“I told you to shut the hell up. The sedative is working nicely on Elise.” With the final tug of his robe’s belt, and a huff of irritation, Brad Connally straightened his gray hair and emerged from the staircase. “Michael Owens, I swear to God, this better be important, Chief of Police of not.”
“It is,” Mick stated. “I have to fax these to the Governor. I need you to sign them.” Mick laid two documents and a pen on the sofa table.
“What the hell are these?” Brad asked.
“The first is an order approving two hundred and sixteen temporary deputies as border patrols. You have to sign this to give them the immediate authority to maintain law and order. Then,” Mick slid the next paper to him, “you have to sign this proclamation stating that we are in a state of national emergency and by the authority vested in you, you are declaring your own martial law.”
“I’m what?” Brad was taken aback. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing, yet, sir. And that’s the way I want it.”
“I’m not understanding, Mick.”
“We don’t have the flu,” Mick stated seriously.
“Who? You and me?”
“No. The whole goddamn town of Lodi. We don’t have the flu. And that’s the way I want to keep it. If we can keep it out, Lars says for four weeks, we will have beaten this bug and not lost a single life to it. The world is dying…” Mick’s voice dropped. “Let’s not let Lodi.”
“So you want me to shut us down.”
“No, sir, we’re opening back up. I want to override the ordinance, live our own existence, open shops, let people roam around their hometown… safely. And I can only do this by locking us down and keeping everyone else out.”
Brad’s head spun. “So we’re quarantining Lodi from the world?”
“No, sir.” Mick shook his head. “We’re quarantining the world from Lodi.” He lifted the pen and handed it to Brad. “Sign the orders.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Reston, Virginia
September 4th
Henry flicked his finger in a steady slow rhythm against the side of the thick plastic cup. He stared across the table at Kurt who slept in a chair, his feet extended onto another. A blanket covered Kurt up to his chin, and his head was uncomfortably tilted to one side.
Henry needed someone to talk to, but he didn’t want to wake Kurt. And even if he did, he wasn’t quite sure if Kurt would feel like listening. The strong antibiotics were being delivered into Kurt at an incredible rate through an intravenous line Henry had set up. There was no one else to do it, no other doctor around who could oversee the Rayburn therapy.
Kurt had the flu. He would be, aside from Lars himself, the first person to test the therapy. Henry had confidence it would work. He held high hopes and he could project no less. After all, it was he and Kurt who pushed to test Lars’ therapy. How would it look if he doubted it when it took a lot of work to put into motion?
Henry’s job, as far as Lodi was concerned, was finished, with the exception of getting reports from Lars. Henry could have turned the Lodi experiment over to Lars and wished him good luck, but he felt that he owed Lars. The map on the wall grew blacker by the hour, and the world outside of his Winston Research office slipped further from his mind as Lodi, Ohio moved right in.
Another situation arose overnight in Lodi, one that immediately caught Henry’s attention. It was brilliant, and hard for Henry to believe that it was conceived by a man with little education beyond high school.
Though what was happening in Lodi was completely out of Henry and Kurt’s jurisdiction, out of their hands and not of their concern, Henry wanted to make it his concern. Henry wanted to have the therapy experiment under his wing, because this was an experiment that could possibly be successful and help many other people.
As he sat in the darkness, staring at his ailing friend, Henry contemplated ways that he could help ensure that the experiment would not fail.
Lodi, Ohio
Dylan’s dream was partially cogent, but she wouldn’t allow herself to slip completely into the lucid state. She didn’t want to. Her nighttime drama was just what she needed. Her mind was escaping the horrors of all that she heard on the news, while her body reveled in every sensation felt within her dream. She supposed that the video that the boys were watching earlier had everything to do with the fact that wrestling legend, Nature Boy Rick Flair slipped into her bed with her in her fantasy. And Dylan reminded herself, during a lucid moment, to thank those boys. Rick’s youthful incarnation swayed his body to his Space Odyssey theme music, across Dylan’s bedroom, lending truth to his nickname ‘Nature Boy’.
How indisputably beautiful his body was; firm, hard, with a handsome face to match. He moved gracefully, fluidly, unlike any “ordinary” man, as he crawled onto the bed to join her. From the kisses he delivered to her neck, to the placement of his hands in just the right spots, and the slow movements of his body as he pleasured her, every motion was perfectly timed.
It was a passionate moment, almost too romantic for someone as rough as Rick. But Dylan didn’t quibble with her conscious thoughts as she tried to let her subconscious dominate so she could totally enjoy the arousal she felt as her dream lover moved against her.
Maybe if she could stay in her dream state and ignore reality, she’d be able to block out her conscience, but she was unable to keep that part of her brain unengaged. Unbidden, unwanted, it floated to the surface and forced her to speak. “Rick,” she whispered, “what about your wife?”
“She doesn’t mind,” Rick spoke in her ear.
“Well, what about Mick?”
“I could take Mick.”
Dylan giggled, still in her dream, as she wrapped her arms more tightly around the man sharing her bed. “Yeah, you could kick Mick’s ass.”
“Who?!” The word blasted into her ear and snapped Dylan from her erotic dream and into a totally conscious state, finding herself in her semi-dark bedroom with someone other than Nature Boy in her arms.
Dylan blinked and focused. “Mick.” She sat up in bed. “Damn it. You woke me from a really good dream.”
Mick stared for a second then lifted his hand as he sat on the edge of the bed. “You were talking in your sleep about someone beating me up. That’s a good dream?”
“Well…”
“Who can kick my ass?”
“Rick Flair.”
“Oh, he cannot,” Mick scoffed.
“Yeah, he could,” Dylan snapped and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “But it doesn’t matter; it was just a dream. Which you ruined. And I was having a real good time having sex with him.”
“Uh!” Mick grunted in shock. “You dreamt you were having sex with Rick Flair. Dylan, he’s… he’s old.”
“Not in my dream.” Dylan sniffed haughtily. “Rick was in his prime.”
Mick slightly tilted his head. “Well, okay, that makes sense.” He stood up. “And why are you having sex dreams? We just… you know.” Mick began to take off his shirt.
“Mick, if you had done… let’s say your job…”
The tee shirt stopped just above Mick’s head and he delivered an outraged look at her. “I cannot believe you just said that to me.”
Dylan smiled and patted the bed. “I’m kidding,” her eyes shifted to the window, “and it’s dawn. I told you that you wouldn’t be back until dawn.”
“I know. I know,” Mick grumbled as he fell into bed and closed his eyes.
“You’re tired.”
“Very. But I can’t sleep for too long.” He opened one eye. “Wake me in two hours?”