Disclaimer: The Stand and all its characters belong to Stephen King.

Part One: June 1990

Chapter Two

It was an odd day. No, that was an understatement, it was a crazy day. Almost all the cooks had called in sick; only two left. And only three waitresses. Not to mention that, besides Maggie, everyone who had shown up for work appeared to be getting the bad cold that was ravaging its way through town. The bossman was out sick too, and so were the customers. Most of the day Maggie and the two other waitresses just sat on those ugly red bar stools, listening about the ever worsening flu epidemic as told by the local and national radio extraordinaires. That was when Maggie got scared, her mind flashed back to Sean and Finn this morning, and those nasty coughs. Did they have the flu? She thought it was just a cold, but the radio said that some babies were dying from it. She really hoped that Sean had chosen to take the baby to the doctor like she'd told him to.

There was an eternity between the beginning of her shift and her lunch hour, but Maggie eventually made it there. She usually just ate her lunch in the back room of the diner, but today that would've just been depressing. Cordelia, her usual lunch friend, was out sick today. Along with Jane and Rosie. The two other waitresses, Lena and Jennifer, were bitches. Maggie was a pretty young thing, still with some life and potential left in her. Maybe one day she'd even leave the diner, maybe she wouldn't be stuck in the vortex of small town America. But Lena and Jennifer knew they would be, so naturally, they tried to passive aggressively drag Maggie down with them. The two middle aged women were freely smoking cigarettes right in the middle of the restaurant as Maggie grabbed her purse off the rack and prepared to leave for lunch.

"Where you goin' hon?" Lena asked politely, smiling a little, and showing the dusty rose colored lipstick on her teeth.

"You feelin' sick too? Lord knows I've got a helluva cough, maybe a fever too. But I'm not one to cut out," Jennifer said raspily, smoke sneaking out of her mouth. The smell of their menthol cigarettes was potent and putrid, but it was nowhere near the odor of the cheap cigars and Pall Malls Maggie's late father had smoked. That smell made her feel sick to her stomach.

"Why, no, ladies. As a matter of fact I'm feelin' just peachy," Maggie said. "Hope y'all feel better though." She tried her hardest at a smile but it was more like a grimace.

"Maybe I'll take tomorrow off, God knows I've earned it," Lena said and sniffed; her nose was a fountain. "Just you wait, honey, soon it'll be that you've been workin' here for thirty years. And all you'll have to show for it is a broken heart over one of the cooks, and a case of the clap from the other!"

They both guffawed together and Maggie continued with her poor excuse for a smile.

"Well, bless y'all's hearts. I sure hope you feel better.", Maggie said and both their laughter faded. In southern terms, Maggie had just called them stupid. "I'll be back in an hour. That okay?"

"Oh of course honey, but what will we do without your knowledge and great presence?" Lena said, her eyebrows peaked, with an incredulous tone.

"I'm not sure, I suppose y'all will just have to figure it out," Maggie said with a sly smirk, and swept out the door; the bell perched over it gave an uncommonly loud ding in the nearly deserted restaurant.

. . .

Birds chirped pleasantly in the park, and Maggie MacNeil sat solemnly on an old wooden bench. It was a nice day, Maggie planned on taking advantage of the beautiful summer during lunch breaks in the future. She took her peanut butter sandwich, complete with the Wonder bread, out of the ziplock bag. She never put jelly on those sandwiches. Peanut butter and jelly was the kind of sandwich her mother had given them everyday at noon, or in their lunches for school. The jelly would turn the bread soggy and mushy and gray.

Maggie loved North Carolina summers, when there were always bug sounds and palpable heat in the air. And, just the smell of the air was better put in a small town, away from the big cities like Raleigh and Charlotte. The Queen City, they called it, but it wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Just full of tired people, tired of working at their tiring jobs, and tired still for the noise and the traffic and the lost sleep. Everyone in a small town like Murphy was always relatively well-rested, perhaps a bit bored, but well-rested. Time moved slower there, and everybody knew everybody.

The park bench on which Maggie sat was covered and scratched with graffiti including such gems as Jimmy can't get it up, and, Laura better run. The latter of the two etchings sent a chill down Maggie's spine, but it looked as though it had been impressed into the wood at least ten years ago. The matter had, most likely, been dealt with. Looking down at that seeming threat in that moment would be the last of seeming normalcy in the life of Maggie MacNeil. When she looked up, she saw a large military vehicle driving leisurely down Twister Drive.

. . .

The sirens started at 12:34. Maggie was still sitting on her bench, finishing up the last of her peanut butter sandwich; she always ate the bottom corners last. With the Wonder bread crumbs sticking in between her back molars and the pink skin inside her cheek, the birds had been chirping and cicadas buzzing. Most people in the south preferred the sound of the crickets, but the cicadas had always been Maggie's favorite. It was a warmer, softer sound than that of the intrusive crickets. The buzzing of the cicadas reminded one of a hazy, delirious summer afternoon, when the smell of the barbeque wafted through the air. But only that of the tangy, vinegary, North Carolina barbeque. None of that sugary shit from down in the deep south; Lexington style barbeque was the only way to go. Maggie was thinking about the odd sense of competition the Southern states had over their barbeque when the blaring sirens began. It had been only a few minutes since she'd seen the military vehicle cruising down the street in front of her, but she hadn't thought too much of it. North Carolina was something of a military state, what with the nearby camps of LeJeune and Fort Bragg. She'd figured that'd had something to do with the uninvited vehicle surveying the little Appalachian town.

Sounds of the animals around Maggie were drowned out and there was nothing but that high, whining sound overpowering her. She looked around, searching for someone who might know what was going on. But there was no one; the innocent bystanders were all out sick. Her eyes went wide and mouth dry, it was still a sunny day, but the pleasant state of the weather seemed to feel out of place with that vile sound interrupting the humid air. Maggie didn't really know what to do, and for a foolish moment she thought, Does this happen every afternoon at the park? Once she registered her own thought, she felt silly, but it was true that she hardly ever ate lunch there. Perhaps it was a new procedure, but there would be no reason for it.

Then, the more logical thought hit her, We've gone to war again. She remembered the videos she'd been shown in the early days of her public education, when the country had still been in the last squeezing grasp of the Vietnam War. It was to show what to do if the country was suddenly being bombed, the air raid sirens would scream and shout in the air and the narrator of the video would say, "DUCK AND COVER!" Obviously, in a real life situation this would do no good, a boy in the video took the blanket that his quaint little family had been using for their picnic and cover himself with it. As if an atomic bomb would be stopped by the quilt that Aunt Mabel had given to your mother as a gift three birthdays ago.

But in that moment Maggie could think of nothing else. Right before she was about to crawl underneath the small park bench, (her tall but waifish figure would have probably fit quite comfortably), the sirens stopped. And there was silence. Not even the cicadas buzzed.

. . .

Maggie had run home straight from the park, noticing how few familiar faces she past in the street. Some were hidden behind gas masks, and most that she did recognize were horribly pale and sickly. It was bad, Maggie knew it was bad. And her brother and the baby were both sick. The military people were there, most swarmed around the local medical center, but Maggie didn't know what their business was.

She arrived at the apartment, burst through the door and immediately ran into the Sean's bedroom, which doubled as the nursery. She surveyed the room, noticing the smell of sweat and spit up that was lingering in the air. Sean sat on the bed with the baby over his shoulder, the burp cloth soaked with vomit. The baby was asleep, his head resting on Sean's muscular shoulder. Sean too, was dozing, his fevered cheeks slightly slicked with sweat. Maggie felt his forehead; burning up. She took the baby off his shoulder, waking him slightly. She transferred his heated head to her own right arm and shook Sean with the other. She wondered dimly how long they'd been there, it'd only been a few hours since she'd left, but both their conditions seemed to have rapidly deteriorated since then.

"SEAN! GET THE FUCK UP!" Maggie, who had the nasty habit of swearing when she got nervous, shouted. And boy was she nervous now. The baby stirred on a little in his delirious state, and Maggie noticed the congested, rattling sound in his chest. Sean however, snapped his eyes open and was suddenly awake.

"Maggie? Why aren't you at work?" he asked dazedly, still half-asleep, "I was...gonna take the baby to the doctor later. But I guess I fell asleep. What time is it? Did I miss the appointment?"

All this came faster and faster as he crawled his way out of sleep. By the end he was hardly delirious anymore. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his right wrist.

"Okay. Okay. Okay," Maggie said, her hands shaking. She took a deep breath and the baby started to cough. It was an ugly, desperate sound originating deep in his chest.

"Here, Seanny boy. Take your son, we're gonna go to the hospital. Where are the fucking keys?" She said as she thrust the still coughing baby toward her ginger-haired brother, who took the baby on his shoulder and patted his back until he coughed a yellow wad of phlegm up onto the already filthy burp cloth.

"In the bowl by the front door," Sean said hurriedly. And in a flash, they were out the door. Down to the deserted parking lot, they hopped into the '73 Ford F250 with the chipping silver paint. Only one other car passed the MacNeils on their way to the Murphy Medical Center.

Author's Note: Well, Captain Trips is officially underway. Still none of our favorite characters yet, but we're getting there. Thank you so much for reading, and I'm hoping you liked it! This chapter is shorter but chapter three will be going up a little earlier. ;)

Anyway, PLEASE review and rate. Thank you again!

Peace and love.