Notes on the Grippe

Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day Twenty Four

Calamity doesn’t sleep in the Lost Quarter, or anywhere. We are awakened by sirens approaching, moaning through the night, groaning to a crescendo. When we arise to investigate we see them gathering to the east, huddled around an apartment block.

It is a mean looking place, chicken wire guarding the entrance to its parking lot. Often there are people lurking near the entrance when we pass by, even in these times of quarantine and letters of transit. They eye us skeptically as we pass, as we do them, taking care to keep our distance.

There are figures moving amongst the flashing lights, barely visible in the darkness. It is hard to determine whether they are moving from the vehicles to the building, or vice versa, or simply milling about. More and more vehicles arrive, blocking the street, their lights pulsing in a broken rhythm.

We can see a flashlight bouncing as someone moves around the front of the building near where the chicken wire must be. The light seems to be going in a widening circle out from the entrance to the street.

The moon is full and bright above, staring down indifferent to this activity, the continents of its worn visage especially evident on this clear night. In the distance a helicopter approaches, its blinking lights moving across the darkness.

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