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The Weekend

"We need to know what he was working on. Ted, come with me. Let's get down to the lab and check his log and see if he was onto anything," Monica says. She grabs Ted's arm and the two of them scurry off to Gary's lab.

I stand over Gary and remember how I interviewed him for his current position at the CDC three years ago. He graduated from John Hopkins University and practiced there for two years. His work was phenomenal in neurology. His wife, Kenita, was from Ethiopia where she and Gary first met, as he volunteered his services in Africa. They never had any children. "I'm so sorry, Gary." I silently pray and peek at my watch and pronounce the time of his agonizing demise. Afterwards, I glance around and the emptiness of the cafeteria makes me afraid of being alone. I am alone. Claire is gone. I grab a bottle of water from the cooler as I exit the cafeteria, leaving Gary behind for the hazmat team to dispose of his body properly; mainly, the incinerator.

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Fierce winds continue to howl like a pack of wolves echoing throughout Atlanta. The snow drifts pile high as mass amounts of falling snow layer continuously upon everything in its path. Haunting sounds hiding in the wind screech as they meander throughout the city. Those who have not found refuge from the storm, bunker themselves against any solid structure they can find, covering up with whatever materials they can locate, and pray that they do not succumb to death before the morn.

The CDC guards no longer hear the wails of the weary. Their cries have been silenced by those who have sought shelter elsewhere; or by those who have given up and lie against the wall, yielding to death, hoping it arrives quickly.

Time does not exist as we use to know it. There are no schedules to keep; no places to rush off to; no errands to run; no anything. The only time that does matter now, is how much time does the human race have left before everyone surrenders to the plague, or starvation? If death continues to win the war, we will be wiped out within a matter of days.

Night falls and the waxing moon is a dull yellow due to falling snow causing a filter. Tiny yellow crystals dance like fairies twinkling through the moon beams, as if they are in alignment like notes on a scale. At times, it's as if the wind and the snow orchestrate an inaudible melody, which only the fairies themselves are able to hear and comprehend.

Once a single flake of snow reaches its final destination, it lies lonely, but not alone. With other flakes, they lie still, unnoticed, not knowing of their destiny; that being either enveloped by the elements, or being trampled upon by the remaining civilization who await their fate as well. If bets were being taken, the elements would win unanimously.

The shadowy, cloaked blanket of the night hovers silently over the lifeless city, as if something more evil than the plague is about to be unleashed. Back in the day, nights like tonight would have been ideal for the lawless. Instead, this night is a night that continues the explosive reaction in a chain whose links are weakening due to the collapsing of human civilization. As each day begins and ends, one can only ask will the day end forever. But to whom is the question addressed? Not to me. Life cannot end this way. Why would God make it so easy for us? No! This plague has to have an end; and soon.

Feeling restless, I decide to walk around the CDC just to free my mind of things and try to focus on this damn plague. Taking the stairs, I begin to feel better, and I'm glad I made the right choice about something.

Unknowingly, I find myself in the lobby. I look around and remember the day I was late and Jim Boyle had called out my name. The day Claire told me she was pregnant. Damn it, John! Concentrate!

I go to the information counter and look at pictures of CDC customer service employees adorning the wall. For the last nine years I've shared my life with these people. One picture stands out: Kayla Green. Kayla was a CDC greeter, and she and Claire would hang out together and talk about having a family someday. Since there's no need for customer service employees in lockdown, they weren't lucky enough to be with the rest of us bastards. I can only assume that they have become victims of the plague.