Hour 24: All That's Left Page 6

  “I’m sorry, Jim,” Sherri said. “It was very likely that it wasn’t. But like I said on the phone yesterday, it’s been a very strange twenty-four hours. I had to be sure. I couldn’t take any chances.”

  “Are you nuts?” Jim asked. “Have you gone full-blown conspiracy theorist? I can’t wait until Nolan gets home, you two will have a bunch to talk about.”

  “I’m not nuts,” Sherri said, sternly. “But I can’t be too careful. I would have been here an hour and a half sooner, but I made three pit stops and detours to make sure I wasn’t being followed.”

  “Followed?” Jim said. “Sherri, what the hell have you gotten into? What have you gotten us both into?”

  “Make me a drink,” Sherri said. “Something stiff. And I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Jim agreed that he could use one, too, pulled a blender down from a cupboard and filled it with a concoction of rum and ice and pineapple juice. He blended it, poured two big, goopy cups of it out, popped a straw into each one and sat beside Sherri at the kitchen counter.

  Sherri took a long sip, felt an impending brain freeze, then stopped drinking and took a deep breath. “Do you remember Dr. Merrill?” she asked, sadly.

  “Not personally,” Jim said. “He was at the hospital in New York, before we were evacuated…I didn’t see him face to face, but he was all over TV for the next few months. He seemed to have all the answers, didn’t he?”

  Sherri nodded. “That he did.”

  “What’s the matter?” Jim asked.

  “He’s dead,” Sherri said. “He killed himself the night before last. At least, that’s the official story.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Jim said, and he patted Sherri’s back. They each took another long sip from their drink, and Sherri continued.

  “I worked for him for six years,” Sherri said. “He could have a temper. He could lash out when things didn’t go his way. But he was passionate. Passionate about healing, passionate about wellness. He was a remarkable, if not flawed, man.

  “He called me about two hours before he supposedly tied a length of rope around his neck and hung himself from a ceiling beam in his bedroom. Said that he had a lot to get off his chest. That he was being forced to lie on television. A couple of men in black types had coerced him into going on TV and reading their script to the American public.

  “He said the first lie he was forced to tell was that all of those infected by EV1 during the NYVO event died around their twenty-third hour of infection. He said that simply wasn’t true. When the weeks went on, him and his team were finding patients that’d been infected for days, sometimes weeks.

  “He said the second lie he was forced to tell was that those who’d been infected showed symptoms right away. Again, that was simply not the case. He said he’d had patients who sat in quarantine for five, ten days before they’d turn. Which leads directly into the good doctor’s third and final lie.

  “He said the worst lie he was forced to tell each night, looking into the camera of whatever late night talk show or primetime news special he was forced to appear on, was that America was safe. That EV1 would never make a comeback. Quite the opposite, he said. He assured me, Jim, that what happened in New York was going to happen again. Tenfold, and any day now. He said the vaccinations were rushed, that they were a joke. That they were faulty. Apparently, he watched men who’d been vaccinated become infected and turn right in front of him.

  “There was an agenda to be followed, he’d been told. A careful agenda. It was okay to fudge the details and lie about certain things, his superiors told him, in order for the country to pick itself up and move forward. Without those lies, the economy would crumble. The empire would fold. The lies were a necessary evil, at least according to the agents that forced him to spew them.

  “He seemed particularly troubled by the lift of the travel ban. He said, and I quote, ‘That’ll be the end of it.’ Then he hung up the phone. I tried to call him back a dozen times before I got dressed and walked out to my car. I figured I’d drive over and visit him. He sounded so distraught. I was halfway to his house when I got a call from the hospital. His wife had found him dead.”

  Jim sat on his kitchen barstool, mouth agape. “Jesus, Sherri. I don’t even know what to say. I don’t even know where to start.”

  Sherri let out a sarcastic little laugh. “Neither do I. The whole thing is so fucked up, you know? I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know what to make of it all.”

  “The travel ban has been lifted for a couple of days now,” Jim said. “Let’s start there. People are flying and driving wherever they want. Nothing has gone wrong. There’s no reports of violence or anything remotely similar to what happened in New York.”

  “Sure, Jim,” Sherri said. “But what if that’s just it? What if it hasn’t happened yet. What if it’s just waiting to happen again? I feel like I’m in limbo, like I’m in suspense. I figured if there was even an infinitesimal chance of it happening again, I’d be safest out here with you and yours. Hell if the lot of you weren’t the most resilient and determined to survive folks I encountered the day of NYVO.”

  Jim shrugged. “We have it good here,” he said. “No denying that. And you’re welcome to stay as long as you want—at least until Dana gets back. If she ever comes back.”

  Sherri put her hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Its been rough?”

  “It hasn’t been easy.”

  She set her drink down on the counter, nibbled her lip, and looked Jim deep in the eye. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Jim studied Sherri’s delicate face, the worried look in her eyes. Through his mind flashed every text message exchange they’d had for the past two years. There were so many promises—so many insistences—on what they’d do to one another if not separated by so many miles. And now here they were, no longer separated by those countless miles.

  Together. In the same room.

  Without a word, Jim lifted Sherri by the waist, locked his lips against hers and carried her out of the kitchen and towards the master bedroom in the rear of the house. She grunted, and by the time they were tumbling through the doorway of the bedroom, she was already half undressed.

  Nolan sat on a bench at the front of his college campus, patiently waited for Chloe to pick him up. The sun was hanging low on the horizon, and it was getting late; she should be pulling around the corner at any second in that beautiful Challenger of hers.

  He rubbed his hands together for warmth, thought: She’s probably dropping Hannah off. She’ll be here soon.

  “Excuse me, sir. Can I have a moment of your time?”

  Nolan jolted in his bench, startled by the sound. Approaching him was a slender girl in a downy coat and wire framed glasses. Underneath her arm was a stack of pamphlets.

  He wanted to tell her no, that she couldn’t have a moment of his time, but he found it hard to be impolite. Besides, what excuse did he have? Sitting on a bench, clearly waiting for a ride, it was obvious that he had nothing but time.

  “Sure,” Nolan said, and he scooted on the bench so that the girl could take a seat beside him. He reached out his hand and said: “Nolan Fischer.”

  The girl ignored the handshake, said, “My name is Daughter Sunray. I’m a representative for the Church of Daylight.”

  Nolan tried hard not to laugh. “Daughter Sunray? Not, like, Sara, or something? Jennifer?”

  “My former name,” Sunray said, “was Elizabeth. But I shed it after NYVO. All parishioners of the Church of Daylight shed their pre-NYVO names as a condition of admission.”

  Nolan nodded his head, realized quickly the direction the conversation would be headed. “Let me save you some time. I’m not interested.”

  “Even if you’re not compelled to join,” Sunray said, “it’s my duty as a member of the Church of Daylight to warn commoners of the danger they face.”

  “Oh yeah?” Nolan said. “And what danger is that?”

  “The world was not supposed to end two years ago,” S
unray said. “It was only a warning of what’s to come. The final day of judgment will present itself for all nonbelievers. Have you atoned for your sins?”

  “Shit,” Nolan grunted. “Do you even go to school here?”

  Sunray stuttered, said: “Well—n-n-no.”

  “Then are you even supposed to be on campus, spewing this garbage?”

  Sunray stood up from the bench, left a pamphlet on the seat beside Nolan. Nolan could see Chloe’s Challenger steering into the parking lot up ahead, so he stood too.

  “You’ve suffered a terrible loss,” Sunray said. “The Church of Daylight can help you with that loss. Can prepare you for the coming days of fire and wraith.”

  Nolan crossed his arms. “I was in New York during NYVO. Where were you?”

  The girl shook her head. “Here.”

  “Yeah,” Nolan said. “Figures. You don’t know shit about loss and fire and wraith, buddy.” He picked up the pamphlet left behind on the bench and tore it to pieces, threw the shreds of what was left at her. “Neither do the other morons in that cult you call a church.”

  Sunray stomped off as Chloe pulled up in front of Nolan’s bench. He marched to the side of the car, opened the door, and hopped inside.

  “What was that all about?” Chloe asked.

  “Nothing,” Nolan said. “Some wackjob. They seem to be popping up more and more lately. How was academy?”

  “Great,” Chloe said. “Sergeant Fuller rode my ass all day long, but I couldn’t care less. I have a week off to take finals for my classes, and then it’s over. Graduation.”

  “I can’t wait to celebrate,” Nolan said. “I know I tease you about it—about being a cop—but I’m really proud of you, Chloe. We all are.”

  Chloe smiled. The Challenger pulled out of the campus parking lot and onto Hemming. “Thank you, Nole.” She patted his knee. “How was class?”

  “Interesting,” Nolan said. “To say the least.”

  “Your professors still recognize you?”

  “One of them did,” he said. “You’re right. I really should focus on attending more often. It was thought-provoking.”

  “Are you hungry?” Chloe asked. “We could stop for—”

  Both Chloe and Nolan’s cell phones vibrated simultaneously. Chloe’s was sitting in the car’s cup holder, Nolan’s was in the pocket of his jacket.

  Nolan said, “That was weird.”

  “Yeah,” Chloe said. “What was it? A text from dad?”

  Nolan fished his phone out of his pocket, looked at the front screen. “Nope. Some kind of news alert.”

  “Check mine,” Chloe said. “I can’t look at it. I’m driving.”

  Nolan reached into the cup holder, tugged out Chloe’s phone, studied the screen. “The same thing is on yours.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Nolan unlocked his phone and clicked the alert. “I’ll find out.” An article with a video attached to it filled the screen.

  Nolan said, “Drive us home. Just get us home.”

  Chloe accelerated the car. “Will you tell me what’s happening?”

  Nolan clicked a button on his phone, and the phone connected to the car’s stereo. He hit the play icon beside the article, and a video buffered, then started to load. The audio from the video played out over the Challenger’s stereo.

  “—Deputies on the scene have declined to offer any official statements. Eyewitnesses have described the afternoon’s attack as brutal, senseless, and horrifying.”

  “Nolan, what is it?” Chloe begged.

  Nolan scanned the article beneath the video. “There was some kind of attack today. Southern California. Three people are dead.”

  The voice on the phone continued: “Stacy Margolis was buying coffee across the street at the time of the assault. Here’s what she had to say.”

  The video shifted to a young woman wearing sunglasses and holding a tall cappuccino. “It was incredible,” the woman said. “I was leaving the coffee shop, and I hear all this screaming and commotion. And I look across the street at the gas station, and there’s one guy lying on the ground, covered in blood…there’s another pinned against a car, and this lady—I mean, I’ve never seen anything like it—this lady is just clawing at her. Biting her. The cops showed up a little while later and shot her, right there in the street.” She pointed across the roadway, and the camera panned over. The front of the gas station was covered in crime scene tape. At least a dozen paramedics and police officers stood around. A police cruiser and ambulance strobed fast, blinking red and blue lights. On the ground outside of the gas station were the shapes of three bodies, each one covered in a white blanket, each blanket smeared with blood.

  Nolan swallowed. “Get us the hell home.”

  Chloe slapped her steering wheel, said, “I’m trying, Nole. There’s traffic. What do you want me to do? Drive through the cars ahead of us?”

  Nolan felt his heart beat fast and hard, could hear a ringing in his ears. “This is how it starts, Chloe.”

  “Just relax. Take a deep breath.”

  Nolan fidgeted in his seat, tapped at the door handle, tugged at the seatbelt fastened across his chest. “Put the—put the window down. I need some air.”

  “Nolan,” Chloe said. “Re—lax.”

  Nolan stomped his foot, wheezed rapid, short breaths. His vision blurred, then periscoped, and he passed out right there in his seat.

  EIGHT

  “Nolan?” a sweet, soft voice said. “Nolan, how are you feeling?”

  Nolan blinked open his eyes. His hands felt cold, and it was as if there was some unseen weight atop his chest.

  “I feel…like shit,” he moaned. “What’s happening?”

  “You passed out,” the gentle voice said.

  Nolan rubbed his eyes, focused on the figure in front of him. She was strangely familiar, but Nolan couldn’t recall her name.

  “I’m Sherri,” she said. “We met at East Violet Memorial, back in New York. The day of NYVO. Do you remember?”

  Nolan nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure. What the hell are you doing here?”

  Chloe sat beside Nolan, arms crossed, on the long couch in the Whiteman family living room. “She’s staying with us for a bit,” Chloe said. “She didn’t feel safe in New York. I’ll fill you in later. For now, worry about feeling better.”

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” Sherri asked.

  Nolan shook his head. “I was on campus, waiting for Chloe…some nut from a cult bothered me…Chloe picked me up. We were in her car when—when—when the news alerts chimed on our phones.” Nolan sat up on the couch, suddenly alarmed. “What happened?” he begged again.

  Sherri stroked Nolan’s forehead. “You had a panic attack,” she said. “A severe one.”

  “I know that,” Nolan said. “They happen all the time. I don’t care about that. I meant in California. What’s happening in California?”

  Jim cleared his throat, stood up from where he sat across the room. “Some guy in Los Angeles,” he said, “got messed up on some really bad drugs. Attacked a couple of transients at a gas station. Killed them.”

  “I listened to the report,” Nolan said. “It wasn’t drugs. It’s EV1. It’s happening again. It’s happening in California.”

  “We don’t know that,” Jim said. “I’ve had the news on all afternoon. Everyone is reporting that it was just an awful case of senseless violence.”

  Nolan squirmed on the couch. “When does violence ever make sense?”

  “Nolan,” Jim said, flatly. “You have to relax.”

  “They want us to think it’s some random crime,” Nolan shouted. “They want us to feel safe, even if we’re not really safe.”

  Jim stood in the corner of the living room, thought of everything Sherri had told him earlier in the afternoon. It was a strange chain of coincidences starting to link together, and Jim hated coincidences. Still, Nolan’s color was turning paler by the second, and it looked as if he might knock
out again. There was no sense in worrying him.

  “He needs some water,” Sherri said. “He’s dehydrated. Keep him planted right here in front of the TV for the rest of the night—”

  “Why would you leave New York?” Nolan interrupted. “There must be something brewing there. You wouldn’t travel all this way just to fuck Jim—”

  “Nolan!” Chloe hollered. “Sit back and be quiet!” She turned to Sherri and her father. The two stood beside each other, blank faced. “Don’t listen to him,” Chloe plead. “He gets this way after one of his anxiety attacks.”

  “How often are they?” Sherri asked.

  Chloe shook her head. “Twice, maybe three times a month.”

  “You two are talking about me like I’m not even here,” Nolan said.

  “When do you remember the first one happening?” Sherri said.

  Chloe rubbed her face. “The day of NYVO. We were trapped in our high school. A lot of the other students had shown signs of infection, they were running the halls like wolves. Nolan and I, and a few other students, holed up in our chemistry classroom. He just—he completely checked out. I remember snapping my fingers in front of him, shaking him by the shoulders, he was just gone for ten or fifteen minutes.”

  “Sorry I’ve been such a burden these past couple years,” Nolan scoffed.

  Chloe’s phone rang. She yanked it out of her pocket, swiped the screen to answer it, and strode into the kitchen, ignoring Nolan’s comment.

  The living room TV cut from the middle of an advertisement for a pickup truck to a flashy graphic of the words: Breaking News.

  “Everyone be quiet,” Nolan said.

  A pretty blonde news anchor on screen looked into the camera, said: “We are getting word from our affiliate in Austin concerning the wild fire that has plagued a south suburban neighborhood in Pemberton Heights this evening. Dan Owens is live in Texas here to talk us through what’s going on. Dan?”

  The camera shifted off the news anchor’s face and to an aerial view of three ranch style homes, side by side to one another, each engulfed in flames. The helicopter filming the blaze circled steadily above the homes while Dan, the eyewitness to the scene, spoke via telephone.