James Chmura Four Second Response
“Jesus, Contagion Condition Red, Dad!’
“Really Nate, we’re fine.” I was on a video call with our son. I maneuvered my IPhone so my napping wife, Mary, showed on the screen. I squeezed the back of my neck. “All peaceful as usual.”
“Dad, she’s sleeping an awful lot lately. It’s early evening.”
“What else is there for her to do?” I sighed and moved the phone so I was back on the screen. “You know we’re now in that ultimate quarantine as of last night at midnight. No going out for nothing. Nate, you moved just in time. Rather the Rocky Mountains than Chicago.”
“Come on Dad, we moved because I was transferred, not because we wanted to. The kids and Annie miss Mom and you like crazy.”
“I know, but still, a condo is no place for a 4 and 7-year-old. It was nice having you in the building. Close enough for comfort but far enough for comfort.”
“Ten floors did the trick,” Nate said. “Are you okay? No symptoms or anything like that?”
“We are all good”
“How bad is it?”
“Well, from our 24th floor perch, we fell pretty safe. We’re spending a lot of time on the balcony enjoying this great weather.”
“My buddy Fred lives about 2 blocks from you.” Nate made that sucking sound when he’s nervous. “He said there have been quite a few break-ins around there.”
“I’m ready for that if it should happen. You know me, always making strange calculations.”
“Yeah, as always. Calculating what this time?”
“The ultimate four second response,” I muttered.
“The what? I don’t get it.”
“Just a comment, that’s all.” I lied.
“We should’ve never talked you into moving from the burbs to downtown.” Nate paused.
For sure on that, I thought.
“Sure was great fun while it lasted,” I said. “Besides, it was time for us to dump that big old place.” I studied his image on the phone. “What’s with the beard?”
“I decided to let it grow until we all get together again.” Nate stroked his beard.
“You might look like Rip Van Winkle before that happens!”
“Annie and the girls hate it.”
We laughed.
“How’s Mom, really?”
“She’s doing pretty good.” I lied again. “I try to keep her active with chair and breathing exercises on the balcony. Want me to wake her?”
“No, let her sleep,” he said. “So the old Ford’s okay?”
“I’m looking down at it right now.” Yet another lie. “It’s parked right on LaSalle.”
“We’d really feel better if you left, Dad. Get in the car and drive to Aunt Beth’s in Ottawa. Maybe tomorrow or the next day, okay?”
“That’s part of my calculations.” Time for subject change, I thought. “How are you guys doing in dem Rocky Mountains?”
“Cold, but no sign of contagion yet. Seems to be clustered in the big cities.”
“Chicago, my kind of town,” I sing-songed.
“It’s not funny, Dad. What about food?
“Young couple across the hall drops off food about once a week.”
“That’s a relief.” Nate paused again. “Stay inside, stay inside, stay inside. News here says the city is almost in anarchy. Police, fire, hospitals – all fried.”
“What do you think, the media is going to report good news?” I chuckled. “Not as bad as all that.”
“We’re going to call tomorrow for Halloween. The girls want you to see their costumes. They’re shopping for them now.”
“Hey, that’ll be fun.”
Not probable, I thought.
“Look, I have to go.” I said. “This damned phone isn’t charging like it should. Give our love to Annie and the girls.”
“Not charging!”
“Yeah,” I grumbled, “but I think I can fix it if I clean out the port on the phone. It might be the charger. I have a spare in the car.”
“Do it,” Nate shot. “How much battery left?”
“About 24%, I’d say.”
“Damnit, Dad! Okay, fix it and call back. I mean if that thing goes down I don’t know. . .”
“Not to worry,” I cut in. “Quarantine Red. What else do I have to do?”
“Listen to me, Dad. . .”
My phone cut out.
“Shit, may as well fling it off the balcony,” I muttered. I stood and pressed my forehead against the wall. I started thumping my head on it.
“Huh, what’s that noise?” Mary opened her eyes to narrow slits.
“Just a dumb animal,” I said. “Nothing more.”
She drifted off.
I went to the balcony, slid the door open and looked down at LaSalle where our car used to be parked. I had noticed two days ago that it was gone. Police said they were very understaffed but would look into it. I inhaled the brisk October air, went back inside and plopped on the sofa. The note from our across-the-hall neighbors was still on the coffee table. It had been slipped under our door.
2am
Dear Mary and Pat,
We hate to do this, but we are leaving right now. The city is out of control. Stores are getting empty. People are getting meaner. Groceries were taken from us in the parking lot. We’re driving to my parents in Wisconsin. We pray we make it. Sorry about no more groceries. You should leave too. How about this old-fashioned note? Phones need charging. Love, Bev and Bill
“That about does it,” I grumbled. I slowly tore the note into little pieces.
I reread the condo board memo that I had printed from my phone.
Building security has been breached. Some abandoned units are being illegally occupied. Caution in the hallways and on elevators. Do not open your door to strangers. There have been reports of forced entry. The board is working diligently to evict trespassers and replace infected and deceased building staff and security. We will keep you advised.
I threw the memo down, leaned back and rubbed my temples. I sat up to recheck my calculations. It seemed silly but important at the same time. Mary’s meds delivery stopped last week when somebody started stealing mail from our mailroom. Condo board filed a police report but nothing happened except mail was still being stolen. As a result, Mary’s mental condition has rapidly deteriorated. This place is really starting to squeeze in on me. Now with no phone, no car, little food and fearing for our lives, I had to make some difficult decisions.
Mary, in her favorite recliner, was snoring softly. I turned over the condo memo and sketched a map of the local area.
“Maybe I could get her wheelchair from the basement.” I rubbed my chin. “If I got us down to the street, we could get over to North Avenue and flag a police car or something. I don’t think we can stay here much longer.” I bit my lip. “Maybe, maybe.” I put my face into my hands. “God help us.”
Mary stirred. I walked over and kissed her on the forehead.
“Who are you?” she mumbled through her sleep.
“I am your one and only husband.” I smiled. “Why don’t you get dressed?”
“Okay.”
I helped her into the bedroom. There was a tapping on our door. I went over and slid the safety chain in place.
“Who is it?”
“Hey Pat, it’s Frankie.”
I opened the door a crack. It was my golf-buddy, the retired cop.
“What a perfect golf day, huh?” Frankie grinned. “Look, I heard there’s some bad-asses roaming the building. Just be careful. Stay off the elevators. Use the stairs. They’re probably too high or lazy to climb them. I brought you one of my pistols.” He started to squeeze a small automatic through the opening.
“Come on, Frankie,” I moaned. “You know I wouldn’t have the balls to use it. Besides, how can you be so sure about these guys?”
“Jesus H Christ!” Frankie snapped. Then he was gone. The stairwell door clicked shut. He lived in the condo right under ours.
“Do we have any food left?” Mary had crept up beside me.
“More than enough.” I smiled and hugged her. “More than enough. A meal fit for a queen and her prince charming.”
Steak. Potatoes. Salad. The last bottle of wine. Pie ala mode. I just about cleared out most of our remaining food on this one. We had the best meal in weeks and weeks.
“Okay Mary, I’m going to the basement to get your wheelchair. Tomorrow we are going to take an early morning walk.”
I heard someone pounding on a door down the hall. I went to our door and opened it a crack.
“Condo repair,” a big man shouted. His messy hair was long and clothes ragged. His equally filthy companion snickered. “Condo maintenance! Open up!”
I didn’t know who lived there. Hell, on our floor, we only knew the couple across the hall. I shut the door, chained and locked it.
“Who was that?”
“Oh nobody. Just delivery.” I heard a scream.
“Leave me be,” a woman yelled. It sounded like slaps and punches, then just her moans and men laughing.
God, I thought, this cannot be happening. I tried to smile at Mary but only managed a weak grin. We both jumped when we heard two gunshots from right under us. I gripped the edge of the table.
“What was that?” Mary’s eyes were as big as our favorite dinner plates.
“Just Frankie having target practice.” I felt sweat rolling down my back.
“Silly man. It’s getting dark.”
“It surely is and time for us to leave.” I stood and steadied myself.
“Are you okay? You’re so pale.”
“Yes, I’m okay. Please hurry Mary.”
“Where are we going? It’s dark outside.”
Laughter in the hallway grew louder. They were coming.
I jerked her up.
“You’re hurting my sore arm!” She grimaced.
“Hurry, Mary, we must hurry.” I pulled her around the table. The bottle of wine crashed to the floor.”
“Look what you’ve done.”
The laughing stopped outside our door.
“We’ll get it tomorrow.”
“But where are you taking me?” She stumbled as I tugged her towards the balcony.
“On a short but beautiful trip, my dear.”
“I want to go lay down in my recliner.” She began to cry.
“It’s going to be okay, trust me, Mary. It’s going to be okay.” I was sweating and feeling dizzy.
“Look at the stars, Mary,” I said when we were on the balcony.
“They are pretty,” she sniffled.
“Yes they are. Give me a big old Mary hug.”
We hugged and I hoisted her to sit facing me on the top of the railing.
“How romantic,” she giggled. I held her hands to prevent her from falling. I kissed her more passionately than I had in years.
“Condo maintenance!” There was a pounding on our door. “Open up!”
“My dear Mary, Mary,” I whispered through tears. “Trust me, please trust me. Just four seconds, my love.”
She smiled the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen through the fog of her brain.
They were shoving against the door with their shoulders. It wasn’t that good of a door. I grimaced and squeezed my eyes shut. I slipped my hands out of Mary’s. She was gone.
“One thousand, two thousand, three thousand. . .”
There was a thud. A woman screamed. I burst into tears.
The door splintered. The two animals stumbled in.
“Hey mutha, get in here,” the big ugly bastard screeched at me. The little guy was grabbing leftovers from our table. They turned it over and stumbled towards me.
A siren wailed.
I hoisted myself to the railing top.
“Sorry slobs,” I said. “I’m on my way to meet my wife.” I gave them the finger and leaned back. “Just four seconds from now.” DSS
James Chmura, of Oak Park, IL., has written many stories including one, 'Finger of Death,' nominated for the Pushcart Prize award in 2010. He also plays golf.
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