end of the world, asshole!”
There was scratching on the back door.
“Where’s the damn supply closet?” she said.
I stared at her a moment thinking how much she reminded me of my ex wife. They didn’t look alike and this woman was older, but they had the same personality. I seem to bring out the best in women.
“In the other room,” I said, “behind the agricultural display.”
She eased into the room housing our permanent collection without turning her back to me. I continued to stand there pondering what she said .
The end of the world ?
She came out of the supply closet with a can of generic disinfectant and a rag. She sprayed the rag and pitched it toward me. It made it half the distance between us.
“I’m not trying to be rude,” she said, “Please just come get the rag, then put it over your nose and mouth.”
She seemed to know more about what was happening than I, so I did it. The rag was damp with disinfectant, and the concentration of the fragrance was sickening.
“Here,” she said and tossed me the can. “Please, spray your phone. I need to call for help.”
“I already tried nine-one-one,” I said taking my phone from my pocket and spraying it.
”Not the cops,” she said. “They’re never any help. No, I’m calling my brother.
I stepped toward her with the phone, but she held up her stick.
“Just put it on the floor, if you don’t mind. You and I need to keep our distance…just in case.”
I shrugged, “Fine. Make your call; I’ll be in my office.”
I walked around her, staying as far from her as possible to make her feel at ease and went into the office. I put the rag on my desk, and picked up the office phone. I dialed my mother’s number, but there was no answer.
Out the window, I could see the group that had chased us into the building were in the parking lot. Some were shuffling around, some were fighting. It reminded me of those animal programs on TV showing activity in a pack of wolves. All ten were there–seven men and three women. Of the men, one was a city police officer. Three of the men were dressed like me in long-sleeved shirts and ties. The rest of the men were dressed casually. I recognized one of the casually-dressed men to be Stuart Wall, one of the city council members. Of the women, I knew two of them to be employees at the mayor’s office. None of them were wearing coats.
I could hear the woman in the gallery having a discussion on the phone, but I couldn’t tell what she was saying. I sat down at the computer and typed in the address for CNN.
This event was the only news. Every article and every video was about Canton B. I clicked the play button on a video at random. It was shot in Knoxville, Tennessee. The city was burning. In another video from Little Rock, Arkansas, people tore at each other like wild animals. In another from a small town in South Carolina, the dead lay in the streets like a Matthew Brady battlefield photograph.
I pressed play on one more, and the masked woman stepped into the doorway of the office. She watched the monitor over my shoulder. In the clip, bridges were being blown up.
“They’re trying to contain it,” she said. “They’re bombing every bridge and ferry on the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers. The South is screwed.”
“What the hell?” I said to myself.
“My brother will be here in half an hour,” she said, “Here’s your phone.”
She put it on a shelf just inside the door then stepped out.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
”I’d rather not say,” she said, “things being what they are.”
“What are things that you can’t give me your name?”
”Again, I’m not trying to be rude, but if I gave you my name, it might give you a way to find out where I live. It’s the only safe place I know.”
“How could this happen?” I said, turning back to the monitor.
“Have you been in a cave or something?”
I looked up at