Tales from the Red: Evening

Boston was on fire. There were riots in New York. A peaceful protest outside the White House had exploded into violence.

Branson watched the newscast until he couldn't take it any more. He switched off the television and wandered outside, onto the small balcony of his small apartment. The night air was muggy and still. He leaned against the iron railing and stared into the east, toward the distant city of Washington.

There was a sunrise curfew in effect, but his neighbors didn't seem to care. They were gathered around one of the apartment complex's picnic tables, staring into their phones. Young people without masks, absurdly confident that they wouldn't catch the red.

Idiots, thought Branson. Young people didn't think they would get it and old people didn't believe it was real. How their stupidity could continue to thrive in the reality of thirty-two million deaths was beyond him.

Sometimes, the cynic in Branson made him wish ill on the young and the old. Sometimes, he wished they would get the red. It was a kill 'em all and let God sort 'em out mindset that was starting to feel less shameful and more pragmatic.

He lit a cigarette and stood there, in the dark, smoking. A police drone buzzed down the street and the youths below him scattered like leaves in the wind. Fines for public gatherings were up to a thousand dollars per violator.

As he watched the youth scatter, Branson wondered.  How many of the rioters and protesters would catch the red? How many of them would be asymptomatic? How many would spread the damn plague before succumbing to it themselves, coughing out their lives in some FEMA tent hospital?

He wondered if Annie was okay. Branson hadn't thought of his sister in ages. Not since she'd walked out on the family, after mom's funeral. He'd heard from friends of friends that she was living in the Midwest. Indiana? Idaho? He didn't remember.

Maybe I aught to look her up, thought Branson. 

She was the only family he had left. Mom was dead. Dad was dead. The world was undergoing a kind of slow motion apocalypse. It might be a good thing to reconnect with Annie, to let bygones be bygones and make some peace.

He went inside and pulled out his laptop. One Facebook search later and he was staring at his sister's face. Older. More weatherbeaten. But definitely Annie.

Shit, thought Branson. When did we all get so old?

Annie looked like their dad. Same wide forehead. Same toothy grin.

"Jesus," Branson muttered. "Am I really gonna do this?"

His fingers floated above the keyboard. 

Fuck it, he thought, and sent her a friend request. He'd made the first step. It was up to Annie to make the second. And if she didn't? Well, then, it probably wasn't meant to happen.

He shut off the laptop and sat on his couch. After a moment, he flicked on the television, his stomach full of nervous butterflies.