Last Dance at the End of the World Read online

  We passed. Of course, I made her do it.

  I went up to our home to check on the kids before I sought her out.

  They were playing a video game. It was a ‘big brother little sister’ moment I loved to see.

  My son was thirteen, my daughter five. Both their fingers move frantically, arms swung out as they cheered in the game. Although I knew my daughter wasn’t really playing, her controller was off.

  After making sure they were fine, I found Maranda.

  She worked in the back of her shop, and I knew she was painting because the gallery was closed.

  “What do you think?” she asked, stepped back from her painting.

  I folded my arms, tilted my head and stared at it.

  “Travis?”

  Usually, at least ninety percent of the time, I could figure out what she was painting. A running man, old lady eating a rose … yep, I saw it. But for the life of me, I stared at her latest painting, not only trying to figure out what she was attempting to make with all the green paint, but if she was anywhere near finished. However, it was impossible.

  “You don’t like it,” she said.

  “No, no it’s beautiful. The colors are awesome. What is it?”

  “Really?” she asked with a smile. “You of all people, the king of classic television doesn’t know what this is?”

  “Um ….” I racked my brains. She was right, I was the king of classic television. I loved all those old shows. So much so I convinced her to let me name our son, Beau after my favorite show, Dukes of Hazzard. She had changed the spelling of the name, but was great with me calling our daughter, Daisy. I was pretty sure if we had one more son, he’d be Luke.

  “Let me say it again,” she said. “You, the king of classic television, can’t figure this out?”

  “I am not seeing how this big green painting has anything to do with … oh!” I snapped my finger. “Hulk.”

  “Yes, well, more rage inspired.”

  “But it’s not Hulk.”

  “No, it’s rage,” she said.

  “Are you mad?”

  She laughed. “No, I came across one of your comics today and I thought about it. But maybe I’ll transform it to the Hulk or a green monster for you. Since the only television shows you watch are the classics from the seventies and eighties.”

  “I’ll have you know, I liked Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman, too and that is neither seventies, eighties or classic.”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman is classic.” She started to organize.

  “Speaking of Dr. Quinn.”

  “Well, that’s an odd segue,” she said.

  “Not really. Did you know my virus is back? Not me, personally, but back in general?”

  “Oh, yeah, I heard something about that. A lot of cases, but I’m not worried,” Maranda said. “I mean, I had the shot.”

  “The shot is for Alzheimer’s.”

  She shrugged. “There’s a cure, Travis. It’s not deadly, it never killed anyone. Just messed them up for a short spell. And besides, if I get it.” She leaned into me and kissed me. “You can tie my shoes.”

  “Ha, ha, ha. Okay, I’m gonna start dinner.”

  “I’ll be up in a bit.”

  I started to leave the back room when I noticed she was just standing there, she froze and didn’t move. “Maranda? You okay?”

  “Yeah … I just don’t know what I did with the blue paint I had. For the love of God, where the heck did I put it? I know I had it.” She paused, then glanced to me and probably noticed me staring. “Travis, stop. I know exactly what you’re thinking. You did this when you were sick. You worried every time someone forgot something that they had it. I don’t have ARC, okay? I’m fine. Go make supper.”

  “Pasta?”

  “That works.”

  I tapped my hand on the doorframe as I left her work area.

  Hating to use Connor’s word, but yeah, I guess I was being silly. I just hated having that virus. Forgetting how to tie your own shoes was ridiculously minor compared to what some of the other people had endured. Some forgot how to talk or couldn’t remember who they were.

  But even something so simple as the shoe thing was scary. It was like walking into a room and forgetting why you did it. That moment of confusion, only it didn’t go away, ever. The confusion remained until the fog finally lifted.

  For the sake of those who got the new version of ARC, I hoped for their sanity the fog lifted from their minds a lot faster than mine had.

  THREE – FIRST SIGN

  February 6

  It snowed.

  Not enough to close the schools or to cause problems on the roads, but enough to send folks flocking to Dewalt’s to stock up. They all felt the need to get supplies because of the storm predicted to hit in a couple of days.

  Winter panic shopping, combined with ‘buy one, get one deli meat’ sale, made for a madhouse. And to top it off I wasn’t even supposed to be there.

  I especially didn’t want to be there now with everyone panic shopping.

  I hated crowded stores. Even though they were my neighbors, they stopped being neighborly while they waited in line to check out.

  It especially brought out my PTSD I had acquired during the ARC scare. The ARC virus I got was rare, very few people got it, yet so many worried it was going to sweep the world, it took Eddie six weeks to get back to full stock.

  This time, even though it was reported about on the news quite a bit, I had stopped worrying so much about ARC-2. They still claimed it was carried by insects, so to me, I rationalized it was for the folks in Florida and California to worry about. Not us, we had snow.

  Was it truly out of my mind or was it tucked away waiting to jump out and consume my every thought? I honestly didn't know.

  There were like four buggies remaining outside the store and I knew as soon as I saw that, it was going to be insane.

  “Let’s just come back,” I told Maranda.

  “Travis, no, we’re here, let’s get the stuff.”

  “But the kids will be home from school in an hour, we’ll never make it back.”

  “I’ll text Beau and tell him to watch Daisy. You just hate stores when they’re like this, so stop.” She marched straight into the store, leaving me to follow.

  I grabbed one of the remaining carts. The handle was still wet from the snow. I pushed it inside.

  Maranda stopped for one of those flyers. She knew my company printed them, and being a teacher, for sure was going to scold me about that typo.

  I waited while she flipped through it.

  “Well, well, well,” Eddie’s voice carried to me. “I thought you weren’t coming in for the sale today. Hey, Maranda.”

  “Hey, Eddie,” she looked up from the flyer. “We wouldn’t miss the super sale. Love the energy in here.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “So, Eddie,” Maranda said. “What is this deli meat, Bologns? The picture looks like bologna.”

  “Yep.” Eddie nodded. “It is, but it’s Californian Bologna and it’s called Bologns”

  “Have you tried it?” she asked Eddie. “Is it good?”

  “Oh, it’s real good.”

  “Excellent.” Maranda folded the flyer. “We have to get some. Maybe a couple pounds and we'll freeze the rest.”

  “What?” I asked, shocked. “No one eats bologna in our house.”

  “Yeah, but it’s California bologns, so I bet it’s different.”

  “Heads up. The deli line is long,” Eddie said.

  “I bet.” Maranda placed the flyer in the cart. “Travis, I’ll start shopping, why don’t you go get in the deli line?”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. Meet you there.” I looked at Eddie. “Thanks a lot.” I turned around. “What all am I getting?”

  “Whatever they have on the buy one, get one, and don’t forget the Bologns.”

  Shaking my head, I just walked away. I dreaded the d
eli line. Knowing full well what deli sale days were like at Dewalt, I was willing to wager there was going to be at least twenty people ahead of me.

  Of course, the grab and go luncheon meat section only had the items not on sale and I had to grab a number. Granted, it was annoying I had to stand in that line, but I did get a few good laughs.

  Just listening to people asking for that ‘Californian Bologns’ was hilarious.

  Heck, even the deli clerk corrected me when I asked for ‘Bologna’, it made for a better experience.

  Albeit, a long experience for sure.

  Arms full of deli meat, like eight packets of it, I found Maranda. It struck me how long I was in the deli line when I saw her ready to take on the massive checkout lanes.

  If I thought the deli line was long, the checkout line screamed snowpocalypse.

  At least Dewalt’s was stocked up. Maranda kept smacking my hands when I reached for a magazine.

  I had to remind her we weren't kids and if I wanted to read it in line I would, if I wanted to buy it, unlike when I was younger, I could.

  It was just the line was moving so damn slow, and it wasn’t just our line.

  I watched the woman ahead of me, probably my mother’s age, get her tally and swipe her card.

  Then she just tilted her head and chuckled. “I can’t remember my pin number.”

  “Really?” asked the clerk.

  “Oh my goodness, it must be old age, I for the life of me can’t remember it.”

  “It happens,” the clerk said.

  “Does it?” she asked, concern in her voice.

  I spoke up, “I can never remember the pin when I take my wife’s card. You know what? Swipe it as credit.”

  “Can I?” the lady asked.

  “Yeah, just … uh …” I made my way to her. “Hit that little red X there.”

  “Won’t it cancel?”

  “No, watch.”

  On the display it popped up ‘bypass pin and run as credit’

  “Oh, look at that,” the woman said. “Now, I really feel dumb.”

  “Happens to us all,” I told her. “We all for …” I cleared my throat. “Forget things.”

  Maranda grumbled my name. “Travis.”

  She knew me as well as I knew myself, and she knew where my mind immediately went. She warned me a couple more times before we even got to our car. A glance to the man looking for his truck, another at a woman who searched frantically in her purse.

  I thought about the woman in the deli line who took five minutes because she couldn’t think of what she wanted, finally telling the clerk to give her whatever was on sale.

  Maybe it was my paranoia over the ARC virus, even though I knew there was a cure, something about this new wave bothered me.

  FOUR – Over Cooked

  February 12

  The virus story had hit the ten day point. I always considered it a tipping point when it came to news stories, by ten days the story went away or got bigger. Along the lines of, did it use up its fifteen minutes of fame, or did it glorify and explode?

  The story on ARC-2 grew bigger, but it was baffling as well.

  Everything they thought they knew about it was tossed out the window the moment the first northern state confirmed a case.

  It still wasn’t wide spread nor labeled a pandemic. Most people didn’t fear it at all because not only had they been through round one three years earlier, they knew it wasn’t fatal.

  No one died from it.

  It was easy for people to say the virus was nothing when it didn’t affect them or they themselves hadn’t caught it.

  For me it was absolutely terrifying to have, to not know something you should. To wake up every morning wondering what you had forgotten, and if you did, was it something important or someone you loved?

  I read my news online like most people. Every morning I checked to see if it was there, if so, was it a top story or did it make its way down the line.

  I didn’t want to read about it, I just wanted to see it was beaten. For the first several days every story was optimistic, then they kind of disappeared. Older stories from days earlier would make their way into the feed, just to fill the gaps.

  Had I not known better, I would have thought it was over or fading, but I did know better. The stats and information were there, a person just needed to know where to look.

  The Centers for Disease Control and World Health Organization all carried the information.

  I had my morning routine. News, then those sites.

  “You are gonna drive yourself nuts,” Maranda said, setting an empty plate before me that morning.

  “I am just …” I noticed the plate. “What?” I laughed. “Is this your subtle hint to make me go on a diet?”

  “What?” she asked confused.

  I didn’t say anything, I just shifted my eyes from her to the plate a few times. Finally, she looked down.

  “Oh, gees, sorry.” She grabbed the plate and walked to the stove. “And don’t give me that look. I was too busy planning on scolding you.”

  “That you forgot to put food on my plate?” I asked.

  “She could be telling you something,” my son spoke up. “Maybe she’s saying, get your own food.”

  “Mommy’s funny,” Daisy giggled.

  “There was no hidden message.” Maranda put my pancakes before me. “I was just preoccupied.” She slipped into the chair next to me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “You making breakfast like this is just like one of my old television shows.”

  “Travis,” Maranda laughed. “What are you talking about?”

  “You making breakfast,” I said. “You never make breakfast.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No … you don’t.”

  “Travis, I do. I make breakfast all the time.” She reached for the syrup. “I made French toast yesterday.”

  “Maybe when I wasn’t here.”

  “You ate four pieces.”

  “Are you joking me?” I asked. “Cause it’s not funny.”

  “I’m not joking and this isn’t a joke. I make breakfast. Ask the kids.”

  “Maranda, I think we should know. Wait.” I paused. “Do you make breakfast? Maybe you do and I just forgot. God damn virus on the brain. No pun intended.”

  “Travis, you’re scaring me,” she said. “Stop. Okay. It’s not funny.”

  I mumbled. “No, it’s not.”

  “And oh, shoot?” she lifted her phone. “I have to call Tracy to see if she can come in to the gallery today. I have to deliver a painting.” She stood with her phone and walked off.

  I exhaled, whistling softly and grabbed the syrup. “I’m losing it. It’s like the shoe thing all over. Honestly, guys it’s like I can’t remember the last time she made breakfast.”

  “Dad,” Beau said my name.

  “Yeah?”

  He looked over his shoulder, then back to me as he leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper. “It’s not the shoe thing again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not forgetting anything. You can’t remember the last time she made breakfast because she never …” Beau said. “She never does. Ever.”

  I was worried when I thought it was my memory that was going, until Beau commented, then suddenly I found myself dismissing it and finding reasons for my wife’s strange behavior. Because realistically, what were the odds the rare virus would make its way back into our home again?

  Honestly, I maybe could have found reasons for Maranda’s absentmindedness, but unfortunately, every reason circled back to ARC-2.

  Her comment about going into the shop was the catalyst for making me even more concerned.

  Everyone was talking about how there were three suspected cases in our town and two over in West Raven, near the Walmart.

  “Five in this small area?” I asked, fiddling with my coffee cup in the break room. “How do you know?”

  Conner replied, “I saw Chief Fisher a
t the café. He was telling me, all three were admitted to the hospital last night, two for loss of memory and the other for a violent outburst, but they couldn’t speak to the reason.”

  “Are you shitting me? Do we know about the ones in West Raven?”

  Connor shook his head. “Chief only knew details of ours. Three incidents, three different times, people that don’t even know each other.”

  I whistled. “That’s kind of scary, did they confirm?”

  “I don’t know that either. I mean, how do they test?”

  “Spinal tap,” I answered. “That’s how they tested me. But … how is that even possible? The virus had been eradicated. It’s bloodborne. Its main route of transmission is insects, it’s the dead of winter.”

  “Spiders,” Connor said assuredly. “Spiders, bed bugs, lice … they’re all insects. That’s just my guess. People hear insects they don’t think of those, or cockroaches.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “While you’re guessing, can you guess what I’m gonna ask? Can you run the ads down to Furniture Outlet?”

  “Sure, I want to stop at Reilly’s for wings.”

  “Grab me an order?” Connor asked.

  “Yep. I might stop down and talk to the chief.”

  “Why?” Connor questioned.

  “More info,” I said, not wanting to tell him about Maranda.

  “I’m sure he knows very little, but you can try. “I know you’re worried. It was scary when you had it. But there is one good thing.” He finished his coffee, crushed the paper cup and tossed it in the trash. “It’s not deadly.”

  The lack of lethality was a good thing, the only good thing about the ARC virus.

  <><><><>

  If we hadn’t lived in such a small town, I was certain the chief would have told me he was too busy to discuss it, even if he was just playing on his phone.

  I had stopped in to see him after the furniture warehouse drop off.

  The chief was in.

  He was a no nonsense kind of guy, with an attitude from an era gone by. Not too big, average looking guy in his early sixties. Several times he was lambasted for being politically incorrect.