Wind whipped through the window lowered halfway on the passenger side, and Steve Miller’s Greatest Hits tinkled through the speakers. The Taurus cruised at a near constant rate of 90 MPH courtesy of Agent Treyna’s heavy foot. Viral watched the smoke stacks belch while Monica drummed against the steering column. Pointing at a Cold War complex, Monica said, “That’s where they make Yellow-5 and the orange dust for Cheetos.” If the heartland was where America grew her food then the mid-Atlantic was where she gave it its trans-fatty flavor, Viral figured. Like freedom and liberty, naturally sweetened was just another lie America was selling.
Monica kept the car idling after they pulled up to a four-story building so she could finish singing along to the SMB classic Big Ol’ Jet Airliner. Viral hoped this was finally the spot where he’d reunite with Lron, his roommate. Though they’d only known each other for seven months, since meeting on the first day of college, Viral couldn’t think of a time they’d been for so long apart -- other than their University’s break for Secular Winter Solstice, which Viral learned was the East Coast way to say Christmas.
But this wasn’t the Howie Young Correctional Center. It was something almost the exact opposite. As the sign at the parking lot’s entrance read, this was the Bethany Women's College Technical Building.
From the car to the front entrance, moving at a clip through the parking lot surprisingly filled with Crown Vics, Suburbans, and Impalas, Monica explained to Viral that the Bureau and the agency, as she called it, had repurposed the women’s college tech building since the coeds had been sent away for Covid containment. She showed her FBI badge to three different bodies garbed in fatigues. Checking her service Glock with a woman wearing a high pony, Monica told Viral this was where he earned his keep. It’d been foreplay until this, she said. Viral felt the erotic tickle of failure and a hard-on.
Following Monica through the first floor halls, Viral saw classrooms refurbished into ad hoc command centers. One room had a row of computer towers LAN’d together on a fold-out table abutting a wall. A screen had been pulled down over a whiteboard. A projector propped up with a Biology textbook on a left-handed desk beamed a red and black map of the Tri-State area.
Since a mechanic crew was working on the two elevators near the back doors of the building, Monica led Viral up to the second floor through a stairwell. Voices boomed and echoed from the top level, the fourth, down to the basement -- gods knew what they were keeping down there. Men and women were talking into phones or shouting down hallways asking if people with names like Tony and Pat had gotten hold of Richmond, Newark, or Atlanta.
By the third floor, Viral was already huffing for breath, trying to keep-up with Monica. She stepped through a lime-green fire-door propped open by a man the size of a vending machine. He nodded at Monica, and he called her ma’am. Viral was getting the very clear impression that he was being escorted by someone important. His ego perked. Maybe he was someone importa --
Thump. A burly shoulder bumped him in the forehead spinning Viral back into a locker. Monica barely broke her stride. Viral noticed that she’d been keeping her fists balled in the pockets of her sportcoat; she was being awful careful not to touch the railings or doorknobs in the building. Viral had planned to follow suit, keeping his fingers to himself, but the bodies through which Monica had him weaving begged of Viral an athletic dexterity he did not possess. Yes, he wore a letterman jacket in high school, but it was from his membership on the debate team. And it hadn’t kept the freshman water polo initiates from throwing him in the pool after graduation.
Catching up to Monica, Viral asked, “Has there been a terrorist attack?” He was wiping his hands on Jaxon’s sweatshirt hoping to dislodge whatever he may have picked up while touching the locker. Monica handed him the vial of hand sanitizer she’d brought from the car.
“Not yet. We don’t think,” she said.
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At the end of the long hallway they turned right. Down a shorter hallway they walked. The number of bodies had thinned. Monica kicked the handle on a spring-loaded door with her boots and pointed toward another set of stairs. This was going to be the most exercise Viral had done since accidentally trying out for the cross country team. He was already dreading the cat-cows he’d have to do to stretch his lower back in the morning.
Monica kept up her pace as she climbed. Viral did his best to hug her heels. The physics of the incline and their bodies put Viral’s nose near Monica’s butt. It was boney and didn’t fill out her pants. It looked to Viral like she had a panini press for a keaster.
The light-headedness hit Viral on the landing of the third-and-a-half floor. Tripping on a stair, he caught himself then leaned his head back against the wall. So much for not touching anything, he thought. In this stairwell it was quiet. A four foot tall window high on Viral’s right allowed a wall of sun to bake the corridor. Dust mites floated like angels in the beams that bounced off Monica’s black hair. In its glow Viral could see it had some magenta.
"Are you okay?" Monica asked.
Viral swallowed, tried to catch his breath. His mouth was dry, and he couldn't seem to take in any air. No terrorist attack. Not yet, she’d said. Viral was not comforted. "Panic attack," he managed to cough.
Monica rubbed his back as he tucked his head between his legs and breathed slowly. She kept her voice calm and even as she told him everything was okay. They weren't in any immediate danger.
Immediate, Viral thought. Super reassuring.
"Remember how I told you it was my goal to keep communication open between the Bureau and the Agency to make sure we didn't have another 9/11?" She asked.
His head parallel to the floor, Viral did his best at nodding. She was whispering in his ear, and Viral’s heart-rate was slowing. He felt her breath on his neck. He could smell her conditioner.
"Well this is what that looks like,” she said. The Bureau's got most of its bodies in New York, and the rest are on their way to Seattle. This virus that shut down schools like yours and this one is poised to break big in the Northeast and West. We may have it under control; we may not. This outpost is the backup plan I've been fighting for since before I started.” Her hand was moving circles in the center of his back. His lungs were expanding and the coils in his neck unhooked. “While the varsity's out in the wild I got the JV benched out here. It's my job to take care of you and the others. You heard of the Manhattan Project?" Monica asked.
Feeling better, Viral began to lift his head. Though he knew it was very pre #MeToo, he still stole a look on his way up trying to see down Agent Treyna’s shirt. No luck; she’d kept her top buttons buttoned. Viral laid the back of his head against the wall. Breathing was coming easier now. He listened to the birds singing on the ledge of the window. Spring had sprung. "Of course I know about the Manhattan project," he said.
Monica patted him on the shoulder. He'd hoped she wouldn't be done rubbing his back so quick. "Good," she said. "They were the A team. You and the others are, like, the D-team. The Delaware Project." The name was so boring Viral grimaced. "Let's go," she said.
She pushed off the wall where she'd been standing next to Viral, but he reached out his hand and grabbed her sleeve. He said, “Wait.”
The moment hung in the air like the dust angels, still and sordid. Viral could almost feel the grace of Monica’s pivot compel her into his arms. The echo of the birds’ song was golden. Viral felt as if they were going to dance. Nice, and slow. Like the Homecoming he never went to. Like the dreams he’d always wished would come true. Like the Usher dance he practiced alone in the shower. But the look Monica gave the hand with which he touched her was hard, and the manner in which she tightened her mouth was anything but nice. Quickly, Viral let go. As fast as Monica’s features had calcified, they softened.
“You keep saying ‘the others’. What others are you talking about?” Viral asked.
Monica straightened the cuff of her sleeve. She didn’t answer. Her tiny head low, she raised her eyes to lock with Viral’s. She looked like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction, and Viral thought that she was maybe going to smile. Instead, she turned her back to him. Her heels clomped like a Clydesdale on the steps of the last flight to the fourth floor. Viral felt abandoned, but she looked back over her shoulder and curled her finger. She was telling him to keep coming. And to keep coming with Monica was all little Viral truly, madly, deeply wanted to do. He hopped back on her heels, trying to get his nostrils right back into that keaster.