She’s not particularly robust, not particularly fit. If she were honest with herself, Wilhelmina is not at all fit, or even remotely fit. She is, in fact, skinny fat. Absent is the muscle tone she should have at her age. She’s a workaholic and her exercise is limited to what it takes to work more hours and climb the ladder of success. She’s thin because she forgets to eat, not because she exercises or has a good diet. She works. That’s what she cares about.
So why her?
Squeezing her eyes shut, Wilhelmina turns away from the window and back to the papers spread across her living room floor. She’s moved all the furniture except the couch to make room for it. She’s a strategist. Figuring things out is what she does.
Her gaze moves along the graphs, the charts, the hastily drawn map. There is a pattern there. She knows it’s there, but she can’t see it yet. Is her fear for herself interfering with her ability to see what’s in front of her? It’s possible, maybe even probable. After all, this is life and death.
A knock on the door startles her. Knocking? Who would be knocking? This building has a doorman to stop things like that from happening.
Tiptoeing to the door, she carefully peeks out. It is the doorman. Unlatching and opening the door, she smiles a little, feeling awkward for smiling at all under the circumstances.
“Beau? What are you doing up here?”
The man looks uncomfortable, fidgeting with a tablet in his hands. “Uh, Ms. Thorpe, I uh…”
“What is it, Beau? If you’re checking to see if I’m still alive, I am.”
He’s been doing that, though not saying so in as many words. He’s also been the one to bring her food and fresh milk. No woman can risk going outside. Beau has been filling in for all the loved ones that Wilhelmina doesn’t have and doing his best to take care of her.
Shaking his head, he says, “No, that’s not it. I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer. Phones are dead again, I think.”
She glances back at her phone. It’s still the silent brick it’s been since the moment all this began. “Yes, I think it’s still dead. I meant, why didn’t you use the intercom?”
The way he looks around seems almost furtive. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he says, “Can I come in for a second?”
Something is clearly wrong. Her brow creasing, she nevertheless steps back and waves Beau in. She isn’t in any danger from him. She knows that. Beau is an old soldier of a man and courteous to the point of being old-world.
Shutting the door behind him, she asks, “What’s wrong, Beau?”
He shoves the tablet in her direction, speaking quickly. “I got this. It’s one of those Amber Alert things, only not for anyone missing. I didn’t think it was safe to use the intercom. Security listens to that sometimes.”
Wilhelmina looks at the screen, sees what’s got him so riled, and asks, “They want you to report us?”
He nods. “Yes. Management called on the radio right after that came and asked me how many women were still alive in the building. I told them I wasn’t sure.”
She looks at the screen again. There’s no real identification as to who wants the reports, only a phone number, a radio frequency, and a web page with a Washington state identifier. Since they have no cell service, and the internet is sketchy, she wonders how they expect to get anything like an accurate count.
Still, they want reports of women. No details about why. Wilhelmina doesn’t need details. The strategist in her knows what this is. She would do the same. Find any woman still alive and contain her. Keep her alive before everything goes completely insane out there.
Because it will. Things will go bad very quickly, very soon. If anything, she’s surprised they haven’t already.
“Have you reported yet?” she asks.
“No, ma’am. I’m going to have to, but I haven’t.” He stops, makes a pained face, then says, “You’ve always been kind and…”
“You wanted to warn me first.”
“Yes.”
“How long can you give me?” she asks.
Old soldier that he is, Beau knows what she means. “I’d give it a day, tops. I’ll report everyone who doesn’t live alone, but there’s you and two more who do live alone.”
“Which apartments?” she asks, already thinking hard and fast.
He gives her the apartment numbers and the names of the women, then moves to the door quickly, ready to warn the next woman. Before he opens the door, he turns back to her and says, “Listen, do you want my advice? I won’t give it unless you want it.”
That stops her in her tracks. People offer unwanted advice all the time, but Beau isn’t one of those people. The pants hide it from casual view, but one of his legs is artificial, lost in the course of a senseless war that seemed like it might never end. He’s smart and he’s seen his share of pain and bad decisions. He’d once told her he liked being a doorman because it let him interact with people, but not too much. If he has advice, she needs to hear it.
“I want it.”
He returns to her and takes one of her hands. He’s never touched her before. Not once. Not even to shake hands.
“You need to go someplace no one would look for you or for women at all. Not in a sexist way, but in the way of things now. Half the women who died from this building died right here. They weren’t outside. And I don’t think it has to do with the windows like they say on the news. Two of them died in their bathrooms and there are no windows there. Still, everyone thinks women have to stay inside now, to avoid whatever it is.”
“You mean I should go outside, because no one would expect me to?” she asks.
“I do.” He
