CHAPTER 3

Friday couldn't have come soon enough. I had run out of cigarettes the day before and all I had left in my cabinets was ramen noodle soup, and one can only eat that for so long before they'd rather starve than eat it again. I grabbed my car keys and headed out of my apartment, dreaming of what I was going to buy with my measely final paycheck. I was dreading having to face my angry boss for the final time, but then I reminded myself that I would never be forced to see her again. I smirked as I got into my car and started the engine. My favorite song was on the radio, which I assumed with a smile was a good sign.

When I got to the restaurant, there was hardly anyone there. I drew in a deep breath and turned my car off, stepping out out quickly and confidently. The morning sun was bright and garish and slightly blinding. I hurried into the restaurant and into Karen's office, where she was seated and on the phone. She glared up at me and without a word, shoved an envelope in my direction. I grabbed it and turned away immediately, not wanting to wait around for her to get off the phone and yell at me.

Before leaving, i decided to go into the breakroom a final time to say goodbye to the only coworker I considered a friend. To no surprise at all, the room was full of people puffing heavily on cigarettes and watching the news' ongoing coverage of the infection. My friend was not one of them. Letting out a sigh of disappointment, I began to turn around and leave.

"Sweet Jesus, it's in Tennessee," I heard a low, male voice mumble as he gazed at the telivison screen. For the first time, a tinge of panic crept up my spine as I turned to see what he was looking at. A map of the eastern side of the United States was shown, with heavy red markings throughout the northern states, and a considerably less, but still abundant, amount of red markings in the southern half. The markings indicated infection cases. It was apparent that the infection had not been contained, and that it was quickly making its way down south. My heart began beating rapidly and I quickly made my exit and practically ran to my car.

When I got in, the radio station I had been listening to was now broadcasting an emergency news channel. On instinct, I started to turn it off. The events I had just heard were finally setting into my brain. Panic. Fear. So, I let the station stay on. I needed to know what was happening.

"...spreading in a way that can only be described as terrifying. CEDA has asked that we begin preparing in the event that it may continue to reach lower-lying states, such as Georgia and the Carolinas. The CEDA Plan is as follows: Retrieve nessacary items such as ample food, water, prescription medications, and a first aid kit. Report any unusual behavior you notice in your peers. Do not take any action against them. Barricade your homes from any infected individuals you may encounter. Wait for official instruction. Evacuation centers will be designated if need be."

I put my car in gear and sped out of the parking lot and straight to the grocery store, feeling like a bit of a fool for buying into the media's hype. "Just to be safe," I told myself. Inside the store, I bought some food, water, two cartons of cigarettes, and a bottle of rum to ease my nerves.

I shuffled out to my car with the bags in one hand and my car keys in the other. I unlocked the trunk and dropped them in hurriedly, keeping the bottle of rum out so it wouldn't get smashed. Upon closing the trunk, I noticed something strange about twenty feet in front of the hood of my car. It was a man standing with his back to me, slightly slumped over, and sounded as if he were groaning. It was Patches, the town's token homeless alcoholic who wandered the streets in a drunken haze day in and day out. I had always been kind to him, because no one else would treat him with any dignity whatsoever.

I approached him slowly. "Patches?" I asked softly. "Is everything alright?"

The man grunted and spun around to face me. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, and there was vomit down the front of his tattered shirt. A nasty, green liquid dribbled down out of his mouth and down his chin.

"CEDA has coined this infection "The Green Flu" due to the bright green mucus individuals who have succumbed to the infection often have." The news report I had heard that day in the break room suddenly replayed itself in my mind. I then realized what was happening: this wasn't Patches. it may have been him at some point, but this was not him now. This was a man infected with the Green Flu.

He locked eyes with me before charging at me, his arms out towards me. He was growling. He was fast. But I was faster. I swung the bottle of rum i had in my hand and broke the glass over his head. He stumbled backwards and fell onto the ground, moaning again. I dropped the remnants of the bottle and rushed to my car. I started it and peeled out of the parking lot, shaking.

When I arrived home, I bolted my door shut and fell onto the couch, thinking about what I had just saw. What do I do now? I thought. Call the police. It was my first thought and I honestly had no idea what else could be done. I called and reported in detail what had just happened and where it had happened. They thanked me and said they were sending a dispatch team to the site to investigate, reccomending I go to the hospital and to be evaluated. I declined and hung up the phone.

"Tennessee, my ass," I mumbled. The infection was already in Savannah.