Hitchers

CHAPTER 5

Moving southbound, Route 85 was deserted. I breezed along in the Avalon, my unease growing as I flew past mile upon mile of grinding, bumper-to-bumper traffic heading the other way. I had no idea how I’d get home once I reached Annie.

I cleared a rise; the forest of skyscrapers that comprised the downtown area came into view. Dozens of helicopters, like giant bumblebees, drifted among the skyscrapers. My bowels loosened at the sight. I’d seen that skyline a thousand times, but today it looked foreign, like a battle zone in some war-torn country.

When I reached the roadblocks at Baker Street I turned and drove along the perimeter, scanning the sidewalks, until I spotted a box sitting on a low concrete wall. Masks. I parked, plucked a mask out of the box as I went by, and slipped it on. It fit snugly over the bottom half of my face, made me feel both anonymous and oddly powerful. No anthrax spores could touch me now. I put my head down and walked, watching the frenetic activity out of the corners of my eyes.

People in uniform were everywhere, shouting orders, clomping boots, flashing lights. I spotted a police officer moving to intercept me. I kept my head down, tried to look like I belonged.

“Where you headed?” she asked. She had braided hair and reminded me of Whoopi Goldberg.

“I live on Auburn Avenue.” I swallowed, my casual expression falling away for an instant to reveal the scared boy underneath. “My wife is all alone; I was away at a conference and I have to get back to her.”

She nodded, took my elbow and propelled me gently. “Get inside once you’re home, and stay inside.”

“I will. Thank you.” I kept moving.

A block further a big canopy had been erected. Medics and doctors in white scrubs were moving among victims in cots. Screams of pain ripped the air; a raised syringe caught the light. I half-closed my eyes, willing myself to walk faster. I wanted to run, but didn’t want someone with a gun to mistake me for a looter.

Down the street I spotted white bags piled in a heap. They looked to be trash, but as I got closer I realized they were body bags. I crossed the street to avoid getting too close, but couldn’t help staring at them as I passed. It was hard to wrap my mind around it; those were people, dead, in a pile. According to the news they were just the tip of the iceberg.

I desperately wanted to get out of there and climb back into bed. I was so sore, so achy. I’d always thought Atlanta was a striking city, but today I felt like I was walking in an enormous tomb, the buildings blackened by the soot of a billion tailpipes, a million grey gum-smears mottling its sidewalks.

The glass door to a high-rise swung open; a woman in a black coat guided a young girl out.

“Excuse me,” the woman called. I kept my head down and hurried on, pretending I didn’t hear. I wasn’t afraid to catch anthrax—on the news they’d made it clear it wasn’t contagious. You picked up or inhaled spores, and they could be anywhere. I just didn’t want to get waylaid from reaching Annie.

“Hello? Can you help us?”

I stopped, turned. The young girl was wheezing, her eyes ringed in red and her nose running. She was wearing a pink Dora the Explorer jacket.

“She’s sick,” the woman said. “On the news I saw big tents with doctors—do you know where I can find one?”

I pointed back down Courtland. “I passed one about three blocks down. You can’t miss it.”

She thanked me more profusely than my stingy help deserved. I wished her luck and hurried on, watching my sneakers—white blurs flitting in and out of my narrow field of vision.

My damned throat seized again, like it had in the shower, and my first thought—laced with a jolt of fear-induced adrenaline—was that it was the first whispers of an anthrax infection. I hadn’t heard anything about throat clenching as an early symptom, though, only a sore throat, and mine wasn’t sore.

I spotted Annie’s building and quickened my pace, suddenly filled with a sense of urgency.

Annie lived on the third floor of a brown brick walk-up. My muscles screaming, I took the steps three at a time, huffing from the exertion, the scratchy mask pressing against my lips on the inbreath.

Annie didn’t answer the door. She could be out getting food, or looking for help. I weighed my options. I didn’t relish the thought of sitting in the hall, and if Annie was inside and too sick to answer, I wasn’t doing her any good in the hall.

I’d never knocked in a door before. After making sure the hall was empty I tried kicking it. After seven or eight fruitless kicks I tried ramming it with my lowered shoulder. When I hit the door, pain lanced up my neck, but I felt the door rattle. I tried again, and this time heard a splintering crunch. It swung open on my third attempt.

Annie was lying on the couch, curled on her side.

“Annie?” I knew she wouldn’t answer. If she hadn’t heard me break in the door, she was beyond answering.

There was an empty bottle of Valium on the coffee table, and a note.