were hung over one of the chairs at the small table where he and his family had just finished breakfast. He would not be using them today, however, as he had already called out sick. It was just after eight thirty, and a beautiful blue day was beginning to form outside. Neither he nor his wife, Andrea, took much notice of this—every shade and blind in the house was shut, as they had been for days.
“Yeah, okay. Sure, sure. I appreciate it, Elaine. Love you, too. I’ll let you know what’s happening. Bye.”
He thumbed the OFF button and turned to Andi, who was standing in the living room with her arms wrapped tight around herself. She had also called out sick and was wearing sweats and a T-shirt.
“What did she say?”
“There are about a hundred and thirty deaths now for sure,” he said. Andi shook her head. “And more cases are coming in all the time. Every hospital has full staffs working around the clock, and they’re still asking for help from other places. But everyone’s scared. No one wants to touch the infected patients. Three doctors and eight nurses have died already. You can hardly blame them.”
They turned back to the TV, which was on the New Jersey Network. NJN had been broadcasting the story with increasing frequency, and yesterday it was asked by the governor to provide information around the clock: the Death Network .
“And they don’t have any idea what it is yet, right?”
“No. But they’re pretty sure it’s not smallpox, anyway.”
“Well, that’s good news, I suppose.”
“Elaine said the Centers for Disease Control is leading the investigation. The World Health Organization is working with them, too.”
“Terrorists?” Andi asked. “Al-Qaeda? Another Bin Laden?”
Dennis shrugged. “She said she hadn’t heard anything about that, either.”
“Do they know goddamn anything ?”
Andi rarely used profanity; one of her duties in the marriage, it seemed, was to make sure he didn’t. This was a sign she was nearing a meltdown.
“Not much, it seems.”
Dennis moved alongside her and watched the next report: another five deaths in Long Branch, a shore town about an hour south of them. One of the victims was a twelve-year-old boy who had just made his first honor roll. Andi started sobbing. When the little boy’s school picture flashed on the screen, Dennis lost it, too.
* * *
They first heard about the outbreak three days earlier. While driving to his job as an insurance-claims analyst, Dennis heard something on the radio about the sudden death of two police officers in Ramsey after they found a body hanging in an apartment. The report was mercilessly graphic, talking of giant, weeping pustules and hunks of blackened skin. One of the officers shot himself with an unregistered rifle he kept in a drop-ceiling in his basement. It sounded gross enough to make Dennis want to set down his iced coffee for a moment, but he picked it up again when the broadcaster moved on to stock futures and baseball scores. He dismissed it by the time he pulled into the parking lot—just another scratchy note in the endless dissonance of media symphonics.
He mentioned it casually that evening as he and his family were unwrapping their Wendy’s. Andi hadn’t heard anything about it. She was an HR director at an injection-mold facility and was usually on the move from the moment she walked through the door. She was also more inclined to listen to music during her fifteen-minute commute than the news. She shuddered at the thought of bodies covered in huge, oozing blisters while their organs dissolved; “gross” had never been her thing.
She was going to make a comment when she became distracted by their seven-year-old daughter, Chelsea, who needed help opening a packet of barbecue sauce. Chelsea preferred it over honey mustard when she had chicken nuggets, which made her father proud. Their other child, Billy, was five and hadn’t yet been introduced to the manifold delights
“Yeah, okay. Sure, sure. I appreciate it, Elaine. Love you, too. I’ll let you know what’s happening. Bye.”
He thumbed the OFF button and turned to Andi, who was standing in the living room with her arms wrapped tight around herself. She had also called out sick and was wearing sweats and a T-shirt.
“What did she say?”
“There are about a hundred and thirty deaths now for sure,” he said. Andi shook her head. “And more cases are coming in all the time. Every hospital has full staffs working around the clock, and they’re still asking for help from other places. But everyone’s scared. No one wants to touch the infected patients. Three doctors and eight nurses have died already. You can hardly blame them.”
They turned back to the TV, which was on the New Jersey Network. NJN had been broadcasting the story with increasing frequency, and yesterday it was asked by the governor to provide information around the clock: the Death Network .
“And they don’t have any idea what it is yet, right?”
“No. But they’re pretty sure it’s not smallpox, anyway.”
“Well, that’s good news, I suppose.”
“Elaine said the Centers for Disease Control is leading the investigation. The World Health Organization is working with them, too.”
“Terrorists?” Andi asked. “Al-Qaeda? Another Bin Laden?”
Dennis shrugged. “She said she hadn’t heard anything about that, either.”
“Do they know goddamn anything ?”
Andi rarely used profanity; one of her duties in the marriage, it seemed, was to make sure he didn’t. This was a sign she was nearing a meltdown.
“Not much, it seems.”
Dennis moved alongside her and watched the next report: another five deaths in Long Branch, a shore town about an hour south of them. One of the victims was a twelve-year-old boy who had just made his first honor roll. Andi started sobbing. When the little boy’s school picture flashed on the screen, Dennis lost it, too.
* * *
They first heard about the outbreak three days earlier. While driving to his job as an insurance-claims analyst, Dennis heard something on the radio about the sudden death of two police officers in Ramsey after they found a body hanging in an apartment. The report was mercilessly graphic, talking of giant, weeping pustules and hunks of blackened skin. One of the officers shot himself with an unregistered rifle he kept in a drop-ceiling in his basement. It sounded gross enough to make Dennis want to set down his iced coffee for a moment, but he picked it up again when the broadcaster moved on to stock futures and baseball scores. He dismissed it by the time he pulled into the parking lot—just another scratchy note in the endless dissonance of media symphonics.
He mentioned it casually that evening as he and his family were unwrapping their Wendy’s. Andi hadn’t heard anything about it. She was an HR director at an injection-mold facility and was usually on the move from the moment she walked through the door. She was also more inclined to listen to music during her fifteen-minute commute than the news. She shuddered at the thought of bodies covered in huge, oozing blisters while their organs dissolved; “gross” had never been her thing.
She was going to make a comment when she became distracted by their seven-year-old daughter, Chelsea, who needed help opening a packet of barbecue sauce. Chelsea preferred it over honey mustard when she had chicken nuggets, which made her father proud. Their other child, Billy, was five and hadn’t yet been introduced to the manifold delights
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