Pandemic A

9- Song of Sirens

The shrill sound rang out into my ears as I stood in the door to the kitchen.

The air was at a certain standstill; nothing was moving but something was afoot.

I couldn't tell which was louder now, the sirens or the echoes of my mother's screams as she entered the room to find her husband on the floor, bathed in a puddle of his own blood and bile.

It was only ten minutes ago. A very drawn out ten minutes that felt like an hour; but ten minutes.

Within the first I had already dialed for emergency services, but was met not with a hassled dispatcher but with a hassled Mashine Message, narrated as usual by a light female voice.

"Due to the flooding of emergencies, an operator cannot take your call. For a fire, press one, for a crime press two, for medical reason press thr-"

I slammed the key immidiately. It was still the mashine and the same stupid voice.

"For maiming, major injuries or any other non-illness related calls press one to speak to a dispatcher. If any of the following symptoms show in the (conscious or otherwise) victim in question please press two. Bleeding from ears, bleeding from the mouth, cysts, heavy coughing, headaches, eye problems and vomiting."

Judging by the blood puddle and the vomit on the milk carton which lay astray amidst a toppled sack of potatoes and bodily fluids, I pressed two. This time it was no longer the mashine but a man's voice that answered. He spoke with stumbling words, like he had drunk too many coffees from working quadruple overtime.

"Hello, please tell me the nature of the situation."

I was on automatic. Not giving much a lot of emotional consideration.

Logic, the Vulcan way, had completely taken over.

"I think my dad's dead," I managed to say.

There was a quick shuffle on the other end. It sounded like a quick sob. When the voice came back it was much more shaky.

"Okay, has your dad been sick?"

"My.. my mom said he was. I haven't talked to him for a few days."

With that there was another shuffling. The voice came back higher pitched.

"What's your adress?"

"Thirty-six fourteen, Orange street."

"We'll send a car."

There was a faint shouting in the background "'nother dead!" Before he hung up.

By now the sirens had stopped outside. There was a desperate knock at the door and my mom rushed to answer it, or (more likely) whisk them away.

I was expecting a paramedic, but was instead greeted by two monsters made of tubes and plastic.

They were three men, each in a thick biohazard suit and muddy boots that tracked footprints on the carpet. I don't know why I still remember the pattern of the stain so well.

Anyway, they wore gas masks with two eye slots and the filter on the side.

All of them had utility belts, featuring a handgun at their side, flashlights, pepper spray, and rolls of duct tape.

One had a rifle held readily pointing down at his side. One was rolling a stretcher with a body bag on it, and the other one held a kit on his side containing who-knows-what.

The man with the gun stood by the door as another man not carrying anything other than his belt and protective get-up jogged to help hoist my beloved dad into the last thing he'd ever rest in (unknown to me); a body bag made of recycled trash bags and polyester chemicals that are used to kill people anyway.

As the stretcher and the remains of Jerremy Hamlin, beloved husband and father rolled out through the frame of that starch white door, many things happened that really shouldn't have.

First off, the body itself was carted into an ambulance with the dreaded Black X. The next thing was peculiar. The man with the rifle raised his gun just a few inches as the conversation between my mother and the man with the kit got heated.

In walked even another official, with the uniform gear but had handcuffs in the grasp of his paw.

The next thing I knew my mother was being dragged kicking and screaming into a second ambulance, converted to a prisoner transport.

One vital element to the motorcade I hadn't noticed before, as I peered out of the curtain was a Jeep behind all five ambulances with a mounted machine gun and military markings.

I don't know how I held back the flood of emotion that should have been hitting. I didn't know where my brother was, my mother was being arrested, and my father was dead.

I also don't know how they overlooked me; perhaps they didn't see me, perhaps they forgot, perhaps they knew I hadn't touched the body.

Either way the Motorcade of the Black X sped away to the next street, with a few gunshots along the way.

As the brilliant gold and blood red sealed the day of Death and New Begginnings to the End by rising over the horizon ushering in both the darkness of Mourning and Night, there was a sound from the back door.

Someone was knocking.