The Last Drop

Chapter 1

At 10:01 on the night of Valentine’s Day, people started to die. In New York, it commenced at 11:01. Due to the time difference, it began in Tokyo at 11:01 am on February 15th. For London, 3:01 am. But in Minnesota, it all started at 10:01 pm. In the same way the clocks of Hiroshima’s residents stopped at 8:16 am in 1945, the Midwest would be able to trace everything back to that palindromic moment on Valentine’s Day, 2015.

What’d you get your wife for Valentine’s? the blond paramedic asked his partner.

The dark-haired paramedic drove the ambulance with wariness for the icy roads that gleaned underneath the streetlights. Gift certificate for Bed, Bath, and Beyond.

Seriously? You really want your message to be ‘honey, you smell, let’s get that fixed?’

What’d you get yours?

A year-long membership for the new gym in our neighborhood.

Uh-huh, said the dark-haired paramedic, gliding through another turn.

At 10:12, the two paramedics arrived at the house in Eagan, one of the many suburbs of Minneapolis and St. Paul. Floodlights were triggered as they brought the ambulance up the single lane driveway. They parked in front of an enormous garage but kept the ambulance’s cherry reds flashing. The pair of EMTs didn’t have to knock on the door, for the widow was waiting for them. She wiped away tears with her bathrobe, leaving blotches of mascara on her sleeve. She pointed them upstairs. They walked past an ascending line of family photos. One showed a birthday cake in front of a grinning child with missing front teeth. Another showed the same girl years later, dressed in a graduation robe. The last photograph displayed the whole family by a lake cabin. The widow followed them up the stairs but stopped at the bedroom door.

It was on the bed. The smells of sweat and perfume hit them as soon as they stepped on the hardwood floor of the bedroom. Some romantic jazz music emitted from unseen speakers. Though neither of the two paramedics would dare say so in front of the widow, they had never seen a corpse that appeared so happy. It was wearing a beatific smile. Nothing else. They checked for a pulse on the already cool skin of its neck. The dark-haired EMT shook his head and muttered, pulseless ventricular tachycardia. He tried chest comprehensions, but nothing. They placed it on the stretcher and covered its shame. After maneuvering the body down the stairs, they told the widow she could come with them or drive herself to the hospital. She said she would need to put on some clothes first. She would just meet them at the hospital.

They were careful with the stretcher as they wheeled it atop the icy driveway before putting the body in the back of the ambulance.

Once inside the front of the ambulance, they turned off the flashing lights. The neighbors closed their curtains.

The usually monotone dispatcher was speaking so fast they could only make out snippets of what she was saying. More bodies. Going to be a long night. All ambulances needed. The blond EMT asked the dispatcher what the hell was going on. The dispatcher didn’t know, but the two of them had better hurry.

Once it began, it didn’t stop.

They collected the dead like pigeons gathering tossed seeds. They parked the ambulance outside homes, hotels, cars, bars, and dark alleys. After an hour they started taking them two at a time. An hour after that, they were stacking the bodies as if they were laundry.

What’s going on tonight? the dark-haired paramedic asked his partner.

I don’t know, but I’m going to need more coffee, said the blond paramedic. A pattern had emerged. It was the smell that tipped them off. The smell of sweat, perfume, and bodily fluids that both of the paramedics had been hoping to create themselves when they arrived back to their homes and their wives after their shift was over.

They didn’t yet know they would be working overtime that night and many nights after. When they did both stumble through their front doors at the end of that first shift, they wondered if they would ever be able to have sex again.

It was morbidly clear: people were fucking themselves to death.

Many died in the company of others, but just as many, if not more, died by their own hands.

It was Valentine’s Day, and people wanted to feel love or at least a release from lust. To the paramedics, each call was like shoveling snow during a blizzard. No matter how many rounds they made, the dispatcher had more and more and more bodies for them to recover.

Soon the paramedics were warning everyone they saw not only to keep their hands to themselves, but also to keep their hands from themselves.

At two in the morning, the paramedics went to Super America to refuel the ambulance. They stomped their snowy shoes on the mat as they walked into the glow of the gas station.

Did your wife answer her phone yet? the blond paramedic asked his partner.

Not yet, he said, filling up an extra large thermos with hot black coffee, but she keeps it on silent most nights. I sent her a text. You get ahold of yours?

Yeah, first time I’ve ever had to ask her not to be in the mood when I get home. What the hell is going on in this town?

I don’t know, the blond one said. He brought his coffee and Snickers up to the unattended register. After checking their watches and fretting about the stack of bodies in the ambulances, they knocked on the ladies’ room door. They peered in to find it empty. The men’s room was locked. After knocking, shouting, and finally kicking down the door, they found the teenage attendant sprawled on the toilet. One hand rested between his legs, the other hand held a wad of toilet paper. The paramedics pulled up his pants and tossed him in the back of the ambulance with the others.

The dispatcher was screaming at them when they got back into the ambulance.

What the hell is taking you two so long?

We had to stop and get gas, the blond paramedic said as his partner pulled out of the station parking lot. Picked up another body in the bathroom, then we had to lock up the gas station, so it wouldn’t get robbed.

Sure you did. Now, if you two ladies are done getting your macchiatos and discussing Downton Abbey, you can start taking those bodies to the mortician. The hospitals' morgues are full.

Chapter 2

The morning news anchors hadn’t arrived on time. Neither of them had answered their phones when the producer had called. The weatherman was told he would have to deliver the news. The Internet news websites had already broken the story, but they were all giving conflicting accounts. Nobody was really sure what was going on, but the weatherman had caught the basic drift.

He sat in the anchor chair for the first time, realizing that getting what you want is oftentimes worse than the alternative. The cute makeup artist hadn’t come in either. He shuffled the papers of copy and took long, slow breaths.

The cameraman put up his fingers to countdown.

3…2…1, and pointed to the weatherman.

Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Our top story this morning is about the pandemic that has swept across our nation…I mean the world. He shuffled his copy again, cursing himself for not being able to make it two sentences without screwing up. He took another deep breath and stared into the camera.

When he’d learned he’d be in the hot seat, the weatherman and the producer had tried to figure out the most tactful way to deliver the story. She had given him a list of words and phrases that he most certainly could not use on air to describe the phenomenon. During his long pause in front of the morning viewers, all of those phrases flashed through his mind like fire alarms.

It appears that the world is facing a catastrophe unlike any ever seen before. The death toll is unknown, but some have estimated that it may have already reached the millions. It seems…it appears… he shuffled his notes, searching for a fact to act as a life preserver while he floundered in front of the camera. Were the lights always this bright? How had he never noticed that before? He caught a glimpse of the frowning producer crossing her arms. He took one last deep breath and looked into the eye of camera. After all, it was no different than reporting a blizzard.

"People are dying. The cause seems to be…carnal relations. No, that’s not true. The cause seems to be, well, orgasms. Anybody who has an orgasm is dying, all right! Reports we are getting from the local hospitals confirm that orgasms, whether in the company of others or achieved manually, have become deadly. The President is dead. The Vice President is dead as well. Right now, as I’m reporting this to you, the Speaker of the House is getting ready to take the Oath of Office. She