words. âBiological warfare? Terrorism.â
âNo buzz on that, just nada, and you bet your fine ass theyâve been looking. Whatever the hell it is, nobodyâs ever seen it before. Whatâs left of the powers-that-be? Theyâre lying, falling back on the letâs-not-cause-panic bullshit. Well, fuck that. Panicâs here.â
âIf they canât identify the virus, they canât create a vaccine.â
âBingo.â Chuck shot up a finger, made a check mark in the air. âTheyâve got another route, and it doesnât inspire confidence. Iâm hearing chatter about military roundups, pulling people who areâso farâasymptomatic out of their homes, and taking them to places like Raven Rock, Fort Detrick. Theyâve set up checkpoints, and theyâre doing neighborhood sweeps, closing off urban areas. If you plan to get out of New York, sugarcake, do it soon.â
âWhoâd report the news?â But her stomach clenched. âAnd how would I talk to you every day?â
âI figure Iâve got time before they come knocking, and Iâve got an escape hatch. If you use this, Arlys, no shitting around, get gone. Get supplies you can carry and get out of the city. Donât fuck around.â
He paused, shot her that grin again. âOn that note. Hit it, Frank!â
Arlys closed her eyes, let out a weak laugh when she heard Sinatra crooning âNew York, New York.â
âYeah, Iâm spreading the news.â
âHe sure made it. Skinny guy from Hoboken. Hey, Iâm a skinny guy, too. Itâs got a ring, right? Hoboken.â
His grin stayed wide, but she saw his eyesâhis intense and serious eyes. âYeah, I did a fluff piece there a million years ago.â
âPodoken Hoboken. It ainât no Park Avenue, but its number-one boy sure went places. Anyway, gotta book. I was hackedy-hacking till three in the a.m. Three in the morningâs past even this boyâs bedtime. Keep it real.â
âYou, too, Chuck.â
She ended the call, pulled up a street map of Hoboken.
âPark Avenue,â she mumbled. âAnd found it. Number One Park Avenue, maybe? Or ⦠Park crosses First Street. Park and First, three a.m. if I get out of Manhattan.â
She got up, paced, trying to absorb all Chuck had told her. She trusted himânearly everything heâd told her up to that morning had been verified. And what hadnât been officially verified had swirled into the anonymous-sources category.
Two billion dead. Mutated. Yet another dead president. She needed to do some research on Sally MacBrideâAg Secretary turned POTUS, according to Chuck. Sheâd be ready if and when the change of power was announced.
If she went on the air with that, the uniformsâor the men in blackâwould certainly swarm the station. Take her in for questioning, maybe shut it all down. In the world that had been sheâd have risked questioning, risked being hauled into court to protect a source. But this wasnât the world that had been.
Sheâd stick with officially verified reports for her morning edition, that and her own observations. Then sheâd write up copy from Chuckâs intel. Monitor the InternetâLittle Fred could help her with that. If she could name another source, even from the deep Web, sheâd protect herself and Chuck. And the station.
She knew there were people who depended on the broadcastsâfor help, for hope, for truth when she could find it for them.
She sat back down, poured more coffee, wrote copy, refined it, rewrote, printed it. Sheâd have Fred set it in the prompter.
She took the copy with her to wardrobe, picked a jacket beforegoing in to do her own makeup and hair. The world might be ending, but she would look professional when she reported same.
In studio, she found the bouncy, redheaded Little Fred chatting with the sad-eyed
Jane Hunt
Jonathan Maberry
K. Sterling
Tara Fox Hall
James Kakalios
Jacquie Rogers
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley
Elizabeth Moynihan
Shiloh Walker
Mary Balogh