What Happened Next

Five: Peters

It was still known as 'the farmhouse' even though the farm hadn't operated in thirty years. The animal pens sat empty, and the field was just a dustbowl, especially on a hot day like today.

Lieutenant Peters had bought the old place with his wife twenty-five years ago. They had a good couple of decades there. Until she got the diagnosis, of course. It was a short illness. She went quickly, which was better than most people got.

She was buried over on the east side of the land, in a patch of shade under the pines. A little wooden cross marked the spot. The Lieutenant would wander over there every day just to talk. Tell her about work. Not that there was much to tell anymore. Captain Malsetti had started to wind down his duties on account of his retirement coming up next year.

A high-pitched whistle erupted from the farmhouse. It rang out across the empty pens and the old barn.

'Alright, alright, I'm coming,' Peters said, as he flushed the toilet and limped into the kitchen.

The Lieutenant was stocky and sun-reddened. He was in his late fifties and had thinning gray hair. His belly hung over his black boxer shorts, and a moth-eaten old night robe dangled from his shoulders, caked in crumbs and food stains.

He took the kettle off the stove. A scolding-hot column of steam piped from its spout, screaming like a banshee as it went. He filled his mug with bubbling water and spooned in some coffee.

The farmhouse kitchen was narrow and untidy. A stack of dirty dishes sat in the sink. Used cups and bowls lined the worktops; most of them with soiled cutlery sticking out. He'd taken to eating packet noodles straight out of the pot.

Lucy would have never let it get that way. She used to clean up after him morning and night. But Peters never was the house-proud of the pair.

He pulled open the fridge and took out the milk carton. There was a little cream on the spout. He gave it a sniff and screwed up his face. It smelled like rotten fruit, but he didn't much fancy running to the store on a Sunday, so he added a dollop to his mug and mixed it in. White lumps floated to the top.

It was a little after ten, and he'd not long climbed out of bed. He was always off-duty on Sundays. For Peters Sundays were days of sitting in his boxers, eating cereal, and watching reruns of old detective shows. The likes of Miami Murders and Hopkirk Investigates.

The shutters in the lounge were closed, and the room was dark as he stepped inside, sipping from his mug.

Something stirred on the couch as he entered the room. Bessie was an old, gray terrier. She slept there most nights when Peters retired upstairs to bed. Her aging joints couldn't handle the steepness of the staircase anymore.

She raised her head to look at her master as he came in, but quickly lowered it again. She rested her snout on her paw.

'Where's that goddamn remote?'

He rummaged around through the newspapers that lined the arms of the sofa and dug out the small, black control. The television set that sat in the corner of the room burst into color.

The TV resumed the channel he'd been dozing off to the night before – Motoring Men. Only it wasn't a motor show that came onscreen. It wasn't Banger Brothers. It wasn't Junkyard Rescue. It wasn't Gears and Guns. It wasn't any of the programming Peters had grown to love from Motoring Men. It was the Channel One news.

Peters flicked the channel over to The Great Outdoors. But again – no Wilderness Willy. No Camping Cookouts. No Duck Hunting double bill. It was the Channel One news again.

He flicked again. And again. The Channel One news was on every channel. It had taken over everything.

Harrowing clips of ER rooms up and down the country. Patients drenched in blood. Queues miles long. Angry mobs congregating outside hospitals. Smashed glass. Fire hoses blasting people into the road. Riot police shunting crowds back with their interlocking shields.

The scrolling, red banner across the bottom of the screen read 'EMERGENCY ROOMS OVERWHELMED AS MYSTERY ILLNESS SWEEPS STATES.'

'Well, girl. Looks like the whole world's going to hell.'

Bessie looked up at him with sad eyes and let out a long breath that sounded like a sigh.

'I'm glad your mom ain't here to see this.'

Lucy was a nervous wreck at the best of times. She used to lose sleep over saying 'you too' to waiters after they told her 'enjoy your meal'. If she saw those news reports, she'd be rocking back and forth in the corner of the room. Peters was sure of it.

Beside the sofa stood a tall, narrow, metal table. An old wired phone sat on top. After a few minutes of sipping coffee and watching the TV, the phone started to ring. The Lieutenant took it from its cradle.

'Peters.'

'It's me.'

'Oh, hi, Cap. Thought I might be hearing from you.'

'You got the news on?'

'Yes, sir,' Peters said. 'World's going to shit.'

'How are you feeling? Any stomach cramps? Wooziness?'

Peters sat and thought about it for a moment. There was a dull pain in his temples, but that was likely from the couple of bottles he'd emptied the night before.

'No more than usual,' he said. 'What about you, Cap?'

'It's too hectic here,' the Captain said. 'I don't have time to die.'

Peters smiled. 'What's going on? Any indication of what's happening from further up the line?'

'We've heard nothing from anyone. Plenty of rumors flying around in the office, though.'

'What rumors?'

'Russian nerve agents. Microchips in the water. Phone masts emitting deadly signals. Usual bollocks. As to what's actually happening, we don't know. What I do know is that I've got half my officers off, and every hospital in the county has a riot in its ER. So the handful of doctors and nurses that were able to make it into work today are spending their time under siege instead of saving lives.'

'I'll get dressed, and I'll head to City Hospital, Cap.'

'I got a ton of guys there already.'

'Then where do you need me?'

'You ever been to Masterson?'

'Masterson? Yeah, a few times. There's a junkyard there, where I get parts for my Rattler.'

'Sheriff Callow is in charge there. Was in charge, I should say.'

'I know Andy. Jesus, he get sick?'

'I got a call this morning. Wife woke up, and he was dead in bed next to her. Choked on his own blood.'

'Jesus.'

'As it stands, the town is entirely without police presence. So it's gonna get ugly. I've got three cadets from the academy ready to send over there. But they need a senior officer to take charge.'

'I can do that, Cap.'

'Good man. I'll tell them to meet you outside Riley's Motor House. It's a block over from the hospital, so you can get things straight before you go bursting in there.'

After they were done ironing out the details, Peters sat the phone back in its cradle and sat in silence for a few moments. Then he looked down at Bessie.

'I don't think I'll be seeing you for a while, girl. If I leave a big heap of food out, are you capable of rationing?'

She looked at him blankly.