Authors: Ken Benton
Reality, that intolerant master, jolted him back to the present. Their mother did leave them. Their father did struggle with his faltering business, trying to provide for his two boys the best he could while shunning any kind of social life. And Jake did turn out to be a conspiracy-theory obsessed crackpot.
He wasn’t always this way. Something happened to Jake the year Clint went off to college; something Clint was never able to clearly identify. It didn’t help that by the time Jake joined him at the University of Colorado the following year, Clint had already met Jenny and thus spent all his free time with her. Jake was essentially abandoned by his closest partner in life, left to fend for himself in a cruel world.
And then they got the shocking news about their dad. It was more than either of them could handle at the time. Not surprisingly, Jake dropped out shortly thereafter and joined the Colorado State Forest Service—where his sudden nutty survivalist notions only fostered.
“Let me ask you something,” Clint said to break the stare-off. “If the shit does hit the fan, like in your dark fantasy, and your hungry neighbors come knocking asking for food, what are you going to do? Point your gun at them and tell them to scat?”
Jake laughed. “Dark fantasy? I thought you only banned news broadcasts when I was here. Now I’m starting to think you never watch them at all.”
“The news, right. Last year you were warning me about a sun flare or something knocking out all the power in our country—”
“That could still happen.”
“And now you’re going on and on
and on
about a financial collapse, and money becoming worthless. I mean, come on. You’re always paranoid about some doomsday scenario, and always certain it’s right around the corner. But every time I see you it’s a different synopsis you swear is unfolding. None of your predictions has ever come close to happening.”
Jake scowled, opened his car door, and got in—thank God. He started the engine. This wouldn’t be the first time he peeled away from Clint’s house pissed off.
But first, he cranked down the window of his old Ford pickup and spoke again.
“You can’t keep borrowing more and more money, and then just get a new credit card to use to make the payments from, and then max that one out, too. But that’s exactly how our government operates. Something’s got to give. I’m only trying to make sure my brother will be all right when it happens.”
“I’ll be okay,” Clint said. “I have you, remember?”
Jake didn’t return the smile. “Yeah, well, if you refuse to prepare, don’t be surprised if I ‘point my gun’ down the road behind you and tell you to scat when you show up at my doorstep. Thanks for the leftovers.”
With that, Jake wrenched the shifter on his steering column down and drove off. The sound of the rickety truck barreling over the speed bumps in Clint’s townhouse complex was his final statement.
And so he was gone. Whew. Clint needed a break. He started thinking about those last few beers in the cooler. Before he could get back to the sidewalk, he saw Harold’s garage door opening. So he walked over to his driveway.
“Hey Harold, beers on my patio,” he said while only Harold’s legs were visible. When the garage door fully rolled up, Clint saw that Harold was worshipping one of his firearms.
“What in the world is that thing? A zombie assault rifle?”
Harold looked out and smiled before popping a magazine into the military-looking weapon he was holding.
“This is my M4 carbine. Isn’t she beautiful?” He twisted it around in one hand while scratching his freshly-trimmed blond beard with the other.
“You better unload that before Mrs. Conklin calls the police on you again.”
Harold looked up the street and frowned. “It’s legal as long as I’m still in my garage, so she can get bent.” But he did take the magazine out and put the gun back in his locker. Talking tough while giving into requests was one of Harold’s quirks. Clint figured it might have something to do with being middle-aged. Most likely, so was his insistence on continuing to wear that same old brown suede jacket well after the weather had become too warm for it.
Harold turned back around. “Beers on your patio? Don’t mind if I have one. Took the day off, did you?”
“I always take the Monday after Easter off. Need a holiday after spending a holiday with my brother. Come on.”
Clint led Harold across the street and two houses over. As they walked, he heard the sound of children playing on the community lawn, where they had their Easter egg hunt yesterday. Man was that noisy. Too bad so many young kids were in the complex now. Maybe Clint and Jenny should move to a real house. Some neighborhood that isn’t a cookie-cutter pattern of drab beige walls with red clay roof tiles.
They came to Clint’s sidewalk. It led them through a narrow break in the townhomes up to his front patio. Harold stopped just inside the gate to study Jenny’s flower garden while Clint opened the cooler.
“Think there are a couple silver bullets left that Jake didn’t get to.” Clint sunk his hand in the frigid ice-water until he felt a can, pulled out a light beer, and tossed it to Harold. He then lifted out a bottle of local craft-brewed amber ale and reached for the opener on the brick ledge. The sound of two beers simultaneously being cracked captured the attention of Mrs. Conklin’s cat, who was napping on one of the patio chairs. Clint and Harold sat down in two of the others.
“So, Jake gave you an earful again, eh?”
“Yeah,” Clint said. “Two ears full.”
“I can only imagine, now that he finally has something factual to latch on to.”
Clint tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“The flu epidemic.”
“No.” Clint took a swig. “He hasn’t gone there yet. This time it was all about a financial meltdown.”
“That’s kind of weird. The pandemic is actually killing people, looking to be the worst outbreak in modern times from all appearances. People way below your brother on the crazy scale are starting to scream the sky is falling.”
“I wasn’t aware it had gotten that bad.”
“Well it’s not that bad yet, but it could become real soon. Haven’t you been watching the news?”
“Heck no,” Clint said. “Especially not while Jake’s here. He knows I don’t allow it. Drives him nuts. But this kind of thing is exactly why.”
Harold laughed. “I’m sure your phone will ring as soon as he gets caught up.”
“That’s what answering machines are for. So what are they saying about the flu now? It’s just a regular strain, right? Not some super flu killing millions of people or anything.”
Harold shook his head as he took a couple swallows of beer. “No, not a super flu or anything, as far as I know. Just a severe strain of regular flu I think. The death count exploded over the weekend. They say it’s even worse in Europe. The CDC is trying to put new restrictions in airports so you can’t leave the terminals on layovers, among other things.”
“Are healthy people dying?” Clint asked.
“No. Only those with the flu.”
Clint stared back at Harold, who made a motion with his free hand like he was playing the drums.
“Bada boom. Sorry. Poor taste, I know. I’m pretty sure the deaths are mainly with the elderly, infants, and those weak from other health problems. Still, everyone should get vaccinated.”
“We both did last November.”
“I think you need to get the shot for this specific strain.”
The patio sliding door opened. Jenny appeared in the doorway and stepped outside. She pulled her shoulder-length brown hair away from one side to better hold the phone against her face.
“Yes—hold on a second, Jake.” She covered the mouthpiece and whispered loudly to Clint. “It’s your brother, calling from the road. Been listening to the news on his car radio.”
Clint ran a finger across his throat, shook his head, and mouthed words that included, “Not here.”
“Sorry Jake, I was wrong. Looks like he’s still outside talking to one of the neighbors. Do you want me to have him call you?”
After a pause she said, “Yes, we know about the flu outbreak.”
Another pause. “No, I didn’t realize it was that bad. You know that’s why Clint doesn’t let you watch the news when you’re here.” Jenny stepped back in the house but left the door open.
Harold chuckled and crumpled his empty beer can. “Thanks for the cold one. Don’t forget poker at my house Friday.” He stood to leave.
“I never forget poker.” Clint stood up as well. “Jenny’s even making a special appetizer I’ll be bringing.”
Harold left. Jenny was now leaning over the dining room table, still on the phone, her pink sweats stretching nicely across her gym-hewn bottom. She glared at Clint before placing her forehead in her hand. Clint was sorry to do that to her, but better her than Clint. She could probably get rid of him faster.
“No,” Jenny groaned into the phone. “I haven’t heard about any dead ferrets.”
* * *
“Three jacks,” Roy said turning his cards up.
“Damn!” Tom flicked his cards with his fingernail and flashed kings and queens before tossing them in the muck. “Take it.”
“Let’s play hold’em,” Clint said.
“Your turn in a minute. I won the deal, too.” Roy scooped the pot into a pile, turned his baseball cap around backwards, and started gathering the cards. “Hey Clint, what’s in those taquitos? They’re really good.”
“Venison,” Clint said. “I thawed some out for the occasion. Summer’s on its way and I’ll be going down to the cabin to hopefully replenish my supply, so need the room in my freezer.”
“Venison, huh? Is it from that guy?” Roy motioned towards the buck’s head mounted above Harold’s fireplace.
“No, not that one. Sure glad Harold’s house is in the rotation, though, so I can visit him.”
“Your wife doesn’t like dead animal heads,” one of the guys said. But it was an old joking topic and they all knew the story already.
“Hey Harold, how come you don’t shoot your own deer?” Roy asked as he started to deal five-card draw again. “Or even a polar bear, with the high-caliber weapons you have.”
“He just likes shooting at targets,” Clint said. “Come on, deal faster.”
“Targets and burglars,” Harold said. “If I could ever get a damned burglar to visit me.”
Everyone laughed. The guys were in a good mood tonight. The game continued and the deal made its way around the table. Clint found himself winning three hands in a row.
“No wonder you wanted to play hold’em,” Roy said. “Well I’m dealing five card draw again. Can’t let a computer programmer win all the money. Unless Oracle’s getting ready to lay you off. I heard they were having some trouble because of the pandemic.”
“Lay me off? I should be so lucky. They’re doubling my workload, with all the engineers out sick on the coasts.”
“Aren’t they closing some offices, too?” Tom asked as he retrieved a cigar from the pocket of his flannel coat.
“Yes,” Clint said. “Mostly in Europe. A couple on the east coast. Like I said, more work for me.”
Clint drew a flush to beat Roy’s three aces.
“I thought you didn’t need the money!” Roy said.
“Never said that. This might help make up for my 401K tanking.”
Everyone at the table moaned. Clint realized he brought up a sore subject.
“It’s an opportunity in disguise,” Tom said.
“What, the stock market falling?”
“Yep. Always is. You know after 9-11 Louise bought some Disney stock at $16 per share? It was more than triple that before the flu selloff started. Still more than double even now.”
“Why did she pick Disney?”
“Oprah.”
Laughs.
“I’m not kidding, though,” Tom continued. “As soon as they make an H5 vaccine the market will turn around. Too bad so many people have to die first. I’m only waiting for the DOW to bottom out. It hasn’t crashed far enough yet.”
“Down more than 30% isn’t enough for you?”
“No. I’m thinking when it’s down 50% from the top it’s time to start buying.”
“He might be right,” Harold said dealing the cards. “But this bird flu thing is frightening. Where the devil did that come from all of a sudden? Just this Monday Clint and I were talking on his patio, and the epidemic was only of the regular flu for all anyone knew.”
“That part is spooky,” Roy said. “You heard about all the dead ferrets they found in Maryland and Virginia?”
“Too much,” Clint replied. “My brother keeps sending me links to all these conspiracy-blog posts about those.”
“Some of those conspiracy theories may not be so far-fetched.” Roy folded. “Especially the ones speculating about a connection to the December plane crash in Holland. That’s how the Dutch mad scientists were doing their experiments, you know, using ferrets—or polecats, as they call them in Europe. Their concocted viruses transferred freely between birds, ferrets, and humans. If some of the infected polecats escaped because of the disaster there, that might be how the killer flu strain got out. In which case we’re looking at a hideous manmade biological weapon turned loose on the world.”
Clint bet two dollars. “But they said the secured virology lab wasn’t breached. It was made like a military bunker, locked up tighter than Harold’s gun locker—impossible to get to without destroying it.”
“Oh, they said, they said. You might not want to be so quick to dismiss everything your brother says. They also told us the flu epidemic was only a normal H2 strain.”
“It is,” Harold said. “Or at least, it was. Two hundred million people between Europe and the U.S. caught it, and less than four million have died from it. More than 98% of those infected were sick for a week or two and then recovered, like normal. But they say this new bird flu, the mutated H5 one they’re finding in some people now, has an 80% mortality rate.”
Tom called Clint’s bet. “So how did that suddenly appear out of nowhere?” he asked. “And right in the middle of one of the worst ‘regular flu’ pandemics in history? That’s too much of a coincidence. Plus I heard some people who started out with the normal H2 flu ended up with the killer H5 version, somehow.”
Harold folded and stood. “They were probably misdiagnosed originally. The doctors and clinics have been way too busy to keep efficiency levels high. Must be a nightmare for them. Anyone else need a beer?”