robert-emmett

[robert-emmett]

So Others May Live, a Coronavirus Story: Part Two

As promised by the mysterious author last week, another , manilla envelope wrapped package arrive at our editor’s doorstep yesterday. After taking the necessary precautions to clean the package, as the virus can live on cardboard and paper for quite some time, the editor went about transcribing the included written work. 

As it was written in colored pencil and partially in hieroglyphics, this was no easy feat. 

Part Two

Shortly after they’re seated in the corner booth, Brendan heads to the restroom, with a bag full of cleaning supplies and disinfectants that Terry imagines are carried by only the biggest germaphobes, or the most immaculate serial killers. 

Apart from the old man in the VFW Post hat sitting at the counter, a group of high school children at the other end of the row of booths, and the serving staff, the restaurant is entirely empty. The short order cooks wait behind the counter, watching the road for more customers. When they first arrived, the waitress seemed so excited to see Terry and Brendan, for a moment they both thought she recognized them from somewhere. There’s an anxiety in the air that Terry can’t quite place.

Terry’s hands hover over his phone. In his text conversation with Jess, the last message is from her, asking when she can call next. 

“Whew! This bag came in handy after what I did to that bathroom!” Brendan says, returning to his seat across from Terry.

“Brendan, could you do me a favor? Could you not loudly announce how badly you’ve wrecked every restroom you use? It stopped being funny two days ago,” Terry says.

“Wow! Okay...I guess someone woke up on the wrong side of the uncomfortable motel room twin mattress…” Terry says, eyes widening as he chortles to himself.

The waitress approaches with menus. Brendan quickly puts out a hand to stop her.

Slowly, he removes a claw-shaped device from his belt, and unfolds it. The grabber extends to exactly six feet. He pushes it forward, grips onto the menus, and precariously arcs then over to their tables.

“Can’t be too careful!” Brendan says to her, awkwardly seating the claw next to him, and pulling out disinfecting wipes to clean the menus’ surfaces. 

“Sure,” she says, with a forced smile, before checking on the kids at the other end of the restaurant.

“You know, if you wanted a cleaner place, we could’ve gone somewhere other than Waffle House,” Terry says.

“We’re going on a cross country road trip, and there are no Waffle Houses in the North. This was never not going to happen Terry.”

“How do we infect her?”

“I’m sorry?”

“How do we infect Betty White with the Coronavirus?”

“Oh. Well, we’ll just have to find someone who’s sick, and get them close to each other.”

“And what happens if she doesn’t die? That’s the whole point right? She can’t just get sick, she has to die so that everyone can mourn her loss and actually quarantine themselves.”

“We’ll figure that out.”

“Brendan we’re driving across the country, breaking quarantine by the way, to kill a beloved American figure. You should have a more solid plan than ‘we’ll figure it out’.” “She’s 98 years old for God sakes! I’m sure it won’t be that hard. And right now the only planning I’m trying to figure out is which kind of Waffle I want!” Brendan says, perking up as the waitress returns.

This time she stands far away from them on her own.

“I will have this!” Brendan says, pointing to the menu. 

“I can’t see what you’re pointing at because I’m six feet away,” she says.

“Right! I’ll have a pecan waffle and a coffee.”

“And I’ll have a Bacon Chicken Cheese Sandwich,” Terry says.

As Terry slides the menus back to the waitress, he looks up to find Brendan staring at him with a look of horror.

“...what?” Terry asks.

“You came to Waffle House and ordered a sandwich?”

“Yeah. It’s noon.”

“But it’s Waffle House. Would you order a burger at IHOP?”

“Brendan, I can make my own decisions.”

Brendan’s eyes narrow. He leans across the table.

“You haven’t told Jess that you were coming with me on this trip,” he whispers.

“No...I did.”

“Then why are you acting so weird?”

“...I didn’t tell her that we were driving, and that it could take a week and a half.”

“I knew it! I knew something was going on! And why not?” 

“Because I knew she wouldn’t approve.”

“That’s ridiculous! You already had this week off of work before the quarantine. What’s so wrong with me that she doesn’t want us spending a week and a half on the road together?”

The waitress returns, holding a serving tray with their food in one hand.

Brendan gets his claw out, and grabs the tray. It’s heavy. The grabber buckles awkwardly. Water cups on the surface dance and spill. The entire restaurant is almost breathless watching the heavy tray rotate in the air until it arrives at their table.

The water has spilled into both of their food, making both their dishes soggy.

“Hey! I’m getting better! Didn’t drop it this time!” Brendan says.

With the sound of a pneumatic hiss, Brendan takes off his respirator, rolls it to his forehead, and begins to eat. More than once when he leans over to take a bite, the respirator on his forehead bangs into Terry’s glass of water.

“You never answered my question,” Brendan says when he’s almost done with his waffle.

“I think you answered it for me.”

Terry looks away, scanning the restaurant, the wait staff, the kids in the corner, before he takes a sip of his water.

“This tastes weird…” he says.

“We’re in the country Terry, don’t be impolite.”

After they’re done and Brendan pays, Brendan perks up at a sound. 

The kids in their faraway corner booth are flicking rubber bands at each other. Brendan’s eyes look from them, to the old man sitting at the counter. He puts his respirator back on, dramatically throws the napkin on his lap to the floor, and stands.

“Jesus Christ, we can’t do this every time we stop at a - “ Brendan cuts Terry off by making a shushing sound.

He walks, slowly, across the restaurant, towards the kids. By the time he arrives, they are all looking up at him.

“Whoa,” the tallest one says, “you look like a broke - ”

“- Bane. Yes, I know. It looks like you all are enjoying a nice lunch.”

“Sure, I guess…”

“Having a good time now that school’s cancelled, I see. Just out and about with nothing to do.”

The kids exchange glances, not sure of what to say.

“Bro,” the one in shorts chimes in, “are you ok? You look high.”

They chuckle for a moment. 

This is quickly silenced by the sound of Brendan slamming his fist into their table.

“I am high! High on responsibility!” he screams. 

Brendan points to the old man sitting at the counter.

“What would you like him to be wearing?” Brendan asks.

“What?” the tallest one asks.

“What would you like that man to be wearing when they give him an open casket funeral because you’ve killed him WITH THE CORONAVIRUS!?”

Whatever fun the kids thought they were going to have with Brendan is gone. Maybe it’s the mad look in his eyes or the fact that he actually does sound like Bane, but they are afraid.

“We didn’t mean -”

“- didn’t mean what?! Didn’t mean to give a fuck about your fellow man!? I hope to God that one day there is a virus that only infects teenagers, whose symptoms include jizzing your pants and screaming ‘Nancy Reagan!’ everytime you’re near a girl you like! Because when that day comes, I will break quarantine as you have today!”

Silence.

“...who’s Nancy - “

“-GET OUT!” Brendan screams.

They leave in a hurry. A few of them give hushed apologies to the old man on their way out. 

There is a quiet in the Waffle House as there probably never has been before. Everyone watches Brendan as he nods proudly to himself, and approaches the old man.

“Thank you for your service sir. It’s a pleasure to protect you, and all elder Americans,” Brendan says.

The old man nods before speaking.

“Son...I would prefer it if people such as yourself did not speak on my behalf. It’s a bad look for me.”

Brendan isn’t sure how to take this, so he nods deeply in return.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

---

“No mom, I can’t be immunocompromised if I broke a bone as a child…”

Jess digs around the clothes in her room. She knows her gloves are somewhere. 

“But the health website I’m on says that any trauma can hamper your immune system,” her mother says, calling out from her room next door. 

“Mom the Fox News Website is not a health website.”

“That’s not what I’m looking at.”

“You’re not? You’re not on Fox’s website right now mom?”

“No,” her mother says.

There is a long silence, as Jess waits.

“...I’m on the Fox News Youtube Channel.”

“Mom!”

“It’s not a big deal honey! I want to get out and walk around!”

“No mom. You stay in your room while I get groceries.”

Her eyes scan the bed, the floor. Finally, top shelf of her closet, she spots them.

“Ok I’m heading out!” Jess says, pulling on her gloves.

“Remember to buy Bleach.”

Jess puts on her coat, stops herself before she heads down the stairs.

“...is the bleach for cleaning or for drinking, because that website told you it’s a cure?”

Silence.

“...why not both?”

“Mom!”

---

With a rubber gloved hand, Brendan rings the bell at the front desk to the Motel while Terry gets the luggage out of their car. 

Brendan hasn’t fully expressed his financial situation to Terry, but he’s starting to think that maybe Terry has an inkling of how bad it is by the motels Brendan is choosing to pay for. Most of the places they stay in are in tiny, one main street towns just off the highway. This one is called “Falston”. According to the town’s sign near the post office, it has a population of 526, and it’s known as “The Home of It”.

“What do they mean by it?” Terry asks as they pass the roadsign.

Brendan shrugs.

The motel they pull up to has a parking lot cracked open with weeds, goldenrod and dandelion sprouting up in the parking spots. Every time Brendan walks around on the lobby carpet, he hears squelching beneath his boots. 

There is an overwhelming sense of something ominous here.

A man emerges from the backroom, the voice of Sean Hannity screaming the word “China” on TV while a blonde woman across the desk from him nods along, occasionally chiming in by saying “ISIS”.

“Can I help you?” the motel manager asks.

“One room with two twin beds please,” Brendan says.

“Hmmm. The only room we have like that is Room 207,” the motel manager says, with concern.

“That’s...fine. I guess,” Brendan says, not sure what the issue is.

From beneath the desk, the motel manager pulls out a basket. It’s filled with apples, oranges, and incense sticks. He pushes it towards Brendan.

“...thank you! Never gotten a complimentary gift basket at a motel before!” Brendan says.

“Your total for the room is $25.”

“Wow! Good for you for doing Coronavirus specials to drive up your business.”

“What are you talking about? Those have always been our prices.”

“Oh...ok! By the way sir. What precautions are you taking to ensure that the coronavirus isn’t on any of the surfaces in your rooms?”

“Peg wrings out the cleaning towel every once in a while after the rooms are wiped down.”

“Who’s Peg -”

The motel manager is already pointing over Brendan’s shoulder. When Brendan turns, he almost jumps backwards into the check-in desk.

A man covered in tattoos, with long, black and white hair draped over his face, wearing a leather vest without a shirt and ripped, oil covered jeans, stands near a mop and bucket by the lobby exit. Other than everything about him, Brendan finds it unusual that the man has a peg leg. Slowly, painfully, while he stares directly into Brendan’s eyes, the man wrings out a yellowed towel into a bucket filled with murky, brackish water. 

“You thought ‘Peg’ was short for ‘Peggy’ didn’t you? Common mistake,” the motel manager says.

Brendan nods.

“The reason he’s called ‘Peggy’ is because he has a peg leg,” the manager says.

“Yes, I understand.”

---

As with all of the ratty motel rooms they’ve stayed in, Terry waits outside of the room while Brendan, almost literally, does battle with the inside of the room. Terry wanders around the internal courtyard area of the motel where the rooms face inward towards a pool. He walks around their motel room furniture, most of which Brendan has moved onto the lawn so he can fully clean the room.

Terry’s phone buzzes again. It’s a FaceTime request from Jess.

“Oh I am giving this room a deep clean!” Brendan shouts from inside the motel room, “Getting all up in those nooks and crannies - what’s this...oh wow...Oh god! I think I’ve disturbed something!” 

Brendan screams.

Trying to decide whether or not to answer his phone, Terry’s finger hovers over the screen. Thudding sounds from the motel room suddenly stop.

“Ok. Ok. It’s fine. I don’t know where it’s gone but...oh sweet Jesus! It was behind me the whole time, just waiting! Terry my god, it’s intelligent!”

There’s crashing sounds and roars inside the motel room. Terry returns his phone to his pocket without answering. 

He wanders over to the pool area as the sounds of Brendan’s yells quiet, and Brendan shouts something about a truce or an alliance with whatever he’s been fighting. Surprisingly, the pool is clean, the water crystal clear, shining lattice patterns on the stucco sides of the motel building.  He stares into the water for a long time, well after Brendan has told him that the coast is clear and that he can return to the room. 

A part of him doesn’t want to have to defend Brendan to Jess again. He wants to have his best friend in his life, even if Brendan is “strange”. No matter how many times he's tried to explain it, he feels that Jess doesn’t really understand. The fact that having Brendan as a roommate is the only thing keeping Terry and Jess from moving in is also a sore subject, one that he knows she’s going to bring up again. His friends have mostly moved away and he’s become what expected of an adult in almost every facet of his life. What’s wrong with keeping one last thing in his life that reminds him of what it’s like to be young? Everything in his life is ordered and routine. Brendan isn’t. Brendan is the kind of friend who proposes a cross country road trip, a spontaneous outing in the middle of the work week, investing in Theranos because it sounds cool. Terry doesn’t want that to be cut out of his life. 

It’s been weeks since he and Jess have seen each other, and he can't be sure if the questions he’s having about the relationship are because of the situation, or because of the relationship.

---

Even though it’s over sixty degrees outside, Jess wraps her face in her scarf. Her walk to the Trader Joe’s is short. The line, however, stretches out the door and wraps around the block. No one in line is keeping their distance, and everytime she tries to keep far away from the person ahead of her, someone tries to cut her. So she has to get close. She’s bumped multiple times and brushed up against. When she enters the store, it’s so crowded that she can feel the people behind her breathing on her neck. Even though she knows she’s just being paranoid, she can feel her heartbeat getting faster.

At this point she has her process for shopping down perfectly. When she was young, her mother said that as soon as Jess could learn to write she was keeping lists and making plans. She shops for the things that are far away from the line first. Vegetables, meat, dairy. Then she gets into the line that snakes around all the store aisles, and picks up the rest of what she needs along her way. Olive oil, pasta, rice, canned food. She gets ugly looks as she slows down to pick things up, but she ignores them. An itch develops on her cheek below her right eye, and she spends the entire time in line trying to ignore it. 

It’s only after she’s checked out she realizes that she can’t use Lyft anymore. By the time she’s dragged the groceries to her mom’s townhouse, her hands are stiff and her shoulders are on fire. She enters the house, takes off her outer layer and clothing, puts it by the coat rack in the foyer, goes to the bathroom, washes her hands, takes the groceries upstairs to the kitchen, washes her hands again, and then uses a disinfecting wipe to clean the surfaces of the groceries before putting them away. 

When she steps out into the living room, she notices that the door to her mom’s room is open. Jess comes up to the ajar door and peeks in. Her mother is seated on the bed, back against the headboard, watching TV.

“Mom why is your door open?” Jess asks.

“It must have just come open. By the way, I’m waiting on a package, so if you see one, it’s for me,” her mother says, looking at the TV.

“Mom, did you go outside of your room?”

“...Someone rang the doorbell.”

“You went outside?!”

Her mother does not answer. She changes the channel.

“Mom, you can’t go outside, you might -”

“Jessica I have been alive for 72 years, and I will not be talked to like a child! I will go where I please!”

Her mother’s voice is loud in a way that Jess hasn’t heard in years. As embarrassed as she is to feel it, Jess is a little frightened.

“I’m closing the door…” Jess says.

“Leave it open!”

Jess does not listen. After she pulls the door shut, she goes to the kitchen to begin preparing lunch for her mom. She tries to ignore the sound of the door to her mom’s room reopening. 

After she’s done making lunch, she slides the food tray into her mom’s room. Jess pauses before she leaves, and decides to close the door yet again. As she’s walking to the dining room with her lunch, her mother yells something through the door about Jess being as stubborn as her father. She keeps walking.

Jess eats her sandwich alone in the dining room. She has a sudden urge to either cry or curl into a ball beneath the table. The anxiety that creeps up into her throat is something she hasn’t felt for years, something she thought she’d dealt with. It feels ridiculous to be getting worked up over something like this, but being so isolated is making her feel crazy. She decides that she’ll call Terry. That would make her feel better. Terry is so even that no matter what she feels, he can always calm her down. It’s been a few days, so they should be back from California by now. 

The phone dials a dozen times. No response. 

She takes in a deep breath, puts her phone away, continues eating. Jess doesn’t consider herself to be the kind of person who checks her phone constantly for messages or calls because she wants to feel relevant. If she’s honest with herself, she hates those types of people who are desperate for attention. She considers herself to be above them. But more and more she finds she’s desperate for anything from the outside world. She finds herself counting how long it takes for friends to respond to her texts. It’s been a feeling that's been growing in her, and she hates it. 

Down the hall from where she’s sitting at the table, she can see the door to her mom’s room. The door stays closed. For now.

------

With nothing to do in their motel room and nothing on TV other than college basketball reruns and the news, Terry and Brendan go for a walk. Out here, with nothing but fields and wide open spaces, they can walk around freely. It’s the first time they’ve been able to in days. It’s calming.

Around the other end of the motel’s lot there are some chairs set up at the top of the hill that overlook the highway. Peg is sitting in one of the chairs, smoking. 

“Hey there! You boys wanna come over and chat?” Peg asks.

Brendan realizes that it’s the first time he’s heard Peg speak. The man sounds nothing like he looks, which is to say, “normal”.

He and Terry exchange looks.

“Sure!” Brendan says.

On his belt is a length of measuring tape which he takes out. The chairs next to Peg are about 5 and half feet away, so Brendan carefully moves them an additional six inches further. 

“Pennsylvania?” Peg asks.

“Sorry?” Terry asks.

“Your plates say ‘Pennsylvania’.” 

“Yeah we’re from Pennsylvania.”

“Philadelphia to be more precise,” Brendan says.

“Never been. I’ve traveled a lot but I’ve never been there. Used to be Army, so they had us move around a lot.”

“Army? I would’ve thought you were Navy because of…”

Brendan stops himself.

“Because of what?” Peg asks.

Out of the corner of his eye, Brendan can see Terry looking at him, shaking his head slightly.

“I would’ve thought you were Navy...because you have a peg leg..” Brendan says.

Peg stares at them. His jaw goes slack, as he leans forward in his chair.

“I have a peg leg?”

Neither Terry nor Brendan know what to say. Peg looks scared, confused.

Finally, he breaks into a laugh.

“God I got you!” he wails.

Both Brendan and Terry laugh, uncomfortable.

“No, no, I lost it cause I got a bad cut on a piece of metal years ago. Didn’t have insurance so I just sort of treated it myself. Bad idea. Ended up having to go to the ER. Damn thing was so infected they had to cut it off.”

“I’m sorry to hear that Peg,” Terry says.

“That’s life man! Sometimes you get lucky, sometimes you don’t. Same thing I think about this Chinese virus. I’ve survived worse. Everyone’s making a big deal out of it. But come on. Really? I’m not gonna change the way I live. If I want to go out and have a beer, I’m gonna do it. You know what I mean?”

“Peg, you’re talking to a man in a respirator and a lab coat. We are taking this very seriously,” Brendan says.

With a wave of his hand, Peg dismisses the comment.

“It’s not gonna be a big thing. We’ve been through worse and we’ll be through worse. Sometimes you younger people don’t know that because you don’t have perspective. I do. This will all blow over,” Peg says.

“I hope you’re right,” Terry says.

Out here, without as much light pollution, the stars stick out in the sky. The further they crane their necks back, the more the sky spreads out above them to show the shape of the cosmos.

After a few minutes, Peg gets up and goes to what looks like a shack tucked away behind a copse of trees. Neither of them ask, but Brendan and Terry assume that this is where Peg lives. When he returns, Peg is carrying a small portable radio. He puts it down by his chair and starts playing something.

“- I just believe that we as people have to understand the magnitude of this virus, that it’s scope is far beyond - 

- Hold on a minute *marijuana cough*...we have a word from our sponsors. ‘Are you tired of your workouts being shit and your penis being small? Try Bone Broth by BoneZone. BoneZone, you're not really a man, not yet.’ What were you saying?

...what I was saying was that this virus can replicate in ways we haven’t even conceived - 

-do you think we have aliens at Area 51?”

“I didn’t know they played Joe Rogan’s podcast on the radio!?” Brendan says.

“It would be great if we could listen to something else,” Terry says.

Peg shrugs, turns the dial.

They land on a station playing a Sturgill Simpson song. None of them speak for a while as they watch the stars.

 After they say their goodbyes and Peg stays to finish up a few more cigarettes, Brendan and Terry return to the motel room.

“Hey Brendan.”

“Yeah bud?” Brendan says.

The only time that Brendan does not have his full get up on is right before bed. He still wears a facemask and gloves, but they’re toned down, making him seem human. 

“This has been an interesting trip so far,” Terry says.

“You’re having fun?” Brendan asks.

“I did not say that. I said it’s been ‘interesting’.”

“In a good way I hope?”

Terry thinks about this, then nods. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to places like this. It’s interesting to see how people live,” Terry says.

“Right?! I actually grew up in a town that does not look too dissimilar to this, and let me tell you, it’s a whole different world out here. They are not prepared for what’s coming. It’s going to be a bloodbath.”

Terry nods, looks out the motel window towards the hill where Peg is sitting.

“Yeah...I guess so…”

They both get into their beds. Before Brendan turns off the light, he turns over to face Terry.

“Hey Terry?”

“Yeah Brendan?”

“When the lights go off, make sure they stay off. It doesn’t like to be disturbed as it roams.”

“...what is ‘it’?” Terry asks.

Brendan shakes his head.

“I wish I knew Terry. I wish I knew.”

The lights go off. 

At some point, late in the night, Terry swears that he’s woken by the sound of Brendan whispering to something, saying that it’s an honor that they have been allowed in it’s room, and that it deserves to be treated like the deity it is.

---

The street is narrow, lined with brown and red brick townhomes, small, painted car garages, white blossoms in early bloom. In the very near horizon the Comcast Center and Liberty Place loom.

It’s so quiet. People may break quarantine during the day, but in the very early hours, well before dawn, it’s different. The emptiness feels oppressive, almost scary. It’s as if the virus has already wiped out the city’s population.

He waits at the end of the street. He’s wearing a leather jacket, jeans, boots, gloves and a surgical facemask. His head is shaven. After a deep breath, he takes off the mask and gloves, and puts them in his pocket. It comes up on it’s own, he doesn’t even need to force it. A fit of coughing. He coughs onto his hands, making sure to cover both sides. 

With a quick pace, he walks down the right side of the street. Every door he passes, he touches the doorknob. Every railing that leads up to an entry, he rubs his hands over. Every early package delivery that waits at a doorstep or welcome mat, he makes sure he has his fingerprints all over. When he’s done with the right side of the street, he moves over to the left side, and covers those houses as well. 

Everyday he does it, he gauges how many blocks he can hit. Some days it’s less, some days it’s more. Today he’s feeling ambitious. He walks over to the next block. 

---

Before they leave the motel room in the morning, Brendan carefully arranges the oranges and apples from the gift basket in a pyramid shape by the side table near the window. He lights an incense stick and writes a note beneath the offering:

“To only be consumed by it.”

They pack up their car, and this time, Terry lets Brendan drive. He’s in a good mood today. 

The moment he gets in the passenger seat he opens his phone. Jess has texted him. She says that she tried to FaceTime him, she’s asking where he is. He lies and says that they're on their way back now, that he loves her, and they’ll facetime soon.

“My guess is about a day and half more driving and we’ll be in California bud,” Brendan says.

“Can’t wait,” Terry says, and for the first time, actually meaning it. 

Brendan pulls the car out of their space. As they’re driving across the lot, they see Peg, standing at the end of one of the open corridors, pushing his cleaning cart. Peg waves to them as they leave. The moment they wave back, Peg breaks into a fit of coughing. He almost doubles over. They can both still hear the dry, rattling coughs long after they’ve pulled out of the parking lot. 

Brendan and Terry exchange looks, but say nothing. Neither of them mention this again on the trip. 

---

Before her 8 AM call with her offshore coding team, Jess has to make breakfast for her mom. She barely slept the night before. Being indoors all day has thrown her circadian rhythm off. She feels awful.

After she cracks a couple of eggs and puts them in the pan, she remembers the package her mom was talking about. It might be some of her meds. She goes downstairs to check. 

There’s a box waiting for her on the welcome mat at their front door. It’s not her mom’s meds. It’s an Amazon package, probably some books by Bill O'Reilly or another writer that would be just as equally annoying to Jess. She picks up the package. Before she goes back inside she takes a moment to get a breath of fresh air, look up at the white blossom trees on her narrow street and the looming towers that make her feel like she’s right in the middle of the city. 

After she goes back inside, she’s going to wash her hands in the guest bathroom by the foyer, but she’s interrupted when she hears her mom calling her from upstairs. Something about a smell. 

“Oh shit,” Jess says.

Jess drops the package and runs up to the kitchen to find the eggs just about to burn. She turns down the stovetop. After making toast, she puts together a plate for her mom, opens the door to her mom’s room, and slides the tray in. Her mom does not look in Jess’ direction when she enters. They haven’t spoken since the fight yesterday.

Jess then has to make breakfast for herself. She throws a plate of eggs together without toast and makes it to her computer just in time to get on a conference call. It’s not until much later in the day that she remembers to wash her hands, well after it’s too late. 

End of Part Two

[robert-emmett]

So Others May Live, A Coronavirus Story: Part One

In light of the recent Coronavirus epidemic, our online blog asked for submissions from writers for fictional stories inspired by this global crisis.

This submission we received in an unusual way. It arrived at our editor’s doorstep without a return address, with a hazard symbol on the front. Our editor still does not know how the writer acquired his address.

The writer said that they would be sending multiple parts of the story over the next few days, and that if we wanted to take part in a process by which writing itself could save the world, we would be remiss not to publish his writing.

Receiving almost no other submissions, we obliged.

We present to you Part One, with subsequent parts, hopefully, to follow.

Part One

“Look at them out there…”

Pedestrians walk down the street in front of a packed sidewalk cafe. It’s a beautiful day out. Just below the window, Brendan can spot a group of joggers heading north, and then rounding the block towards the Schuylkill. He widens the slits in the blinds and shakes his head.

“They play their little games and they wander out in the sun as if everything is fine, even as the storm approaches. Fools. Fools Terry. Did Nero not fiddle while Rome burned? We are the architects of our own doom, and we do it not out of ignorance, but out of apathy. Out of false confidence. They dance on a stage that’s already on fire, they make plans on a calendar that’s crumbling between their fingers, they go to parties that are-”

Brendan turns to the couch. It’s empty except for a Playstation controller.

His roommate, Terry, exits the bathroom, returns to the couch, picks up the controller.

“What was that?” Terry asks, unpausing the game.

“I just…I had a whole speech. I thought you were on the couch listening,” Brendan says.

“Sorry I was in the bathroom,” Terry says, focusing on the TV.

“Oh.”

“What did you say?”

“Well…it was a whole thing…”

“Tell me.”

“…It was a little stream of consciousness…I don’t know if I I could recreate it…I was talking about how they play their little games, how they’re just…wandering around, out there, and — “

“Who is ‘they’?”

“What?”

“Who is the ‘they’ in the phrase ‘they play their little games’?”

“The people outside. ”

“Outside on the street? I’m confused. Could you start from the beginning?”

Brendan’s face turns red as he grabs the controller out of Terry’s hand.

“PEOPLE ARE NOT TAKING THE CORONAVIRUS PANDEMIC SERIOUSLY TERRY!”

Brendan throws the controller at the wall. It shatters a framed diploma on the wall that slides off its anchor and bounces off the back of the TV and onto the floor.

“Jesus Christ!” Terry says.

“Are you paying attention now Terry?!”

“I was always paying attention, you just weren’t making any sense!”

“This is serious! Serious like a plague, TERRY!”

“I get it. You are concerned about the coronavirus, as are we all.”

“No Terry. Not all. You and I are concerned, Terry. But the people outside-”

Brendan goes back to the window, opens the slits.

“-they act as if nothing is wrong! As if the quarantine is a polite guideline. ‘Oh, please, kindly stay in your homes, if you possibly could, so you don’t END HUMANITY!’. But while you and I are trapped here, people are outside spreading the virus, infecting everything they touch. In a week they’ll all be sick. In two weeks it’ll be panic in the streets!”

“Well, it is bad. More people should be staying in to flatten the curve, so that we can make sure that the mortality rate is low.”

“Good for you, frequent reader of The Atlantic. But while we know that, everyone else doesn’t give a fuck! And by the time they do, it will be too late.”

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want you to join me in a venture.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m not doing a ‘venture’ with you again. Last time I did a ‘venture’ with you my insurance premiums skyrocketed.”

“Terry…”

Brendan gets down on his knee, to Terry’s discomfort.

“I don’t always make requests of you — “

“ — incorrect — “

“- but I need this from you. It is up to us to make a difference.”

“Brendan. Let’s just stay in the apartment and wait it out.”

“That’s not enough. We have to do something dramatic. Something that will make people look up and realize how serious this is.”

“Like what?”

“People in this country are vain and vapid Terry. They only care if illness strikes the famous.”

“Tom Hanks and Idris Elba got coronavirus.”

“But they’re going to recover. Someone needs to die, Terry.”

Slowly, Terry’s eyes narrow.

“Brendan…”

“…and it can’t be anyone. It has to be someone famous. And not just famous. Beloved. Someone whose death would cripple us emotionally, and force people out of the streets and into their homes out of fear. Something that wakes them up!”

“You’re getting that crazy look in your eyes Brendan.”

“We need to kill someone famous with the Coronavirus.”

“Alright.”

Terry stands up from the couch and begins walking towards his room.

“Terry!”

“If you want to use the TV, you can just ask for it.”

“I’m serious! We have to do this Terry. We must.”

Before Terry can respond, Brendan holds up his phone.

“It is already in place. Like a mouse at the start of the Rube Goldberg machine, it just needs to be let out of it’s cage…”

“Just out of curiosity, who are you talking about?”

“…let’s just say that if you were to meet her in person, you’d want to thank her for being a friend…”

After opening his mouth to speak, Terry stops himself. He takes a step towards his roommate.

“Brendan, whatever you’re planning…” Terry starts to say.

With his thumb, Brendan unlocks his phone.

—

“-I mean technically it wasn’t six feet, but I’m not gonna not dance!”

“It’s Saint Patrick’s Day!”

The phone on the marble desk rings. Of the two, the security guard nearest picks it up.

“The Summit, Beverly Hills,” the guard responds.

A car drives up to the security glass. Someone in a Mercedes looking for a specific resident. He’s let through by the other guard.

“No, you’ve got the wrong block entirely, the correct address is 7820 Vine Drive. No problem. Have a nice day.”

“Who was that?”

“Shipment for Betty White. They were looking for her address.”

“I love her.”

“Oh my god. So friendly. Always has something nice to say when she sees me.”

“She is a national treasure. I’d go so far as to say that if anything were to happen to her, it would devastate me!”

“I’d be destroyed! The whole country would!”

Both guards laugh.

—

“-you have a nice day as well.”

Brendan ends the call. He stares at his roommate. A long silence passes between them

“…what did you just do?” Terry asks, still standing in the doorway of his room.

“I just found out the address of Betty White. And I’m going to use it to find her, infect her with the Coronavirus, and have her become the martyr we need.”

“Brendan I’m worried that you’re even suggesting this. How did you know where she lived?”

“Research. Lots of research. It helps to know the Irish, Terry.”

“…is that a saying? I don’t know why, but it sounds racist.”

“Come with me to California. I can’t trust that the final steps will be carried out by anyone

except myself and someone I trust. And that someone is you.”

Terry stares at his roommate, who is still taking a knee in the middle of their apartment. It may just be the light, but Brendan looks particularly tired, worn. His skin is sallow, and there’s a film of sweat covering his body. If Terry didn’t know better, he’d believe that Brendan had the virus.

“…ok,” Terry says.

“Really?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m not! Because it’s a great plan and I expected you to say yes!”

Brendan jumps to his feet and rushes over to Terry, taking him by the shoulders.

“You won’t regret this! I promise.”

Terry nods, smiling.

He goes into his bedroom and closes the door, noticing that Brendan has just started sweeping up the glass from the picture, and is readjusting his Princeton diploma inside the frame.

—

“So you’re going to stop him?”

“Of course I am.”

Terry extends his arm out a little as he lays back in his bed. He lifts up his phone so Jess can get a better angle of him on FaceTime. A part of him misses her. Another part of him is glad that they’re separated, temporarily. They had been fighting a lot before the quarantine.

“But he wants to go to California, Terry.”

“We’re not gonna get that far.”

“Well…you know maybe you shouldn’t humor him at all.”

“It’s not humoring. Brendan is like a sleepwalker. You can’t just wake him up, you have to let him wake up on his own. It’s for his own sanity. He spirals like this sometimes. It might be helpful if he gets it out of his system.”

“But getting her number?”

“Yeah that’s weird. He is resourceful. And not unintelligent.”

“It’s probably the job thing too.”

“Yeah him being out of work is bad for him. He has too much energy he needs to expend. Plus, he said he would pay for everything.”

“Alright. Well if you think it’s safe…”

She starts to get off the couch.

“Where are you going?” Terry asks.

“I have to give my mom food. I slide it under the door while I wear gloves.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s what you get with chemo. She’s not worried. I am.”

“Tell her I hope she feels better.”

“I will.”

There is a long moment between them as they stare at each other, silently.

“…I miss you Jess.”

“It’s not going to be much longer baby. Call me when you head out. Please stay safe.”

“Wait I wanna talk more. How’s the job?”

“I got a promotion.”

“While working remotely?!”

She nods.

“Damn.”

“Uh huh.”

Jess’ smile fades for a second.

“Just…in case he’s being serious…”

“He’s not. And I will be careful.”

Her smile returns, and she kisses the screen.

“Oh fuck!” she says.

“What?” Terry asks.

“I kissed the screen.”

“Ok…”

“Screens can carry the virus for days!”

“Well have you been washing your hands?”

A voice from another room on Jess’ side of the call speaks out.

“Did someone say they kissed a cellphone screen?”

“No mom!” Jess says in the direction of the closed door at the far end of her apartment.

“Fuck!” she says back to Terry.

“You’ll be fine, I love-”

She hangs up.

—

“This will be so exciting!” Brendan says.

He and Terry walk down the concourse at Philadelphia International Airport. Through the glass above them they see lines of people crowded together at the Arrivals terminal, going through hours of temperature checks before being allowed into baggage claim. In departures, almost no one is in line at the ticket counter. But anyone who is even within the vicinity of the pair watches them pass with astonishment.

“…sure it will,” Terry says, smiling at the people who are staring.

“In-flight movies, those little stroopwafel snacks. This is going to be amazing trip!” Brendan says, spotting a United counter.

“They don’t serve stroopwafels on United flights.”

“Yes they do.”

“You’re thinking Lufthansa,” Terry says.

“I promise you, it’s United. Trust me on this.”

A husband and wife almost stop in their tracks on their way to the security lines to stare at Brendan.

“Lufthansa has those little mixed pretzel — “

“-Brendan is there a reason you had to dress like that?”

“Like what? Like someone who values safety?”

The sound of Brendan’s rubber boots clopping down the concourse echoes off the high ceilings. Most of his face is hidden behind a military-style respirator. He’s wearing a white lab coat with a hazard symbol emblazoned on the chest and elbow-length rubber gloves.

“You look like you’re about to reanimate the corpse of a loved one with devastating consequences,” Terry says as they come up to the desk agent.

“Two tickets for the next flight to Los Angeles please!” Brendan says.

“Sorry, no more flights to the West Coast,” the agent says.

“What? Really?”

She points up towards the departures board.

In quick succession, the flights to San Diego, Seattle, San Francisco and Los Angeles are marked “Cancelled”.

“For quarantine reasons we’re making sure there’s as little travel west as possible,” the desk agent says.

“Oh no. We can’t do the horrible thing you were planning…” Terry says, flatly, under his breath.

“Yes we can, and it’s not horrible!” Brendan says.

The desk agent looks Brendan up and down.

“You look like a broke Bane,” she says.

—

Brendan drops his credit card on the Amtrak counter and slides it towards the agent.

“Two train tickets to Los Angeles please!” Brendan says.

The desk agent points to the Amtrak departure board. All west bound trains are cancelled.

“Oh no, another mode of transportation we can’t use to do the horrible thing you’re planning,” Terry says.

“Shut up!” Brendan says.

“You look like a default character from Fallout 4,” the desk agent says.

—

Brendan drops his credit card on the counter and slides it towards the agent.

“Two Greyhound bus tickets to Los Angeles please!” Brendan says, with great reluctance.

The desk agent points up to the departure board, which is cracked, and hanging askew from a single bolt in the ceiling. All westbound buses are canceled, except for one headed to Sacramento.

“Sacramento is close enough!” Brendan says with excitement, before turning to Terry.

“You see Terry? Things are finally looking up for us!”

Terry stares across the bus terminal to the far corner of the building with a look of horror.

“…Brendan…I can’t be sure but I think there are two toddlers over there fighting each other with brass knuckles… and people are placing bets on who they think the winner will be…”

“Oh, sir, I’m sorry, the Sacramento bound bus has been canceled,” the desk agent says.

“What? Why!?”

The desk agent points out the window. A bus rolls into the arrivals bay with the Philadelphia to Sacramento route on its front banner.

The bus is on fire.

Rather than stopping, it plows through a row of newspaper kiosks and crashes into the side of the building next door. Calmly, as if they have done it a thousand times, the passengers disembark. After the bus driver helps the last person off the bus, takes his belongings from his seat, and steps onto the sidewalk, the bus explodes, sending flaming pieces of metal across the parking lot.

Brendan and Terry are frozen in place watching the flames rise, while the desk agent looks Brendan up and down.

“You look like -”

“-like what?” Brendan says, turning quickly towards the desk agent, “a knockoff mad scientist? A shitty Resident Evil villain? Dumb Walter White?!”

The desk agent shakes his head.

“I was going to say you look like him,” the desk agent says, pointing to a nearby bench.

A man in his fifties is sitting there, in a tattered lab coat, with about the same look as Brendan. His eyes are wild, and as he looks at Brendan and Terry, they feel fear like they never have before.

“I was a doctor with a wife and kids before I took Greyhound! Nice outfit kid! Looks like someone values safety!!!” the man screams, before letting out a cackling laugh that fills the station.

A cheer goes up from the corner of the building, as one of the two toddlers presumably wins.

—

“One compact rental car, please!” Brendan says, sliding his card across the counter to the Hertz representative.

“Hey Brendan,” Terry says, bringing him away from the counter, “are you sure you can afford this?”

“Sure!” Brendan says.

“Brendan. It’s been a while since you lost the job. Renting a car for two weeks is a lot of money.”

“It will be fine! It’s all worth it for the greater good!”

“I’m sorry sir, we don’t have any compact cars available. Our only car left is from our Prestige Collection. It’s a Jaguar XF,” the rep says.

“Sounds good!” Brendan says, hesitation in his voice.

A receipt prints, the rental representative slides it across the counter towards Brendan.

“Your total comes to $2138,” the rep says.

Brendan nods, but does not move towards the counter.

“…Whenever you’re ready sir,” the rep says.

“You got it,” Brendan says.

Still, he does not move.

“Brendan!” Terry says.

He goes over and signs the receipt.

—

While the representative takes them to the car, walks Brendan around it to check for marks, explains to him that the car requires premium gas, which almost makes Brendan lose his footing, Terry is standing with his back towards them.

He types out a text message on his phone to Jess:

Looks like it’s not gonna be four days. More like two weeks driving cross country, LOL! Will try and call again soon baby…

Terry looks at this message.

“It has Apple carplay Terry! We can finally listen to all those Joe Rogan podcasts I’ve been telling you about!” Brendan says.

“Great…”

His thumb hovers over the send button. Instead, he deletes the message, types out another:

Love you baby, will call soon

“Alright,” Terry says, taking in a deep breath, “let’s go.”

—

They get into the car and pull out of the lot, Brendan insisting that he drive. About a block away from the lot, Brendan almost plows into the back of a truck because he can’t properly feel the gas pedal with the rubber boots he’s wearing. Terry calmly asks him to pull over, and takes over driving.

“Two weeks together. Man. Can you imagine how close we’re going to become as friends? Just the level of comfort that we’ll have with each other? I mean we’ve been friends for YEARS, but I don’t think we’ve ever actually taken a trip together. Weird right?” Brendan says.

“So weird,” Terry says.

There is a long silence in the car. On multiple occasions, Brendan begins to speak, then stops himself.

“Why don’t we listen to something?” Brendan says.

He switches to the podcast app and starts playing an episode:

“‘I just think that these liberals are blowing this way out of proportion. Even if I get Coronavirus, which I know all about because I’ve googled it twice, I’m basically inoculated from it because of all the bulletproof coffee I’ve been drinking *sound of a loud, possibly marijuana related cough*’”

“You know what, instead of Joe Rogan maybe we could just sit in silence…” Terry says.

Brendan turns it off.

After a few minutes, he turns to look at Terry.

“Do you ever get worried that people close to you will get it?” Brendan asks.

Terry shrugs.

“Sort of. I’m really only quarantining because it’s the right thing to do. My parents are pretty young and my grandparents are gone, so I don’t worry about that too much.”

Brendan nods, turns to look out the window.

“Yeah…me neither…:” he says.

They make the exit onto 76. Their GPS tells them they have 45 hours left of driving. Terry takes in a deep breath.

End of Part One