Patient Zero (The Thaw)
Singapore to LAX is one of the longest flights in the world, but I don't mind. I've been doing it for almost ten years now on and off for work. I use it to get some work done, real work not just responding to emails and writing policy documents. But this time, try as I might, I'm not getting anything done. I was okay when I clipped in my belt in business class, I was okay when I listened to the hostess read out the safety sheet for what must have been the thousandth time. As soon as I reached 35,000 feet it was a different story. I was staring at my laptop screen and my nose started running like a faucet. My handkerchief barely held it all in, I had to get the stewardess to get me a damn box of tissues. Next came the sore throat, the dizziness as I tried to focus on the screen. I had to give it up as a bad job and I thought if I got a little shut eye I'd be fine by the time we were halfway through the flight.
That was three hours ago. Two hours into a sixteen hour flight. Now I'm at five hours and napping is a forgotten notion. Instead I'm shivering like I did as a kid a long time ago in the Minnesota winter. I switched off the air vents above me but it still feels like the arctic. Every joint and bone in my body aches, I feel cramped and tense from crossing my arms so tight for warmth. Of all the places to get a goddamn flu a long haul flight was the worst. I call the stewardess again, ask if they have any aspirin or anything, and when she brings it up she hands it and the cup of water to me carefully like she'd catch the plague too if she brushed my hand. I don't blame her, I'm sure I look like hell. I check my watch again. Six hours in.
I must have fallen into a doze a while ago. Weird, troubled dreams, where I thought my legs were coming alive under my blanket and I needed to stop them moving whatever the cost. I had to. The stewardess tapped me on the shoulder gently an I wake up like I'm hit with a lightning bolt. She's worried about me, says I've been thrashing around in my chair. The guy who was next to me at the start of the flight has moved to another seat. I don't blame him. I tell her it was just a flu and there was nothing to worry about and ask for more aspirin. She seems unconvinced but brings me the pills anyway. I notice I am sweating and shivering at the same time. I check my watch again. Hour ten, six more to go. I get up, stumbling down the aisle on my burning joints, head swimming, to go to the tiny cubicle bathroom. I look in the mirror and see why the flight attendant was worried. My face is pale and bloodless, clammy like a catfish, and the bags under my eyes are deep. I start shuddering and coughing and I am glad to be in the bathroom because I can spit the phlegm into the sink. There is some blood in there but I'm not worried. I crash back down to the aisle to my seat and wrap the blanket back around myself and will myself to sleep.
More fever dreams, shivering and chattering. I am walking down an endless airplane fuselage, and I can't find my seat. No one else is on the plane and I'm dying of thirst. There are no wings. The cabin stretches on for ever and ever and each time I think I find my seat the numbers change. I cry out in my dream and wake myself up. Panting I go to check my watch but the flight attendant scares the hell out of me by bringing two more aspirin, unasked. I gulp down the sweet water and I feel parched again immediately. One hour left until touchdown.
The plane takes an agonisingly long time to land, and I watch the sprawling lights of LA spread out on the dark horizon below inch closer and closer. The landing is bumpy but I let out a sigh of relief knowing that I'm finally getting off this tin can and over to my hotel bed, and rest. The flight attendant sighs with relief too. I am sure as soon as I leave she will dump a gallon of disinfectant on the seat. As I walk past her to disembark she smiles and nods, then sneezes. Her smile fades.
It feels as though I'm walking underwater as I make my way through the chaotic terminal. The lights are too bright, sounds fade in and out, and people chattering and announcements over the PA echo oddly inside my burning brain. Not long now, I tell myself. I just need to make it to the hotel then I can rest properly, and be fresh for my meeting. I have another coughing fit while searching for a cab and when I check my handkerchief there is more blood. A lot more.
The cab driver looks at me strangely as I fall into the back seat, but he doesn't question it. Probably thinks I've had a few too many bourbon and cokes on the flight. I choke out the hotel I'm going to and mercifully he doesn't need directions. I keep seeing him steal glances at me through the rearview mirror as I sweat and shiver and cough like a lifelong smoker. When we get there I hand him a twenty with a shaking hand and he takes it, thankful to get me out of there. I manage to compose myself enough to check in, but the jazz music in the lobby confuses the hell out of me. When I finally get to my room I dump all my shit on the ground and head get in the shower, blasting the hot water and sitting in there for a long time. At the end of it, I feel a little better, so I make a coffee and sit in bed and turn on National Geographic. Some stupid show about trash pickers, I take none of it in, and almost straight away start to fall asleep. As I'm about to drift off I jerk awake and remember to set my alarm for the meeting tomorrow. It would be no good to be sick and get to the meeting late. No good at all. I fall asleep with the television on.
"Where in the hell is he?" said Herb Dowling, checking his watch. He sat at a cafe with his business associate, Lloyd Cohen, a coffee in front of each of them. They'd arrived to the meeting ten minutes early out of courtesy, and they'd been waiting for half an hour for their partner company's representative to show. It was not a good look considering the size of the deal they were to discuss.
"Maybe he's stuck in traffic?" suggested Lloyd, sipping his espresso. "It's a train wreck in this city."
"He's got a phone doesn't he? There's no excuse for this kind of thing in this day and age. Traffic or no traffic he should've let us know he was late."
"I've never known him to be late before, met him a few times before now. Hope nothing's gone wrong."
"My ass," said Herb, "he probably just had one too many last night and slept through his alarm. If he's not here in the next five minutes I'm walking on this."
Herb checked his watch again and jiggged his leg, which was crossed over his knee. He glanced over at the flatscreen TV at the other end of the cafe. Good Morning America had been playing a moment ago but now it was showing scenes of panic, people running around in the streets and cop cars and ambulances with sirens flashing.
"Holy hell," he said, pointing it out to Lloyd.
"Another terrorist attack?" said Lloyd nervously. "I wouldn't expect it to happen in LA."
"I don't think so..." said Herb. "Say, what hotel was he staying at again?"
"The Chancellor?"
"That's it!"
The footage on the television showed the awning at the front of The Chancellor, and chaos as guests and staff swarmed from within, some of them covered in blood. A woman tripped and a housekeeper caked in gore fell to her knees and sank her teeth into the woman's throat.
"Holy Jesus!" said Lloyd. "We've got to get out of here!"
The two businessmen hurried outside, along with half of the patrons of the cafe. Helicopters buzzed overhead and sirens blared through the corridors of the city.
"Let's get back to the hotel," said Lloyd. "Figure out what the hell is going on!"
"Screw the hotel, we've got to get to LAX and get the hell out of here. How long you think it'll be before the city is locked down?"
"I don't know but--"
Lloyd didn't get to finish his sentence. A taxicab screeched around the corner and ploughed through the crowd outside the cafe. Herb jumped out of the way, barely avoiding it, but Lloyd was not so lucky. When Herb got to his feet and checked on Lloyd the man was dead, crushed against the wall. The taxi driver was scratching at the window like a caged animal, his face smashed to a pulp, eyes milky white. Herb had seen enough. In high terror he ran, as fast and hard as he ever had, through the panicked crowds of Los Angeles.