Lodi, Ohio
A light trickle of bourbon poured from the bottle over the ice in Mick’s glass. Cigarette clenched between two fingers, he swished the alcohol around.
“Go home, Mick,” Lars instructed as he took the bottle, poured a little then passed it to Patrick.
“Yeah, Mick, go home,” Patrick reiterated. “Why are you still up?”
“Afraid of trouble, that’s all.” Mick sipped his drink. “I just feel better knowing, right now, I’m here.”
“How many did you take out today?” Lars asked.
“Sixteen,” Mick replied.
“Why are you bothering?” Patrick reached for Mick’s pack of cigarettes, looked at him for approval, then took one. “I mean, why don’t you just light the whole camp on fire? Burn it, take out your problem all at one time.”
Lars turned a quick view to Patrick. “Isn’t that just like a criminal to say that?”
Patrick gasped. “I’m joking. Besides, I am not a criminal.”
“Aren’t you under arrest?” Lars asked.
“Well, yes.”
“Well, you are then.”
“Nobody knows.” Patrick lit the cigarette. “And I just like to refer to myself as a money-conscious borrower.”
Mick interjected, “Who borrowed over a hundred mil.” He whistled. “Do you still have any of it?”
“Yeah,” Patrick answered. “Why? Do you need some?”
Before Mick could answer, Lars interceded. “Are you trying to bribe the law?”
“Yes. Would it work, Mick?” Patrick asked with a smile.
“Could. A cool two mil might do it, if it mattered. It doesn’t matter. No one will show up for you.” Over his drink, Mick noticed the look Lars gave him. “What’s wrong?”
“You disappoint me, taking a bribe,” Lars shook his head. “You are a man without morals, Michael Owens.”
“Please,” Mick scoffed. “I have plenty of morals. Look, I don’t want to take Patrick’s advice and wipe out our campers, do I?”
“That’s because they pose no threat, just camping there,” Lars said.
“Or do they?” Patrick swung a questioning look at Lars. “I’m curious. If they get sick, all of them, that’s an awful lot of flu being breathed into the air. This thing is airborne; won’t it strike us?”
“Yes,” Lars answered without hesitation, then saw the looks he received. “Wondering why we’re going through all this trouble then? It’s fun.” He held back a laugh in their stunned silence. “I’m joking. Reiterating that I know this flu, I can tell you of tests performed. In the immediate area of the campers, it is highly contagious. But here’s an example: Say you lock a man with the flu in an eight by eight room. He’s coughing, expelling the germ. Now send a susceptible man in there with him. Boom. That man will catch the flu. Same scenario, but this time take the sick man out. Send in the healthy man two minutes later, his chances decrease. The flu is given to us by nature, therefore nature can diminish it. It loses potency the longer it is in circulation. The pollutants in the air start breaking down the flu within five minutes, separating it and making in nonviable within ten. Now, had this flu been synthetic, manmade, we’d be up shit creek. It would lace the air like molasses and never leave.”
Patrick shuddered. “Thank God for… God.”
“Nature has a way of population control, that’s for sure,” Lars chuckled.
Mick laughed. “Nature went a little overboard this time.”
“Did it?” Lars asked.
“Yeah,” Patrick said. “I mean, look at your slide presentation. Which, by the way, gave me nightmares. That Inez Eskimo guy has been the Freddy Krueger of my dreams.”
“Barring your Freddy digression,” Lars said, “my question was did nature go overboard?”
Both Mick and Patrick answered at the same time. “Yes.”
“No.”
“How can you say this?” Mick argued. “Lars, be realistic. When this thing is finished, how much of the world’s population are you guessing will have died?”
“From violence and the flu, at least seventy-five percent.”
Mick laughed. “And that’s not overboard?”
“No.” Lars shook his head.
“Right,” Mick said. “There’ll be nobody left.”
“Hardly,” Lars scoffed. “They’ll plenty left.”
Patrick was confused. “After seventy-five percent die?”
“Consider this,” Lars explained. “In 1976 there were two hundred million Americans. At the millennium there were roughly four hundred million Americans. The birth to death ratio, meaning, every day, after everyone that is to be born is born, and everyone to be dead has died, the world increases by eighty thousand people per day. Eighty thousand people a day.” Mick and Patrick were stunned into silence. “In 1800 the world population stood at 1 billion people. Right now we’re over 6 billion people. If our flu wipes out seventy-five percent, we’ll be back to the 1800 population. If I’m thinking correctly, I don’t believe the folks back then would tell you no one was around.”
Mick stared hard at Lars. “I hate that scientific reasoning shit.”
Patrick seemed pleased. “So the world isn’t going end?”
“Not by a long shot. This isn’t the end of the world,” Lars said. “But it is the end of society as we know it. Things are down. They’ll break down even further. Society will go to pot. People will have to faction off, begin new domains, and start all over again. To get back up could take decades, maybe even a century. Who knows? So…” Lars patted Patrick’s hand, “put those fears to rest. Even though mankind will still be around, I don’t think you have to worry about being the shower stall queen for a big man named Bubba at the state penitentiary.”
Mick laughed long and hard and finished his drink. “That was great. See, Lars? This is why people love you.”
“Stop.” Patrick held up his hand. He looked around at the empty bar. “Before anyone bursts in here, before an emergency occurs, before the subject can be changed, I need to know: Why are you, Lars, a legend around here?”
“I told you it was ridiculous,” Lars replied.
“Yeah, still. Tell me,” Patrick requested.
“All right.” Lars prepared to speak then noticed Patrick gazing about. “I thought you wanted to hear this?”
“I do, but I’m waiting for an interruption.”
Lars continued as he snickered, “I believe I was a young man of twenty-five when I acquired the status. It grew as time went on. But there was a big rally in Washington, DC. I was fortunate enough to be right in the front of a roped-off section. And it was there, on television, that the president walked by greeting people, and he shook my hand.”
His hands folded on the table, Patrick waited. “And?”
“And what?” Lars asked.
“And what else?”
“That’s it.”
“No. You’re lying,” Patrick said with disbelief. “You’re lying because I’m curious.”
“Right hand to God…” Lars raised his hand. “That is it. Ask Mick.”
Mick shrugged. “I don’t remember when it started. But I do remember it was always a big thing to be told by your parents or teacher, ‘You want to grow up to be like Lars Rayburn, don’t you? He shook the president’s hand.’”
“Forgive me, Lars,” Patrick said. “That sucks. That has got to be the lamest reason for someone to be a legend.”
“See,” Mick interjected, “I agree. Who the hell gives a rat’s ass if he shook the president’s hand? But that’s not the reason, in my opinion, that he became a legend. The people of Lodi grasped on to the president thing, and Lars ran with it. Lars was the one that did things for the town. When—what the hell was the name of your second novel?”