The Great Rumbling
Chapter Four
The Chosen
Abilene, Kansas
Roger has the TV cranked to such a decimal that it’s impossible not to hear the news report even from where Alice stands in the kitchen.
The corn is boiling in a pot on the stove, as are the potatoes for tonight’s supper.
She’s just adding the sour cream to the casserole and beginning to mix it in as she hears the anchorman say, “The death toll continues to rise tonight as what many health officials are calling ‘the new COVID of this generation’ spreads with alarming speed through Russia, Eastern Europe, and much of Asia.
“Recent satellite data and WHO field reports confirm the outbreak has now reached several regions of South America, and there is growing concern it may already be spreading undetected across other continents.”
Alice turns and steps toward the front room, her spoon still in hand.
“In the past seventy-two hours alone, the number of confirmed fatalities has more than tripled. Experts warn that hundreds of additional cases are likely unreported, particularly in rural areas where access to medical care has been severely disrupted.
“The outbreak’s origin remains unclear. Some officials are investigating whether the pathogen may have emerged from a research facility.
Others suggest a deliberate release of an airborne toxin.
At this time, none of these theories has been verified.
What is known is that this disease behaves unlike anything modern medicine has encountered. ”
Alice steps fully into the living room now, drawn by the tension in the anchor’s voice and his warnings. Roger sits frozen in his recliner, eyes glued to the screen.
“Early statements calling this non-airborne have been contested, with several epidemiologists now arguing the transmission pattern strongly suggests otherwise. The pathogen targets the immune system directly, rapidly weakening the body’s ability to fight off even ordinary infections.
“Some researchers have compared its progression to the bubonic plague. Others say it resembles the early days of the 2019 COVID-19 pandemic, though this new strain appears both more aggressive and significantly more lethal.”
The screen flashes red as the world map appears. Alice pauses behind Roger, her hand unconsciously gripping the back of his chair.
“As you can see on our map, the original red markers clustered in these three regions are from eight days ago. Now they’ve spread across nearly half the Eastern Hemisphere.
The death toll counter in the corner of your screen reflects only verified reports, yet many experts believe the true number is exponentially higher.
“At this hour, global health authorities are urging calm while also acknowledging that containment efforts have thus far failed.”
The anchor’s voice lowers, steady but grim.
“Recovery remains extremely rare. Only a handful of patients worldwide have shown signs of improvement. Few are immune, and most have joined a study to explore this immunity and potentially find a cure.
“The United Nations has declared this outbreak its highest priority as officials now warn this epidemic could reduce populations in some countries by catastrophic percentages if not contained immediately.”
Alice swallows hard, the casserole forgotten. Her gaze is focused on the red indicators of a heavy outbreak devouring the map.
“We will continue to bring you updates as this developing crisis unfolds.”
The anchorwoman beside him, much younger but no less shaken, picks up where he leaves off.
“Before we go to commercials, we want to remind viewers that understanding the signs of early infection is critical.
When we return, medical specialists will walk us through the symptoms to watch for and what immediate steps to take if you or someone in your household begins to feel ill.
“We will also provide information on where to report potential cases, which emergency hotlines remain active, and how to begin self-quarantine procedures should they become necessary in your area.
“Our goal is to help you stay informed, stay prepared, and stay as safe as possible during this developing crisis.
“We’ll be back with more information right after the break.”
The screen fades to a bright, upbeat commercial for laundry detergent, a jarring contrast to the grim broadcast.
“Oh my God, Roger,” Alice says softly from behind his chair, but he doesn’t answer. “Honey, what should we do? Should I start stocking up on more supplies just in case?”
Roger doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even move.
“Roger.”
Alice walks around his chair. He's so quiet and still, it's unnerving. When his stare remains on the TV screen, she waves the spoon to get his attention.
“Roger, what is it?”
His eyes, when they do finally sweep up to hers, widen. Panic grips her immediately.
The spoon slips from her fingers onto the carpet. She reaches for the remote still perched on the arm of his recliner to press mute. The room falls silent except for the faint bubbling of pots in the kitchen and the ragged sound of his breathing.
Roger sits rigid, shoulders tense. One of his hands is resting against his chest as if steadying himself. His breathing is not quite right. Each inhale comes a touch too shallow, each exhale a little too controlled, as though he is trying to mask some discomfort.
“Roger?” Alice’s voice cracks even though it is a mere whisper.
Then she sees it.
The veins along his neck and forearms look darker than they should, faintly raised beneath the skin like shadows trapped there.
His chest moves in an unsteady rhythm up and down, a slight hitch at the top of each breath, subtle enough that anyone else might miss it but unmistakable now that she’s standing so close.
Alice’s knees give out. She drops in front of him and clutches his legs.
“No.” The word breaks in her throat. “No. No. It’s not true. It’s not here yet.”
She pushes herself upward, wrapping her arms around his middle, pressing her face against him as if holding him tightly enough might push any sickness away.
“You can’t leave me. Roger, please. I don’t care what they say. You’re not sick. It’s not true.”
But this close, she hears how, in just a few hours, his breathing has changed drastically. There’s a rattle to it that wasn’t there this morning. It comes right there at the end of each exhale.
Alice squeezes her eyes shut, tears flooding them.
“I refuse to believe it,” she whispers, but the words feel false, like ash in her mouth.
Juarez, Mexico
People always think anger came first. It didn’t. It was the grief.
The rally takes place behind the old maquiladora where Julio used to work when he was nineteen. Before it closed. Before the boss fled back to Texas and left two hundred families with nothing but severance slips they couldn’t read and promises he never intended to keep.
Now the lot is filled with men who look like him. Men wearing masks of anger across their faces. Men who have bled for another country, and this city. Men who have buried daughters and cousins and fathers because the world never cared enough to ask why they were destitute or dying.
Torches line the perimeter, casting long shadows across the concrete. Flags of Juarez hang from metal rods. There is a charge in the air, something sharp enough to taste.
His brother, Alejandro, steps forward. The crowd shifts, hungry for his voice. He lifts a hand, and silence drops heavy.
He presses that same hand flat to his chest, then curls it into a fist and strikes once over his heart. He repeats the motion again and again.
A steady, deliberate beat.
His gaze sweeps over them, and Julio sees it—the weight he carries. Grief sharpened into something harder. Something dangerous.
“Están aquí porque, como yo… ya están cansados.”
You’re here because, like me… you’re tired.
A few heads nod.
“Cansados de trabajar hasta que la espalda les duela y las manos sangren… y que nunca sea suficiente.”
Tired of working until your back aches and your fingers bleed… and it never being enough.
He exhales through his nose, glancing over them—not above them, but at each of them, meeting gazes and sharing their burdens and defeat.
“Cansados de que otros decidan cuánto valen.”
Tired of others deciding your value.
He opens his fingers and presses hard against his chest again.
“Porque ningún hombre… ningún gobierno… ningún país—”
Because no man… no government… no country—
He pauses, choosing his words.
“—especialmente uno que nunca ha puesto comida en la mesa de sus familias—”
—especially one that has never labored a day to put food on your family’s table—
“…no tiene ese derecho.”
…has that right.
The crowd is quiet now. Listening to every word he utters.
“No saben lo que es. Lo que cuesta llegar desde dónde venimos. No viven como nosotros.”
They don’t know what it’s like. What it takes to come from where we have. To fill our shoes. They don’t live as we do.
“No entienden lo que se necesita… ni lo que cuesta.”
They don’t understand what it takes or what it costs.
His gaze shifts, softer for a moment.
“Ni por qué lo hacemos. Día tras día.”
And why we do it. Day in and day out.
“Por ellos. Por la familia. Por nuestras familias.”
For them. For family. For our families.
“Y aun así nos separan de aquello por lo que daríamos todo.”
And they separate us from the very thing we will go to the ends of the earth for.
“Nos separaron… como si tuvieran derecho a decidir dónde pertenecemos nosotros… nuestras familias.”
They separated us. As if they think they have a say in where we, where they, our families, and us belong?
“No pueden quedarse con nuestros hijos… con nuestras mujeres… sin nosotros.”
They can not have our children… our wives… without us.
“No pueden separarnos y dejarlos solos… sin nuestra protección, sin lo que aportamos.”
They can not separate us and leave them to fend for themselves without our protection, our contribution.
“Son nuestros. Nuestra familia. Todo lo que somos.”
They are ours. Our family. Our everything.