Public Enemy Zero

17

Mitchell tore off his ruined shirt and threw it into a corner. He looked at his reflection in the master bathroom mirror.

“What’s wrong with me?” he asked as if he expected his reverse image to have the answers. On one side, the right-handed, frightened and confused version, on the other, the left-handed, confident one who knew what to do.

The sight of his own image only added to his sense of despair. There were claw marks on his chest and back. He had bruises he had no idea how he got. His hair was a sweaty mess of brown. He looked exactly like how people look in their mug shot photos.

Was this how people look after they are apprehended, or was falling apart so much what made them easy to spot and capture?

Mitchell turned the faucet and thanked Mike’s grandparents for not disconnecting the water. He splashed cold water on his face and smoothed back his hair. For a moment he didn’t feel quite like the state of constant panic he had been feeling before. He splashed more water on his face and then caught his first unhurried breath.

He turned the faucet off and then looked back in the mirror. His reflection had changed. He felt different. With his hair slicked back and no longer out of control, the effect the water had on relaxing the tension in his face and calming his burning cheeks, he didn’t look like a man in the middle of a panic attack.

He placed his palms on either side of the counter and brought his face in close to the mirror. The face he saw was more composed, less apprehensive. It was the face of someone who could figure out what to do next and manage whatever the world threw at him.

He was looking at Mitch. Not Mitchell. Mad Mitch, the man in control.

Part of it, he knew, was the trick of the sunlight coming through the window, giving his cheekbones and jaw a more masculine look, but he also knew that somewhere deep inside him was someone who wanted to survive. He’d seen horrific things that day. Even though a part of him just wanted to fall down and let the nightmare roll over him and bring everything to a close, something told him to keep running. Something told him that his life was worth fighting for. Fighting for. He repeated those words in his head. Yes, he decided, he would fight to survive. He’d never intentionally hurt someone, but if they got in his way then he’d have to go through them.

Whatever guilt he was feeling he could deal with later. When it was time to surrender, he would do it only when he knew he would be safe. Until then, he had to do everything he could to protect himself.

“What the fuck,” he said to his reflection.

“What the fuck,” Mitch replied.

In broadcasting school, he’d learned the quickest way to feel confident was to assume the posture of someone who looked confident, even when you were alone. He turned around and hopped up and sat on the counter. For a moment, he would try to think of a reason why certain people were trying to kill him.

If the girl by the side of the road hadn’t attacked him, he would have thought that something happened to him at the radio station. But she had. If he’d been attacked by Rookman or Bonnie or the old man at the gas station, things would make more sense. Why not them but everyone else? It couldn’t be proximity. He was much closer to most of them than anybody else.

Mitchell looked at his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror, hoping for the more confident version of himself to give him an answer.

It did.

“Rookman, Bonnie and the gas station dude were behind glass, dumbass,” said Mitch.

Fuck.

Mitchell thought back over the last two weeks since he’d been sick. When was the last time he’d actually been face to face with anyone who wasn’t behind glass or on a Skype screen? He hadn’t.

What was the most significant thing that happened between the time when people just ignored him and when they wanted to murder him on sight?

Getting sick.

What did he come down with? Reverse rabies? Could there even be such a thing?

It was stupid, but it made the most sense for the time being. It gave him something to think around. Rather than thinking it was something so far beyond his understanding or involving a cosmic-level conspiracy, that hypothesis was something he could deal with on a rational level.

Seeing him wasn’t what made people want to kill him. It was something in the air. Something he gave off, either his scent or something else like a fast-acting virus. Maybe it was like the pheromones bees gave off when it was time to attack? Did getting sick mess up his pheromones and tell people to kill him?

It didn’t matter for the moment. Knowing that it was scent or something else he gave off allowed him to focus on the problem. The key to his immediate survival was going to be to avoid having people smell him or breathe the air near him. Handing out gasmasks or finding a spacesuit weren’t practical solutions. Until the authorities understood what was going on, he had to avoid them as well.

Mitch hopped off the counter and walked through the house, checking the windows and doors again. Everything was locked down. Not that it mattered if the police surrounded the house. They’d have no trouble getting inside.

Mitch walked back into the bathroom and splashed some water under his arms and on his chest. He dried off using toilet paper. No time for a shower, he just wanted to get some of the sweat and smell of fear off of him.

He looked back at the reflection. “What now?”

“Find out what’s going on and move to someplace else.”

He pulled out his iPhone. It was still turned off. Could they locate it when he powered it on?

He knew they could trace phone calls, but what about just the phone? There was a “Find my phone” function that used GPS and WiFi spots to find iPods and iPads. All he had to do to use that was to log into his Mobile.me account and click a button to see where the device was.

Fuck. His iPad. Mitchell put his phone into his pocket and ran to his backpack. He pulled out his iPad and pressed the Home button. It was on.

He quickly powered it down.

He knew the odds were against them having gotten a search warrant and accessed his account to trace him. But there was that small chance. He could take a risk or he could assume the safe house was blown.

The scared Mitchell wanted to just stay there or, better yet, go hide in the attic. The Mitch he caught a glimpse of in the mirror knew it was a bad idea to stay. The more he tried to guess the risk on things like that, the more likely he was to put himself in harm’s way.

Something Mitchell had put at the back of his mind finally made its way forward. When he turned off the iPad, for the first time he got a look at the time. For some reason he thought it was almost nightfall. It was only 1 p.m. He’d left the mall just a little over an hour before. He’d left his car and the mess at Rachel’s less than twenty minutes before he got to the mall.

He had been on the run for less than two hours. All hell was going to break loose very soon and a lot of angry people were going to be looking for him. However, he still had time to get more distance. He had time to find out what the rest of the world was saying.

Mitch shoved the iPad back in his backpack. He sat down with his back against the front door so he could listen to the street outside while keeping an eye on the backyard through the sliding glass doors. He pulled out an analog radio he kept tuned to the radio station and turned it on.