What Befalls the Children: Book 4 in the Troop of Shadows Series, стр. 37

Ray suspected the number was even higher than the fifty percent the big wigs at Health and Human Services revealed to everyone with a level-two security clearance. A dozen employees had called in sick that morning. Even the cost analyst sitting across the desk looked pale and sweaty. His speech was muffled through the medical masks they all wore, but Ray estimated he was slurring about every third word. Was the man drunk, panic-stricken, or ill? Did it matter?

Ray felt physically fine. No chills. No headache. No fatigue, other than the effects of inadequate sleep. Maybe he would be one of the lucky ones...

“You should go home, Tom. There’s not much you can do here. We’re in a holding pattern.”

The man nodded, then left abruptly, stumbling on his way out the door.

Definitely drunk, Ray thought.

He was glad for the reprieve. Next, he tapped on his keyboard, then scanned the Excel spreadsheet titled ‘JUST IN CASE.’ He had used his personal credit card to order additional supplies that would arrive at the warehouse that day, per UPS tracking. If things continued on the current trajectory, it may well be the last shipment the facility would receive.

Surveying the neat columns helped him tamp down the anxiety. There was nothing he could do about possibly dying from the pandemic. But if he didn’t die — if he was one of the lucky ones — there was much he could do in terms of survival. The warehouse already contained almost everything he would possibly need in the event of TEOTWAWKI, an acronym he’d picked up from an online prepping forum; the breadth and depth of information contained there had proven priceless. Or at least it would if the metaphorical shit did hit the fan and he was facing The End Of The World As We Know It.

After noticing Tom’s stumble, Ray scanned down to the bottom of the spreadsheet to a list of items not yet ordered or purchased and added a new entry: bourbon. He pondered the word for a moment, then typed in another: DVDs. He added a mental note: as many as you can find.

He saved the spreadsheet, pushed his chair back, and headed for the small office next door.

“Carla, I’ll be gone for the afternoon. You might as well go home too.”

His administrative assistant’s reptilian eyes peered at him over the obligatory medical mask. “I’m on the clock until five, sir.” No slurring there.

“And I’m giving you permission to leave early,” he replied, careful to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He didn’t want anyone at the facility when he returned, let alone that particular career bureaucrat. He could imagine those penciled eyebrows raised with suspicion when he returned with the cargo he intended to purchase.

“Very well,” she replied with a sniff.

He watched her retrieve her navy blue blazer from the back of her chair and followed her through the security checkpoint. The man standing next to the x-ray machine looked sick. The paper mask covered much of his face, but the eyes, struggling to focus on him now, were rheumy and red.

Carla placed her purse on the conveyor belt, gazed at the sick guard, pointedly took two steps away from him and walked through the metal detector.

When it was Ray’s turn, he gave the man’s shoulder a squeeze. “Go home, Charles. You’re the last one here. Lock up and go to bed. Don’t worry about coming in tomorrow. I’ll handle security in the morning.”

The man gave him a relieved nod. “Thank you, sir.”

As Carla headed toward her Subaru, he stopped her in the covert government-employee parking lot situated in a sea of self-storage buildings.

“Carla, the same goes for you. You know I can’t say what the actual number is...the mortality rate...but I can tell you it’s bad. Take the rest of the week off. Stay home. Maybe stockpile some canned goods and water. Catch up on your recorded TV shows. Let’s see how this thing plays out. If everything gets better, I’ll see you next week. If not, then it won’t matter. At least you’ll be home instead of here or on the roads. I have a feeling it’s not going to be safe to be outside much longer.”

She turned to face him. For the first time in the five years she’d been his administrative assistant, her eyes displayed actual emotion.

Fear.

“Thank you, sir. I have some PTO coming anyway.”

“You won’t need to use it. We’ll keep this between us.”

She nodded and scurried to her car. He watched as the Subaru turned the corner. Something told him he would never see her — or Charles or Tom or any of the employees — again.

He pressed the electronic key fob, listening for the metallic click as the driver-side door of the rented cargo van unlocked. Sliding behind the steering wheel, he started the vehicle, and tapped an address onto the display screen.

Anxiety blossomed again in his chest and belly. As the facility’s automatic gate opened with a click of the remote he carried, the Excel spreadsheets whizzed through his brain like old news articles stored on microfiche in a library basement. He mentally scanned the line items, then zipped on to the next list.

In terms of helping with his anxiety, it was better to see those lists on his computer screen than to go through them over and over in his mind. But perusing them mentally was better than nothing. Once he purchased the remaining items and squirreled them away in the warehouse, he might find a bit of relief.

Until then, the Tums and the Xanax in the glove box would have to suffice.

Present...

John Denver’s voice funneled directly into his auditory canal via the most expensive earbuds available