Day One of the Outbreak

As usual, it was Micky who woke up last. Or at least he woke up after Mike. He'd deduced this when he had sat up in his bed and had taken note that Mike's bed was empty. Seeing that it was bright outside, Micky rolled out of bed and pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Then he made his way downstairs.

Davy was in the kitchen, making toast and eggs. Peter sat on the lounge chair, flipping through the comics section of one of the older newspapers the gang had laying around the pad. Micky spied Mike standing in front of the television, staring intently at the screen.

"Viewers are advised to bring anyone experiencing flu-like symptoms to the nearest doctor or hospital," Micky heard a higher pitched, female voice drifting from the TV.

"Good morning, Micky!" Peter chirped as soon as he noticed Micky's presence.

"Hiya there, Peter," Micky returned the greeting, walking over to Mike, "What's up man?" Mike pointed to the television in front of him.

"We have received reports that certain victims of flu-like symptoms have been experiencing aggressive tendencies. We are recommending that viewers refrain from drinking tap water," the news reporter droned.

"What's up with the tap water?" Micky asked, as if the news reporter was going to answer him, "Too much fluoride?" He chuckled at his own joke.

"Ya know that flu outbreak a couple of days ago?" Mike said, waiting until Micky nodded his head in confirmation, "Well, apparently the cause was some disease that's been linked back to people drinking the tap water."

A frown creased Micky's brow and he questioned, "But how's that then?"

"I dunno man, but it seems it's got a lotta people sick, so none of you guys go drinking anything from the taps," Mike instructed, finally moving away from the TV.

"What're we going to drink then? We'll run out of milk and we don't have any orange juice," Davy pointed out, handing Peter a plate with a slice of buttered toast and a heap of scrambled eggs.

"I'm aware, that's why Pete and I are gonna go out and get some stuff," Mike announced. Peter glanced at him with a look of surprise on his face.

"Why are we going together?" he asked.

"Cos I'll need help carrying and we're gonna take the Monkeemobile," Mike replied.

"Why're you taking the car? You can just walk," Micky frowned.

"I'm going to be getting some other stuff, food and such," Mike answered.

"Do you think something's going to happen?" Davy inquired.

"Everything's gonna be A-OK," Michael assured his friends, "C'mon Peter, put the eggs on that toast and eat it like a sandwich."

Peter shrugged and did as Mike said before standing up and scurrying over to the Texan.

"We'll be back soon, okay guys," Mike informed them and then Michael and Peter exited the pad. Micky didn't have a good feeling about this. Something was off, but the drummer couldn't quite put his finger on what exactly was wrong.

He wandered back over to the television and sat down on the nearby chair. The news reporter was switching over to a live reporter at Saint Elizabeth's Hospital, which coincidentally wasn't too far from the pad, it was only about twenty-five minutes away by car.

"We're here with Doctor Harold Fischer, who's going to tell us a little bit about what has been going on," the male reporter said, holding out a microphone to a white coated man.

"Thank you Travis," Dr. Fischer said, "Well, I'd like to say there is no need to panic. California is not the only state experiencing this disease or it's seemingly aggressive side-effect. There have been reports from Pennsylvania, Montana, parts of South America and Europe. We are certainly not alone. The CDC is handling this outbreak as best as they can and we want to assure everyone that there is nothing to worry about."

The reporter, Travis, moved the microphone back to his own face.

"Dr. Fischer, is it true that the CDC still doesn't know what the disease is?" Travis asked. Dr. Fischer looked uncomfortable.

"The CDC is doing their best," he repeated.

"Is it true that four people have died from this disease?" Travis pressed.

"I am not legally allowed to make comment," Dr. Fischer coughed, brows furrowing together.

Before Travis could ask another, pressing question, a young nurse burst out the doors. Travis was taken by surprise.

"Dr. Fischer, you're needed in ICU," the nurse panted.

"What's wrong, Carol?" Dr. Fischer demanded, forgetting he was on live national television.

Carol's eyes flickered to the camera for a moment before saying, "One of the patients, doctor, they, um, escaped, please you have to come quickly." Dr. Fischer didn't say anything else. He headed into the building, following the nurse as she lead him into the hospital. Travis glanced at the camera and then whirled around. There was a large crash and then Travis was making a cutting motion with his hands. The camera went dead.

Then the female news reporter was back, forcing as calm a smile that she could muster. They cut to commercial. Micky frowned, a sense of dread settling into his stomach.

"Micky, here you go," Davy said, startling Micky. The Englishman held out a plate of buttered toast and scrambled eggs. He had a second plate for himself. Micky took the plate.

"Everything okay?" Davy asked as he pulled a stool up next to the chair Micky sat in.

"The camera went off, something happened," Micky said, sweeping his free hand towards the television in an indication.

"I saw that," Davy admitted, scooping eggs into his mouth, "I'm sure it was nothing though."

"I dunno Davy, I've got a bad feeling about this," Micky admitted, beginning to eat the breakfast Davy had made him.

"It'll blow over in a few days," Davy countered, although he didn't seem too convinced despite his tough talk.

The stores had been crowded. Mike had told Peter what he needed to get, a mixture of toiletries, canned food, and other nonperishables. Mike had gone off for other things and they had met up at the cash register. They had forked over a lot of money, more money than usual, nearly all of their saved rent money.

They'd have to play a lot of gigs to get that money back. Yet Michael didn't seem to be worried about the money. After the groceries, Mike made a second stop at the hardware store. There they purchased boards, miscellaneous tools, and batteries. That was about that. Peter didn't ask why Mike was doing this, he wasn't truly sure he wanted to know.

Now they were in the Monkeemobile driving back to the pad. There wasn't much traffic and Mike had the radio shut off. Peter looked out the window, wondering if he should ask what was on Mike's mind. They turned a bend and suddenly the car lurched to a stop, sending Peter jerking forward.

His forehead collided with the dashboard, the seatbelt digging into his chest. The wind was knocked out of him and for a moment Peter saw stars. When he properly came to his senses, Mike was shaking him, asking him if he was alright.

"I'm fine Mike, I'm okay. You?" Peter answered, sucking in as much breath as he could, getting his breath back.

"I'm alright, sorry man," Mike apologized. Peter didn't see anything wrong with Mike so Peter nodded. Mike reached a hand out towards Peter, brushing against his left temple.

"You're bleeding," Mike informed him. Peter lifted his hand to his head and felt where Mike had touched him. His fingers came back bloodied, but he was sure it couldn't have been anything more than a little skinning.

"I'm fine," Peter insisted and then looked out the windshield. There were a line of cars, all honking in front of them. Mike hadn't been prepared for the sudden stop around the bend. It wasn't as if he were speeding either.

"What's all that?" Peter asked. Mike leaned forward.

A middle-aged, balding man clambered out of the car in front of the Monkeemobile. He looked around for a moment. Mike rolled down his window.

"Hey, what's going on?" Mike called out to him. The man glanced back at Mike.

"Dunno yet, can't see much," the man replied, "Hold on." Then he hopped up onto the hood of his car, standing up so that he could see a bit higher.

"There are people running this way," the man finally said after a moment.

"What? Why?" Mike frowned.

"I can't see what they're running from," the man admitted, "But maybe we should hightail it outta here too." The man hopped off the roof of his car. The people he had seen were just beginning to appear.

Mike put the car in reverse.

"Mike-?" Peter began as Mike backed up, doing his best not to hit any of the people who were running on either side of the Monkeemobile.

"Just hold on Peter," Mike mumbled, deep in concentration.

Through the open window, Peter heard screaming. The bald man who was in front of them whirled around, confused, and Peter saw a young woman running up to him. One moment they were just standing, the next the woman was on top of the man, who was on the ground now. The woman was screeching, clawing and hitting the man beneath her relentlessly.

More people were being tackled to the ground, beating each other. Peter couldn't look away from the balding man and the woman. Mike leaned out of the open window.

"Get out of the way!" he demanded of the people who were preventing him from turning around.

Peter watched as the woman suddenly… what, vomited? Spat? Something came out of her mouth and dribbled into the man's mouth, which she held open at a painful angle. A cold, numb feeling spread throughout Peter's body.

It was happening to others around them.

"To hell with it," Mike grunted and then turned the Monkeemobile around.

People got out of the way, although he did hit a few people, the people who seemed… sick. But they hardly noticed. Once properly turned around, Mike floored it. He rolled up the window and sped along the road.

"We'll go the other way home," he said.

"What was that Mike?" Peter nearly whimpered.

"I'm not sure," Mike admitted.

"Mike… did you… did you see-," Peter stumbled over what he was trying to say but he didn't need to finish.

"Yeah Peter, I saw that whole gory thing, with the vomit," Mike confirmed.

"Was that… what was that?" repeated Peter, not really expecting an actual answer from Mike.

"Whatever it was, it wasn't good and I don't think that's the last we're gonna see of it," said Mike matter-of-factly.

Peter wasn't sure if Mike was scared or not but he did know how he felt. Peter was scared. But he knew things would be alright, as long as he and Mike and Micky and Davy stuck together.

They drove the rest of the way home in silence. When they arrived, Mike pulled into the driveway and took the keys out of the ignition. He and Peter headed into the house. Micky and Davy were still sitting by the television.

"Hey, there you guys are!" Micky exclaimed, smiling in relief, "The mayor just came on, announcing that everyone needed to stay indoors until police could get the situation under control."

"Situation?" Peter frowned as Mike put the grocery and hardware store bags onto the kitchen table.

"Lots of riots, really nasty looking too if I may say. They've been running segments on all the channels since ten o'clock this morning," Davy answered, gesturing towards the TV.

"Oh, we saw one," Peter said.

"Yeah but it wasn't any riot," Mike commented.

"What've you got there?" Micky questioned, getting up and walking over to where Mike was.

"Micky, we can't drink out of the taps until you fix up somethin' that will filter the ocean water," Mike said, handing him the hardware bag, "So I bought you a bunch of tools, didn't know which ones you'd need."

Micky peered down into the bag. He looked back up to Mike, glancing at the grocery bags still on the table.

"How much this cost man? I mean, looking at this stuff, I'd say you used up a lot of rent money. How we gonna pay Mr. Babbit?" Micky asked.

"We don't gotta worry about rent right now," Mike assured Micky.

"Not going to worry about rent?" Davy gasped, getting up and wandering over to join Micky and Mike.

"We're gonna have to play a lotta gigs to make up this money, Mike," Micky pointed out.

"We needed the tools more than the money," replied Mike, "Davy I need you to help me bring in the boards that are still in the car."

"You bought boards? For what?" Micky demanded.

"For boarding up the pad," Mike explained.

"Why though? All of this crazy riot stuff will blow over soon enough, won't it?" Davy frowned, looking from Mike and Micky.

"I have this feeling that it ain't gonna be over any time soon," admitted Mike. Micky sucked on his lower lip for a moment, glancing down at the tools in the bag.

"I've got the same awful feeling," he murmured.

Davy could see that neither Mike nor Micky were kidding around.

"Alright, I'll help bring in the boards," he sighed and headed to the front door. While Mike and Davy did that, Micky went upstairs to inspect the tools Mike had purchased. Peter sat down in front of the television and watched as a male news reporter was once again telling the public to stay indoors.

Sometimes, people panic and then everything goes back to normal. Micky almost thought that would happen with this. But the next morning, things seemed worse. The news was on every channel, continuing to tell people to stay indoors, stay away from the sick, to avoid drinking tap water.

Doctors were on explaining symptoms to watch out for and to assure the public that the CDC was doing their best to contain the outbreak. Everyone on the television kept saying "stay calm". It was their mantra and Micky got the sneaking suspicion that even they didn't believe that this was a time to stay calm.

Most of the day was spent by boarding up the pad, hammering boards over the windows. Micky kept taking breaks to think up of a filtration system for the house. That night, for the first time since yesterday morning, Mike shut off the TV. They played a game, Mike insisted that they did so. It was fun.

It was on the third day that things really began. Nothing on the television had changed, expect that people were being advised to stay as far away as possible from anyone who was infected. That was when there was a knock on the door.

Peter opened it to reveal Mrs. Umberland, a little old lady who lived four houses down from theirs. She was standing with a young looking man and a black car was parked in the driveway behind the Monkeemobile.

"Good morning, Peter, dear!" Mrs. Umberland greeted, wrapping Peter up into a hug.

"Hi, Mrs. Umberland," Peter said, confused as to why she was here.

"Mrs. Umberland's here?" Micky squawked and hopped down the stairs to the front door.

"Hello boys!" Mrs. Umblerland grinned, "I wanted to stop by before I left, to bid my farewells to you sweet young things."

"You're leaving?" Davy asked.

"Yes, my son- he's a doctor you know- well he thinks it'd be better if we left town and so we are," Mrs. Umberland explained, "But I couldn't just leave without saying goodbye to you boys and giving you these."

Mrs. Umberland held out two bags full of this and that.

"Mom, please, we've got to go," the young man hissed. Mrs. Umberland gave him a stern look.

"I told you, Louis, I have to say goodbye to the boys," she told him firmly. Micky took the bags and put them down beside the front door.

"What's happening?" Mike asked, directing the question more towards Mrs. Umberland's son.

"Oh I don't want to hear again, tell them when I'm in the car," Mrs. Umberland cut in.

Then she said goodbye to the gang individually, giving each of them a large hug as she did so. After that was finished, she plodded over to the car and clambered into the passenger's side. Mike looked at the son expectantly.

"The news isn't telling anyone jack crap, you know," Louis began, unsure of how to start, "The infection, it's way worse then they're saying. It's spread by blood to blood contact. They spit or vomit in your mouth, and you better hope you die from the wounds they give you from beating you. And they don't stop screaming."

"Is it bad?" Davy wanted to know.

"Yeah, it is," Louis nodded, "The infection only takes about a day or so to set in. Look, this is some science fiction stuff, I swear, because those people, the infected ones, they're dead. And it's this illness that's taking over their bodies, using them to find a new host."

"How bad is it?" Mike asked but Louis shook his head.

"Look, I gotta take care of my mom, you guys are on your own," he said sharply. Micky was about to say something but Mike spoke before he could.

"I understand. Good luck," he told Louis. Louis nodded and then headed over to the car where Mrs. Umberland was waiting.

"Jeez, that guy woke up on the wrong side of the bed," Micky grumbled.

"Davy, are the windows all boarded up?" Mike asked.

"Yeah, why?" Davy replied.

"I sure hope Mrs. Umberland and her son get to wherever they're going safely," Peter murmured, giving one last wave as Louis backed out of the driveway.

"That guy seemed in an awful hurry," Mike told Davy.

Micky agreed. That was when all four of them heard it. A continuous chorus of whining. At least, that's what it sounded like at first. The noise continued to get louder. Screams. They were screams.

"We're going to board up the front door, Micky go finish the back," Mike instructed, just as Peter darted outside.

"The hell? Where are you going?" Mike shouted. Peter whirled around.

"We have to go warn the neighbors," Peter called back.

"Get back in here right now," Mike ordered.

"We have to warn them though, Mike," Davy pointed out.

"We don't, Peter get back into the house now," Mike snapped.

But Peter wasn't listening, he knew it was the right thing to do, to go warn their neighbors. So he sprinted down the driveway. He heard Mike calling after him, cursing too, and he knew that one or two of his friends would be coming after him. All he needed to do was warn the neighbors, it wasn't a big deal. The screams were close, but Peter was a fast runner.

He made it onto the street and headed for the first house. Everything happened in a sort of blur after that. The black car that Mrs. Umberland and her son were in came barreling towards Peter, nearly clipping him, but the bassist managed to sidestep out of the way just in time.

Davy was coming towards him after that. Then there was a loud screech and Peter saw a young boy coming towards his direction. He was very pale and the veins on his skin were clearly visible. It didn't take a scientist or a doctor to tell that the child was infected and horribly sick. Davy grabbed onto Peter's arm and began dragging the taller man towards the pad, just as other infected appeared.

As soon as they made it back onto the driveway, there was a large crash, the crunch of metal, and a loud car horn blared. Davy and Peter looked at one another.

"It couldn't be Mrs. Umberland, Peter," Davy said to his shaking friend and began propelling themselves forward again, as the screams grew closer, heading back to safety.

Now they were in sight of the door, nearly there, when Henry Johnston, a middle-aged, recently divorced man who lived directly next to the Monkees, came hobbling to the end of their driveway.

"Help! Please! Stop, wait!" he shouted.

"Mr. Johnston, look out!" Davy exclaimed, but it wasn't in time.

The boy Peter had seen just moments before was behind Henry. He headbutted the older man, who collapsed to the ground as if he were a stack of cards blown over by a light breeze. Peter on instinct made to go help the man but suddenly he was airborne.

"Davy, house now," Mike shouted.

Michael had picked Peter up and was now rushing him into the house. Davy followed, a pained expression twisting his facial features. Peter watched as the boy pounded Mr. Johnston, heard the cries for help from the older man.

"We have to help him!" Peter shrieked, trying to squirm out of Mike's grip, but the Texan wouldn't look go until they were past the threshold of the door.

Once inside, Mike slammed the door and began hammering boards across it. Davy helped. After a few boards were over top the door, Mike leaned against it. That was when Peter punched Mike square in the face. It hurt. Mike stared at Peter, shocked, a hand going to his face.

"Peter!" gasped Micky, who had just finished boarding up the patio door and had just came over.

"We could have helped Mr. Johnston," Peter shouted at Mike. He was crying and he felt sick.

"No, you couldn't have. You woulda gotten-," Mike started but Peter wouldn't let him finish.

"I don't care what would have happened to me, you did the wrong thing Mike, we should have helped Mr. Johnston, we could have and we should have," Peter spat.

"Peter, calm down, I know you're upset, but let's not point fingers," Davy said. None of them had ever really seen Peter this angry before.

"Why didn't you let me help him? He's…," Peter broke off, his voice cracking, just as the screams from the outside drifted into the pad, muffled by the walls.

"You couldn't have helped him, you would have just gotten yourself hurt or worse," Mike explained, but now he wasn't so sure he believed himself.

Then there was a loud bang on the door. A voice. It was Mr. Johnston.

"Boys! Boys, please, please let me in!" he moaned. He had to be hurt. Peter's eyes went wide and he shoved Mike out of the way, fingers trying to pry off the boards on the door.

There was a loud thunk and Mr. Johnston's pleas were lost in a series of squeals and screeches, as the infected undoubtedly went at the poor man again. The Monkees stood motionless, eyes fixed on the front door. One minute, two minutes, three minutes passed.

Finally the noise subsided. There was distant shouting, someone telling someone else to get into a car. The screeches of the infected drifted away, fading into the distance, heading most likely to whatever poor soul had been shouting.

Peter began to try to pry off the boards again.

"Peter, stop," said Micky, grabbing the bassist's left arm and pulling him away from the door.

Peter wrenched his arm out of Micky's grasp and turned to Mike.

"You killed him!" he screamed and then he stormed into the downstairs bedroom, door slamming behind him. Unknown to the others, it was that night that Peter decided he was dreaming, that this couldn't be real at all because how could Michael Nesmith, his best friend and the sweetest man alive, how could he allow a man to die on their doorstep. It was that night that Peter checked out and stopped speaking.

Micky looked at Mike. He looked frightened.

"Hey man, he'll get over it. He'll be alright," Micky told him.

"I know, I… yeah I know," Mike stammered, shaking his head. He glanced at Davy, who was still staring at the door.

"You okay there Davy?" Mike asked.

"Um… yes… I think I am," Davy answered slowly.

The day rolled on by. Micky focused on coming up with a system that would filter the ocean water into the tap systems. Davy made tea, a lot of tea, so much tea that Mike and Micky couldn't keep up with drinking all of it.

Mike made dinner that evening. Micky had knocked on the downstairs bedroom door, asking Peter if he wanted anything to eat, but Peter hadn't replied. When Micky poked his head into the room, he saw Peter laying in bed, staring at the ceiling. He wouldn't respond to Micky, so Micky gave up.