This time the man seemed unfazed by the bullets, other than a slight recoil from the impact.
The video ended and Rob and Cathy were back, shocked looks on their faces. “We apologize for the graphic nature of this footage,” Cathy said, “but we feel it is important to convey exactly what is happening as it is brought to our attention. Even more footage has been sent in, this time from Moncton, New Brunswick. We warn you, this footage is also graphic and may not be suitable for younger viewers.”
Another street; this one Alex didn’t recognize—he had never been to New Brunswick—but it had the same overcast sky. A small crowd of people were all clawing at something on the ground. This video was taken from a car window, and it must have just rained in Moncton, as their windows were streaked in water making the video unclear.
Suddenly one of the people in the group looked up. She looked around—it reminded Alex of Shadow when she knew there was food in the house, but couldn’t see it. Then she locked onto the car with the camera. She stood up and started toward the car, her steps jagged and strange. When she got halfway across, just as she came into focus—her arms outstretched in her dark-red jacket, her mouth wide open—she became a blur as a speeding vehicle slammed into her, throwing her out of the shot. A fine mist of red hit the window and then the feed went back to studio.
Now Cathy sat at the desk alone, though Rob could be heard retching in the background, obviously having left his microphone on when he walked away to be sick.
Cathy was not talking into the camera. “Could someone please let us know what’s on these things before we show them?” She looked back at the camera, unapologetic for her outburst. “We are going to take a break for a few moments. We will be right back. Before we go, we must remind you, if you are home, please lock your doors and windows. If you are outside of your home, please find your way to the nearest emergency evacuation area located at the bottom of your screen.” Alex just then noticed that a stream of names of places (a city, followed by a list of building names) scrolled along the bottom of the screen. He didn’t recognize any of them.
Cathy continued. “We’ll be right back. Hopefully, we will have some answers.”
Before the station moved to commercial—three in a row for Hockey Night in Canada, so Alex assumed they just threw something on to fill time—they showed a still of the last video they played. It was the woman just before she got hit by the vehicle, just when she came into focus. Now Alex got a better look at her, though he wished that he hadn’t.
Her face had a look of blind rage and determination, like she was going to get to whatever she was after, no matter what. Her hands were red and dirty. Though he first saw her jacket as red, the bottom was white. The dark red was a thick, splattered coating of blood.
The small crowd she had emerged from were blurry, but they were also red. The puddles from the rain had turned red. They were tearing something apart and it bled a lot.
All that red—all the blood—made his mind swim and his stomach churn when he was once again surprised, this time by an unfortunately enthusiastic announcer, telling viewers about the Hartford-Quebec game that would be happening Saturday evening at 7 p.m.
It was 3:15 when Alex checked his watch again and, except for that pop, he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Maybe hunger was the reason he couldn’t stop shaking.
The hours were practically lost to him—the time he spent glued to the TV was a blur: a little footage from people in different cities and towns, some experts on disease control, some people from the army, other experts talking about things Alex couldn’t really understand or connect to the issue. None of them clearly told him what was happening.
He turned the TV up so he wouldn’t miss anything and went into the kitchen. He went to the fridge and pulled out some bread, bologna, cheese, and mustard. It took much longer than usual; he kept missing the bread, his eyes darting to the back window every five seconds. He almost dropped the jar of mustard when he saw an ambulance speed down the street past his backyard.
I have to calm down, or I’m going to do something stupid. Dad said it would be okay. Just make your sandwich and go sit down. Turn off the news. Finish The Sword in the Stone. It’ll be okay. Dad said.
His sandwich made, much slower than usual, he went back to the living room. Shadow had come back and lay on the floor chewing her stuffed stump-bear. Alex sat on the couch and put the sandwich on its plate next to him. Smelling the mustard, he realized he was not even a little hungry. The thought of eating made his stomach turn.
Though he really just wanted to go back to his immature, fantasy cartoon movie, he had left the news on. He stuck to every little bit of information they had. Every interview. Every piece of footage. He started recognizing the cycles of the names of the buildings and safe-zones that scrolled by along the bottom of the screen.
When the phone rang some time later it didn’t frighten him. He barely even heard it. He was immersed in the news. In a stupor, he went to the phone, picked it up, immediately walked back into the living room with it and sat back down on the couch.
“Hello?” he said, almost robotically, lost in the glow of the TV.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, his father’s voice snapping him out of his daze. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m good. How are you?”
“They’re not letting anyone out of this goddamn
