Toyota Avalon. It felt strange to drive Lorena’s car, especially while using her old flip cell phone after reactivating it to my number. Suddenly things I’d hidden away because I didn’t want to deal with them were useful again.

I called Grandma. I didn’t tell her where I was headed, but I gave her a blow-by-blow account of my accident. We agreed this anthrax attack was scary, exchanged a few tidbits of what we’d heard on the news, then I told her I was tired and had to go.

I called Dave and got his voice mail. Cursing, I closed the phone. People who were okay would be answering their phones to let people know they were okay.

I couldn’t lose Dave. I couldn’t lose Annie. That was all there was to it. I’d suffered my losses. Maybe that was a selfish way to look at it, but I didn’t care. I was already too alone; my twin sister and my wife were gone, the core of my inner circle carved away. On top of that, when I lost Lorena a lot of my friends went as well. They’d been her friends, it turned out, or they’d been couple-friends who came as a matching set and preferred their friends come in similar matching sets. After that I’d discovered I was no longer very good at making friends on my own. It had come as a surprise; I wasn’t painfully shy, but I was somewhat shy, and I learned that in adulthood that was enough.

My agent Steve called my home phone, checking to see if I was okay. He’d grown worried when I didn’t answer my cell. Once again I related the story of my death and recovery. Steve interjected with “Oh my Gods” until I finished, then gave a low whistle.

“Unbelievable. So glad you made it, my friend. Sounds like you’ve had a rough time.”

For an instant the black water was rushing in again. “Do they know who did it yet? I haven’t seen anything on the news.”

“They haven’t figured it out. I’m thinking Al-Qaeda. My wife thinks anti-government right-wingers. I have a client who’s an army colonel, and he’s saying Russia.”

“Russia? Why would he think that?” As soon as I asked I realized I didn’t care all that much.

“They’re the only ones known to possess weaponized anthrax—enough to kill everyone in the world several times over, in fact. The thing is, their supply was loaded onto tanker cars, covered with bleach, and buried on an island in the Aral Sea in 1988. Gorbachev had just signed a weapons treaty with the U.S., and didn’t want us to discover it.”

“I just don’t see what they have to gain.”

“No, it doesn’t make any sense. The colonel also thought some of their supply could have been pilfered long ago and sold to some nut.”

Some Nut. I’d be willing to put money on Some Nut being involved.

“I’ll contact the syndicate and tell them there may be a delay on the strips we’re supposed to deliver Friday,” Steve said, trying to strike a tone that said the strips were not important in the scheme of things, but sounding panicked nonetheless.

“Okay,” I said noncommittally. Right now the thought of working on the strip was like returning to my upside-down car with the water rushing in.

Moving southbound, Route 85 was deserted. I breezed along in the Avalon, my unease growing as I flew past mile upon mile of grinding, bumper-to-bumper traffic heading the other way. I had no idea how I’d get home once I reached Annie.

I cleared a rise; the forest of skyscrapers that comprised the downtown area came into view. Dozens of helicopters, like giant bumblebees, drifted among the skyscrapers. My bowels loosened at the sight. I’d seen that skyline a thousand times, but today it looked foreign, like a battle zone in some war-torn country.

When I reached the roadblocks at Baker Street I turned and drove along the perimeter, scanning the sidewalks, until I spotted a box sitting on a low concrete wall. Masks. I parked, plucked a mask out of the box as I went by, and slipped it on. It fit snugly over the bottom half of my face, made me feel both anonymous and oddly powerful. No anthrax spores could touch me now. I put my head down and walked, watching the frenetic activity out of the corners of my eyes.

People in uniform were everywhere, shouting orders, clomping boots, flashing lights. I spotted a police officer moving to intercept me. I kept my head down, tried to look like I belonged.

“Where you headed?” she asked. She had braided hair and reminded me of Whoopi Goldberg.

“I live on Auburn Avenue.” I swallowed, my casual expression falling away for an instant to reveal the scared boy underneath. “My wife is all alone; I was away at a conference and I have to get back to her.”

She nodded, took my elbow and propelled me gently. “Get inside once you’re home, and stay inside.”

“I will. Thank you.” I kept moving.

A block further a big canopy had been erected. Medics and doctors in white scrubs were moving among victims in cots. Screams of pain ripped the air; a raised syringe caught the light. I half-closed my eyes, willing myself to walk faster. I wanted to run, but didn’t want someone with a gun to mistake me for a looter.

Down the street I spotted white bags piled in a heap. They looked to be trash, but as I got closer I realized they were body bags. I crossed the street to avoid getting too close, but couldn’t help staring at them as I passed. It was hard to wrap my mind around it; those were people, dead, in a pile. According to the news they were just the tip of the iceberg.