Schrödinger's Virus

By Harley Madden

It had been only a week when they began to arrive at her door. Many brought her baked goods or plants, others offered their help. The last visitor arrived on the last day of May, at nearly noon. A tall man with a wide-brimmed hat approached the door, dressed in black slacks and a white button-down. In his arms was a small stack of worn books, a ring of keys on his belt. He knocked three times before a young woman came to the door. Her face was flushed, drops of sweat running dotting her face.

“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am.”

“Oh, it’s fine. I was just unpacking.”

“I can see that,” the man said, eyeing the mess behind her.

“What can I help you with?”

“I came to personally invite you to this month's town meeting.”

“When is it?”

“Tonight at six, but I brought you a cheat sheet.” He grabbed the book at the top of his stack and extended it out to her. “This,” he continued, “is the local history. We’ve had town halls in the same place at the same time since we were founded. Everything you need to know is in here.”

“Thanks. I’ll be sure to stop by.”

“That’s the spirit we like to see.”

He tipped his hat at her, then stepped off of her porch. The young woman closed the door, the book already open to the first page. In neat small letters, there was a note.

“Cass,” she murmured the words to herself, “We kindly invite you to our meeting tonight. It falls on the last Wednesday of the month, at six. Not coming results in a small fine.”

She raised an eyebrow at the last sentence but flipped the page nonetheless. After skimming a few pages, she could put the structure of the meeting together in her mind. The man was a self-proclaimed psychic, a descendant of one of the town’s founders according to poorly stapled papers stuck in front of the book’s original yellowing ones. The section was added as he was on the way to visit her.

Cassandra looked up from the thick book and glanced around for an explanation as to how he almost knew her name. She had hung up nothing on the walls or put out any decorations that would have her name on them. She moved from the entryway to the kitchen, standing in by the only window that did not have curtains or blinds. From there, she faced a box marked “Cass Kitchen” in a thick sharpie.

When she arrived, the small building was already packed though it was only a quarter to six. There were no chairs, but mismatched cushions arranged in a circle for sitting. Women she had seen pass her on the streets now sat holding their children close. The men were seated in between women as if purposefully creating a pattern. In the middle of the circle, the man from earlier sat. His hat was off, revealing gray hair gelled back. On the ground beside him was a handgun, its safety off. The rest of the books he was holding earlier were now on the ground around him, each flat open to a page.

Cassandra sat down on the nearest pillow she could find, next to a married couple whispering to each other. They glared at her, determining why she had chosen to sit next to them. The man looked around them, pointing up and down, seeing if she had kept with the sitting pattern. Satisfied with the result, he nodded to his wife but said nothing. They both looked at her again, then turned their attention to the middle of the circle. The little boy in the circle smiled at the outsider, then put a finger to his lips.

The psychic cleared his throat, drawing the rest of the room’s attention. He then spoke a short phrase in Latin which the group repeated back. Satisfied with this, the man barked a phrase, which was again repeated back. Cassandra’s eyes darted around the room, looking for someone who could give her some guidance. Everyone was looking at him, those in front of him making eye contact when he looked their way. The prophet closed his eyes, then began to rapidly run his hands over the open pages, with each movement his face showed a pained expression. As quickly as he began he was done. Cassandra studied the room, watching her neighbors hold their children tight to their chests as they leaned in closer, waiting to hang on to the first syllable that came out of his mouth. His eyes then snapped open, looking past the crowd. He spoke softly, almost whispering out the words.

“There is a fake plague coming. We will be warned to stay in our homes, but that is the trap. Stay out as much as possible, they can never get us all. They will never get us all. Our freedom comes first, my children.”

The psychic shook his head, then smiled at the group. People began to stand, rushing to thank him for his news. Cassandra stood with them but slipped out the door. She felt eyes burning into her, only to turn around to see the doors being pulled closed behind her. The feeling stuck to her skin, a constant prickle, a hand just about to reach her. Still, she would turn to see nothing.

When Cassandra arrived home, she made sure to triple lock the front door, followed by the back door, then closed every window. After grabbing a water bottle and a flashlight, she headed upstairs. She sat on the bed, her mind scrambling to figure out what had just happened. In the dim light, she quickly typed in the name of the town followed by the word ‘meeting’ on her phone’s internet browser. Thousands of news articles appeared, calling the practice outdated and unnatural for modern times. Others swore it was pure truth that was too hard to handle. She turned off the device, set it down on her cardboard box nightstand, then cautiously went to the window. Dozens of tents were set up, each with its own campfire burning. People carried their bedding out of houses as well as coolers packed with what their refrigerator once held. A toddler playing by a tent pointed a chubby index finger at her. Before its mother could follow where they were pointing, Cassandra drew the blinds closed.

It wasn’t until the next morning she felt brave enough to leave her room. She moved gingerly through the house, expecting something to pop out at her at every turn. The house was undisturbed, the same as she had left it last night. She stopped in front of the door, testing if it was still locked. After the door didn’t move, she lifted a slat in the blinds high enough to look out onto the street. It was barren. The campfires had all gone cold, leaving dead embers in the pits. Open tent flaps moved gently in the breeze, revealing unmoving figures inside. Cassandra screamed, realizing her voice was the only sound to be heard.

She felt around her pockets for her cell phone, then quickly typed in what she could remember about the plague that was predicted to be fake. The death toll was already in the thousands and its effects were instant. All it took was too much contact with someone infected for the virus to enter a body and destroy it. Her hands shook as she read more, the rest of her body immobile. Death was at her doorstep, her backyard, her own street. She looked again, only to catch a glimpse of someone close to her door. A possible survivor. She pulled her shirt over her nose, then undid the locks.

On her porch laid the man who had come to her door less than twenty-four hours before, one hand outreached towards her. A metal key lay on the welcome mat, his lifeless finger poised to grasp it. Putting her sleeve over her hand, she picked up the key and tried it in the door’s lock. Tears blocked her vision as the key slid in.