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Day 18 of The Rise
Crime had tripled in the last ten days. Karl Rose, a father of three, walked into Ace Hardware and shot the cashier.
So it goes…
Neighbors were breaking and entering each other’s homes, not to rob, but to kill. Carl Bard woke to find his neighbor Aaron Kohn standing over him as he slept. Before he had a chance to ask Aaron what he was doing, Aaron stabbed him in the chest with a gardening spade. Carl’s wife woke, saw the horror, and screamed so loud it’s a miracle her lungs didn’t explode. Aaron Kohn wrapped his hands around Mrs. Bard’s throat and crushed her larynx with his fingers. She drowned a dry death less than a minute later.
So it goes…
There was a heat wave that week. And, during so many heat waves, news anchors and journalists chalked the recent behavior up to “extreme reactions to heat stroke.” This was nonsense. There are always signs of change, one just had to be patient enough to recognize them. One thing was true: the world was becoming a startling place.
Annie Walker woke on the 18th Day of The Rise to the sound of a Cardinal outside her window. It danced on the sill and pecked lightly on the glass. She had had the air conditioner on and Annie supposed the bird felt the cool of the window and was hoping to stop in. Just to say hi, perhaps, or maybe steal a glass of lemonade. It was, after all, that sort of day.
She awoke that day, like so many days, a minute before her alarm was set to go off. She hadn’t slept well for many nights, and she supposed her diagnosis had been the culprit. Her diagnosis came three weeks after her husband left; left and took her son with him. It was an aggressive form of cancer that started in her Lymph nodes and eventually spread to her breasts, stomach, liver, and pancreas. The doctors were optimistic (they gave her six weeks). Though, in her heart of hearts, she knew she wouldn’t make it to the end of the month. If she made it to her son’s birthday, she'd be happy; content to leave the world celebrating his birth.
So it goes…
Annie threw the covers off her legs and got out of bed. Her abdomen felt cramped and tender, the vomiting had kept her up most of the night.
The C word hadn’t come up with anyone else in her life. She kept her illness private and if she ever felt the need to upchuck at work, she would politely excuse herself, yack, and return to the grind. Yack! She sounded like her son. “A kid at school yacked all over his Pumas today, Mom!” he announced one afternoon. “Actually, he yacked all over Jenny Malloy’s desk. It just dripped down on his shoes…hers too! It was wild!” Annie smiled at the memory of her son. She longed for a touch of that energy now. Just a nip of energy to take the edge off, right?
Cancer. The word was dirty and tainted. Of course it was tainted. It was, after all, Cancer. Cancer with a capital “C.” But it was more than that. It was her life now. And, soon, it would be her death.
So it goes…
She had spoken to her husband a few times since he left and they were amicable enough, though there was an emptiness in his voice; a sort of vacancy that seemed eager to get off the phone as soon as they started talking. In all of their conversations, Annie couldn’t muster the courage to say those three little words: “I. Have. Cancer.” Her first thought was that he would blame her; blame her for not taking care of herself or blame her for not getting checked. He played the blame game and she was always the loser. Her ex-husband wasn’t a bad man, just a selfish one. And a selfish man surely would do no good for a long lasting marriage. He was, however, a key player in their short-lived one.
Her alarm went off while she was staring out the window. It was set to 94.7 WLS-FM Detroit. The Detroit morning guy was named Dave Cash, and even though Annie found him a trifle obnoxious, his voice was soothing enough. When Dave had moved from Chicago to Detroit, Annie had even gone out and bought one of those nifty universal radios just so she could retain her audible relationship with Mr. Cash.
She used to joke with her friends that Dave was more suited for 100.3 The Wave, where people call in and dedicate love songs. 100.3 was DJ’d by a woman named Michon Harris. Her voice was a calming, emblematic purr with a subtle note of sexiness. “This song goes out to Jonathan. Jonathan, Olivia says she can’t stop thinking about you, and she wants you to know she’s truly found her best friend and soul mate. If you can find it in your heart to forgive her, she’ll spend the rest of her life making you happy. Jonathan, if you’re out there, this one’s for you.” Usually it was the same trite dedication that made you roll your eyes, but, after a while, Annie would find herself invested in these invisible characters. “Are you kidding me? She doesn’t love you! She cheated on you,” she would yell while pounding on her steering wheel. Most mornings, though, Annie dedicated to Dave Cash.
“Good morning all you 94 FM super fans! And what a beautiful morning it is. It’s a balmy 92 degrees out there in downtown Detroit, but the sun is shining and the lake’s a calling, so get on out there and enjoy your beautiful Friday morning!”
Annie turned down the radio’s volume and switched on the television; the local news was wrapping up. Oren Hill and Sasha Guitierez sat next to each other, the Channel 11 logo displayed proudly behind them.
While they spoke, Annie went to her nightstand and opened the top shelf. Inside, tucked inside the flap of a red envelope, was a birthday card. A cartoon boy with a football shaped head smiled up at her. Fireworks exploded behind him.
“We thank you for joining us this morning on Channel 11 Chicago,” said Oren Hill.
“We hope to see you back here again, tomorrow,” Sasha Guitierez said.
The television anchors faded away and an episode of “General Hospital” started. Some woman had just gotten facial reconstruction surgery and when they took off the bandages she looked exactly like the doctor’s wife who had died in a fiery car crash two episodes earlier. But she was in love with his brother…who had been dead for ten years!!!
So it goes…
Annie took a seat at the edge of the bed and opened the card. She held the eraser end of the pencil to her lips and furrowed her brow. The words were not coming to her. How could they? She hadn’t seen her son in seven weeks and, even then, it was transient and soulless. He had kept his iPod on and his expressions were unrecognizable to her. He seemed annoyed, bitter. She couldn’t blame him. The divorce had been difficult on him, much more than the separation. With the separation, there was at least the small hope of reconciliation. But the word ‘divorce’ offered nothing but absolute finality.
She wrote the first word:
KYLE
The word hung on the page. She wrote the letters, all in caps and regretted it as soon as she did. Now she would have to write the entire card in caps otherwise his name would look positively silly. She continued:
KYLE
YOU HAVE BEEN MY SPECIAL GUY SINCE DAY ONE. YOR FATHER AND I LOVE YOU VERY MUCH, AND WE'RE SO PROUD OF THE BOY YOU TURNED OUT TO BE. I'VE STRUGGLED WITH HOW I SHOULD TELL YOU THIS, AND I'M SORRY IT HAS TO BE THIS WAY, BUT I'M AFRAID I DON'T HAVE MUCH TIME LEFT. I HAVE CANCER. AND IT'S THE KIND OF CANCER THAT DOESN'T GET ANY BETTER. IT'S THE KIND THAT HAS NO RHYME OR REASON IN LIFE. I WISH, SO MUCH, I COULD BE AROUND TO LOVE AND PROTECT YOU FOREVER, BUT
The words suddenly stopped. There were so many things she wanted to see him do: get his driver’s license, come back from his first date, scold him for breaking curfew, graduate from high school, get his first college acceptance letter. Her heart felt ready to burst.
Annie stared at the words on the left side of the card. Particularly, the C word. That muddy, muddy word surround by a block of text she hoped Kyle would get through before tossing it in the trash. Kyle didn’t like to read much, he was one of those “postmodern babies” you hear the old folk whine about. The kids who spent most of their days with earbuds in and most of their nights downloading porn.
The television flickered and “General Hospital” suddenly disappeared. A quick “Breaking News” graphic flashed on the screen and then Oren Hill and Sasha Guitierez returned. While they both shared a look of mutual stress, Sasha Guitierez looked genuinely frightened. While Oren spoke, it appeared as though she was looking over her shoulder or glancing at the nearest exits.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt your currently scheduled program to bring you this breaking news report: The National Guard is ordering citizens of Chicago and nearby cities to be evacuated immediately. There have been terrible incidents at Northwestern Memorial and Children’s Memorial hospitals. We’re still getting details on what is actually happening. Whether it’s an outbreak or a terrorist attack, we’re not exactly sure. But, for now, citizens of Chicago, Lincolnwood, North Shore, Buffalo Grove, Oak Park, please follow the National Guard and evacuate!” Oren Hill’s speech was unwavering, but rushed. “I repeat, there has been some sort of attack on local hospitals that is spreading to the outer city limits and we need to evacuate immediately!” He was shouting now, and, in the background of the studio, a loud pounding was audible. It sounded as if somebody was slamming a sledgehammer against brass metal door.
Sasha Guitierez screamed and a loud commotion ripped through the studio.
“Ladies and gentlemen, get out now! Get out now!” Oren was removing his microphone around the same time a Variant entered frame and ripped his throat from his neck. There was an explosion of blood that sprayed over the news desk and Oren Hill fell flat on his face, his body slumping in front of Sasha Guitierez.
Her scream curdled the blood of listeners all over the Chicagoland area. There were splotches of red on her dress and face. Her bladder let loose.
A Variant, teeth gritted and eyes wild, ran up behind her and twisted her neck clear around. The microphone, still attached to her dress, produced a dreadful crunch.
The camera tipped over and the image disappeared into a cloudy grey screen followed by:
We are experiencing technical difficulties.
Please standby.
It had all happened so fast. Annie hadn’t moved. She watched the horror unfold, believing, at first, it was some sort of grotesque prank.
Annie grabbed the phone, but there was no dial tone. The service was busy. No outgoing calls. No incoming calls.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please evacuate!” a voice came from the street, resonating over a megaphone.
Annie ran to the window and saw a man standing on the back of a Humvee, the National Guard decal stuck to the driver’s side door. “Always Ready, Always There” the insignia read.
“Please evacuate now. We are here to help!”
Across the street, Annie watched as her neighbor, Mr. Veverka, ran out of his house. Even from her distance she could see the crazy in his eyes. Veverka wore a blood-stained undershirt that hung loosely from his hefty exterior and was holding a nine inch butcher knife in his left hand. He ran at the Humvee with such purpose—as if his only goal in life was chasing that vehicle down.
The man on the back of the Humvee removed his sidearm and fired a single shot into Veverka’s head. Mr. Veverka, a man who had come by so many time to shovel off Annie’s sidewalk, or help mow her lawn, was suddenly dead.
The man on the back of the Humvee returned the sidearm to his holster and brought the megaphone back to his mouth, genuinely unfazed. Veverka was gone and he hadn’t batted an eyelash.
“Please, ladies and gentlemen, you are not safe. You must leave your homes. We are here to help!”
Annie was out the door before she had time to lace her shoes.
“Here! Over here!” Annie called.
The man in the Humvee turned around, the megaphone still pushed against his lips.
“Stop!” he yelled to the driver. “Hurry!” He called back to her. “They’re coming.”
Annie glanced over her shoulder and saw a herd of people running up the street. It was a surreal and menacing sight. She didn’t know which ones were bad and which ones were good. But, more importantly, she didn’t care.
The man on the Humvee helped her into the back, pounded on the roof, and the vehicle sped away. The figures behind her grew smaller and smaller. The man on the Humvee continued to call people out of their homes, but realized his attempts were lost when a man named Crowley and his daughter, Laura, were the only other survivors they managed to pick up. After a while, he put the megaphone down and took a seat next to Annie.
“That’s it,” he called up to the driver. “Head back to camp.” He dropped his head in his hands. Sweat dripped from his greasy black hair. When he finally looked up at them he managed a small smile, but it slowly faded and she never saw it again.
Crowley held his daughter close. She began to cry over the roar of the Humvee’s engine.
Annie looked down at her hands and noticed she still had her son’s birthday card clutched between her fingers. She hadn’t taken a jacket, she hadn’t taken a sweater, she hadn’t taken a phone, but she had taken the birthday card.
She leaned back against the Humvee’s metal frame and closed her eyes. The world has gone mad, she thought, the world has gone completely mad.
So it goes…
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