The grocery store owner died on a Monday.

No one knew why. The doctor said heart attack. The coroner agreed. The store was closed on Tuesday. The shelves were empty by Wednesday.

Bill Henderson heard about it at the bar. He drank a beer. He drank another. He went home.

Another one died on Thursday. An old woman on Elm Street. She had been sick for months. Cancer, they said. But when she died, her skin was wrong. Purple. Hard. Like stone.

Bill did not go to the bar on Friday. He drank at home.

Another one on Saturday. Then another. By Sunday, three more. All old. All sick. All poor.

Bill sat in his recliner and watched the news. The weather was bad. The sports were worse. Nothing about the deaths. The papers did not come to Oak Creek anymore. The town was not worth reporting.

He went to the bar on Monday. The bar was open. The bartender was open. Everything was open except the people.

"How's it going, Bill?" the bartender said.

"Fine," Bill said.

"Fine," the bartender said.

Bill drank a beer. He drank another. He left.

The deaths continued. Not every day. Not in numbers. One here. One there. An old man on Maple Street. A sick woman on Oak Avenue. A man with liver disease on Pine Road. Always the same pattern. Old. Sick. Poor.

Bill noticed the pattern. He did not tell anyone. Who would he tell?

He went to the bar. He drank. He went home. He drank more.

Mary Donovan's son got sick.

He was eleven years old. His name was Tommy. He had a fever and a cough and trouble breathing. Mary came to Bill's trailer and knocked on the door.

"Bill," she said. "Please."

Bill opened the door. He looked at her. He looked at Tommy behind her, small and pale and breathing fast.

"What do you want?" he said.

"He's sick. The hospital is forty miles away. I don't have a car. Please."

Bill looked at Tommy. Tommy looked at Bill. Tommy had the same eyes Bill's son would have had, if Bill had ever seen his son.

"Come in," Bill said.

They came in. Mary sat on the couch. Tommy sat on the floor. Bill sat in his recliner.

"Give him something to drink," Bill said.

Mary gave him water. Tommy drank. He did not get better.

Bill went to the kitchen. He got a bottle of whiskey. He poured a glass. He drank it.

"Lock the basement door," he said.

"What?"

"Lock the basement door. Don't let anyone in. Don't let anyone out."

"Bill—"

"Lock it."

Mary looked at him. She saw something in his face. She locked the basement door.

Bill went back to his trailer. He locked the door. He drank a bottle of whiskey.

He did not sleep.

In the morning, he went to the grocery store. It was still closed. The shelves were still empty. He went to the next store. Also closed. The next. Also closed.

He went to the bar. The bartender was not there. The bar was closed.

He went home. He drank.

By noon, he could feel it.

His fingers were stiff. He held them up and watched them tremble. His breathing was fast. He slowed it down. He sped it up. He could not tell the difference.

He went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. His skin was pale. His lips were almost blue.

He went back to the trailer. He locked the door. He drank a bottle of whiskey.

He thought about the basement. He thought about Mary. He thought about Tommy.

He got up. He walked to the basement door. He locked it. He put the key in his pocket.

He walked back to the trailer. He locked the door. He drank a bottle of whiskey.

Days passed. Or maybe hours. Time was hard to track. The radio was broken. The television showed nothing but static. The phone line was dead.

Bill drank. He slept. He woke up. He drank more.

He heard sounds from the basement. Crying. Then silence. Then crying again. Then silence.

He did not go to the basement.

One morning, he went outside. The town was quiet. Too quiet. No cars. No people. No birds. Just wind and dust and the smell of something rotting.

He walked to Mary's house. The door was open. The house was empty. The basement door was locked. The key was not in the lock.

He walked back to his trailer. He drank a bottle of whiskey.

A month passed. Or maybe two. Time was hard to track.

Bill sat at the kitchen table. He had a glass of whiskey in front of him. He had a radio in front of him. He had a television in front of him.

The radio said: Unexplained mass casualty event spreading across the Midwest. Authorities urge residents to remain indoors. Avoid contact with infected individuals. The nature of the pathogen remains unknown.

The television showed Times Square in New York. Crowds of people. Bright lights. Bill could not hear the sound. He did not turn up the volume.

He poured a glass of whiskey. He drank it.

Outside, the town was silent. Inside, the radio was talking. The television was showing. Bill was sitting.

He poured another glass.

He drank it.

---END_OF_STORY---