Virulent: Stories by Shelbi Wescott

Author:Shelbi Wescott
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Arthur Press
Published: 2015-05-06T16:00:00+00:00

If outside the airport was a madhouse, inside was worse. TSA agents and armed military personnel blocked the exits, and people lined up at empty counters to speak to non-existent representatives for the airlines. Families sat huddled together with their luggage; people wailed and fought, but the guards stood idly by and let the violence erupt. They stared straight ahead, like the guards of Buckingham Palace, unmoved by the scenes in front of them, and if people asked questions, they were encouraged to stay seated and wait for an announcement that never came.

Grace tried calling her parents. Speed dial. Over and over again, she pushed the button, tried to get her call through, and then hung up. Sometimes, she got a busy signal and sometimes, she got nothing but dead air.

“They’ll be worried. If they don’t hear from me. They’ll panic if they’re just waiting at the airport—”

“They’ll know we’ve been rerouted,” Darla replied. She rubbed Grace’s back as she slipped into tears. “It’s fine, Gracie. It’s good. We’re off the plane, we’re here together. Give it some time and then we’ll figure it out. We’re good.”

“This is good?” she replied, and she threw her hand across her body in a quick scan of the world around them. “This is a total nightmare. This is a war. This is annihilation.”

They’d been avoiding the news so Teddy wouldn’t hear, but they could see the tickers running across the screen and they weren’t naïve to the realities of what was happening outside of the airport. Darla hadn’t been too far off when Ebola dangers crossed through her mind—only this particular virus was like Ebola on steroids. And the news said scary things like: Infected water supply and airborne. Darla tried to keep calm, but she watched Teddy like a hawk. He didn’t have a fever, and every time she reached over to rub the back of her hand across his forehead, he’d bat her away.

Darla had never felt so impotent.

She’d never felt so lost and incapable. Darla was a doer—propelled in every part of her life into action when a situation called for it—but here she was, marooned into total inaction. She felt punchy, itchy, and on edge. It was clear that people handled trauma in their own myriad ways—calm, stoic, panicky, angry. The waylaid passengers in the terminal had their own distinct looks, and they either handled the news of the widespread virus with shock or on the verge of meltdowns. Some went straight to anger and others wrapped themselves up in defeat and sobbed their way through the morning.

“I’m thirsty,” Teddy said.

Infected water supply. The stores in the terminal were closed. People knew better than to flaunt that they had water or juice.

“You have to wait, Theo,” Darla said to her son. What if he was infected? What if the last thing he’d remember was her inability to provide for him. She took in a shaky breath and shifted on the hard floor.

There was a man by himself and he paced the length of the people mover, dragging his suitcase behind him and muttering to himself.

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