Killer Z Read Free

him the medication and dry swallows her own small,
white pill.
    “Are the new pills helping? What
are they called?”
    “Yes, they are. Z something.”
    Rebecca has been getting headaches
ever since their son, Sam, told them he wasn’t joining them in D.C. as planned.
When Michael was hired at the Library of Congress, they allowed Sam to stay
with the grandparents to finish his senior year in Marquette, Michigan.
    The metro is fairly empty. Two old
ladies chatter like chipmunks. Behind them a man reeking of urine and booze
snores. Across the aisle a pretty girl in a red Burger Baron uniform focuses on
her phone while an obese boy rambles about gaming. Above them a public service
poster encourages hand washing for the upcoming flu season.
    Rebecca finishes the International
section and asks, “Do you want the comics?” 
    “No thanks.”
    “I’ll take ‘em,” the fast food
worker interrupts.
    Juliet holds out her hand and
flashes a friendly smile.
    “Hey Michael, listen to this,”
Rebecca says as she gives the comics to Juliet. “Did you know FEMA camps are
being built around America? It says FEMA is preparing three million caskets for
an epidemic. Why does FEMA need three million caskets? Isn’t that creepy?”
    “Yeah, that’s creepy.”
    “You know the Mayans believe we’re
at the end of a cycle?”
    “Who cares about the Mayans? We’re
more likely to have a nuclear war, biological war, chemical war, genocide, or a
super bug. Feel free to pick a way the world could end, it’s all subjective
after the wheel in sky stops spinning. I wouldn’t worry about FEMA or
conspiracy theorists, honey.”
    “You’re probably right. Wow,
that’s interesting.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Scientists working with the Coast
Guard found an ancient civilization on the bottom of Lake Michigan. It says a
recent earthquake shifted the lake’s floor and divers found artifacts predating
Vikings. Maybe it’s the lost city of Atlantis.”
    “I read the lost city of Atlantis is beneath the Bermuda triangle.”
    “Wouldn’t it be cooler to have it
under Lake Michigan?”
    The train comes to a stop at Union
Station and they disembark.
    Near the Freedom Bell a huge black
police horse rears as a gap-toothed homeless man thrusts a cardboard sign with
crooked writing in Michael’s face.
    The world ends today!
    Another filthy man shakes a
cracked plastic cup in Rebecca’s face.
    ”Back off, you’re scaring my
wife.”
    The man slinks away into the crowd.
    A block away Rebecca asks, “Why would a
person bother begging if they thought the world was going to end?”
     

 
     

    3
     
     
    “T here’s only one thing lazier than a city slicker
and that’s a politician,” Fred mutters, echoing the sentiments of his father
and grandfather.
    His dark blue Chevy truck rumbles
down I-270 through the D.C suburbs. It’s Fred Smith’s second day of driving
from Minnesota. He’s tired, hungry, and plagued with a permanent
headache. The east coast is getting on his nerves but he tells himself not
to be judgmental. He passes countless exits blocked by military personnel but
nothing is on the radio.
    “Not that the suburbs are
bad.  At least there are trees,” he gripes.
    Fred tries changing lanes at the
green interstate sign for Emory Grove but overshoots the exit and curses. Two
days ago he received an emergency phone call from Kyle, his son, and walked
away from his shift at the Northfield, Minnesota Coca-Cola factory. In
thirty-two years of working he’s never missed a day.
    Kyle was supposed to have chosen
an honest profession like his brothers, but the boy believed he was too good to
work in a small town. In high school the kid wore ties, joined the student
council over football, and disagreed with everything Fred ever tried teaching.
Too much ambition complicates life and Fred, like his father before him,
prefers keeping things simple.
    After college Kyle landed a job
with the Smithsonian in Washington D.C. Months and