Lockdown by Nick Kolakowski

Author:Nick Kolakowski [Weddle, Nick Kolakowski and Steve]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Polis Books
Published: 2020-04-19T16:00:00+00:00

As it turned out, those rich pricks knew quite a bit.

Eight days later, the President declared that the entire northeast, from Maine to Delaware, was under “strict quarantine.” From what we saw on the news, the U.S. Army locked down the bridges, tunnels, highway exits, even the ports. The virus had infected millions—and the lack of testing made it impossible to tell how fast it was advancing.

By that time, hundreds of the ultra-rich had flooded into our tiny corner of the world. They brought their kids, friends, entourages, mistresses, masseuses, chefs, and nannies. They came in luxury SUVs followed by trucks loaded with enough food to feed an army. When the police shut down the bridges that connected us to the rest of Long Island, they began arriving by yacht and private plane and helicopter.

Along the beach, their huge compounds burst with light and music. When they ran low on supplies, they stripped the local grocery stores of everything but bread—too many carbs.

They also brought the virus with them, and the nearest hospital only had three ICU beds and two ventilators. Dennis shifted Jimbo’s from dine-in to takeout-only, and still the cars jammed the parking lot at all hours. We worked until our hands ached and our knees quaked, and then we slept in our cars for a few hours before doing it all again. The overtime pay was beautiful, and none of us wanted to question whether the almighty dollar would be good for anything other than toilet paper by the end of the year. The trucks arrived with fresh supplies, despite the bridge closures, and we did our best to avoid interacting with the customers—we knew that the bandanas we always wore over our faces would do little good to block the virus.

Bernita, who had worked Jimbo’s register since approximately the dawn of time, snapped on a pair of surgical gloves and a gas mask in order to hand out the food. She was six feet of muscle, her corded forearms inked with elaborate tattoos, and nobody—not the year-rounders, not the billionaires—ever talked back to her.

When it wasn’t blaring José’s favorite rappers, the radio reported the rising casualty counts, the piles of dead in every hospital on Earth. We did our best to ignore it. The scientists would find a cure, right?

How could things not return to normal?

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