Madam President, he’s here,” panted the aide as Dr Kozlov was ushered into the Emergency Operations Center. Both had obviously been running, but Shurik was obviously the fitter of the two, able to maintain his composure and breathing with ease.
“Madison,” he began, eyes widening as he realised his faux pas.
“No pleasantries needed old friend, first names are fine,” the auburn stateswoman replied, relaxing him noticeably. “These are uncertain times, and having something — someone familiar nearby is a blessing.”
Dr Kozlov, the 2022 Nobel Prize winner for his work on profiling the Clown Virus, took in his surroundings and found a reason to smile.
“You put up curtains? I didn’t realize the sun shone this far underground,” he chortled.
“You’ve already been down here?” the President asked in surprise.
“There was an outbreak at the turn of the century. Very hush hush. But all precautions were taken. All briefings were held down here.
“It was all exposed concrete — very drab. I like the update. Silences the echo too,” he said as he sat and took out his tablet.
Sliding into her chair opposite his, President Hussain let out an exhausted sigh.
“Were you part of the team who contained it last time?” she pried.
“No. Last time the virus went into remission all by itself,” he paused to allow his words to sink in.
“But perhaps that’s what it wanted us to think,” he added as he set up his report.
Brow furrowed, Madison tilted her head toward him, “Wanted us to think? You believe the virus is sentient?”
“I’m afraid so, Madam Presiden-.”
She cut him off forcefully, “Please Shurik! I’d feel more comfortable if you used my first name.”
“Of course. Formalities being part of their modus operandi,” he reminded himself.
Nodding to the aide, the room went dark as the screen lit up with a global representation of the contagions reach.
The crimson red of the infection was quickly overtaking the chalky white of those precious lives they had vowed to protect.
“Ironically the outbreak began in Egypt, I believe a homage to the jester’s origins. Quickly moving into Europe via Italy, and within a few short days the infections were identified on every continent except Antarctica. Thankfully, they’re still Clown-free.”
The President nodded, “Our last bastion of hope,” she muttered as she processed the data.
Slide after slide demonstrated the ferocity of the virus, its incredible ability to mutate, and the alarmingly high contagion rate.
Stealing his attention away from his presentation, Madison asked simply “Is there any hope? Can we stop it?”
Pursing his lips, Shurik quietly responded, “I’m afraid I can’t give you a simple answer.”
Suppressing her anger, and more importantly her fear, the President rose from her chair to reinforce her statement, “There must be a way, Shurik! You have to find a way to stop it! Imagine the ramifications if everyone contracted Clown Virus!”
“I know,” he said, “the implications horrify me too.”
The good doctor needlessly proceeded to paint the nightmarish picture of an infected world, “Going to the doctor only to have water squirted in your face by their trick flower … Sending your kids off to school knowing the teachers all wear baggy pants and oversized squeaky shoes … People other than late night talk show hosts being funny …”
“It’s an abomination not worth imagining.”
The aide couldn’t hold his tongue any more, uttering “The horror, the horror!” before realising where he was, returning his shoulders to attention, averting his gaze to the invisible horizon.
An uncomfortable silence descended, only broken by the words they were all thinking.
“A Clown in the White House,” Madison whispered.
“It couldn’t happen,” Shurik said adamantly, “I wouldn’t let that happen.”
Shaking her head, Madison asked “And how do you propose it can be avoided? Sure, it’s obvious when you see someone has been infected. Their face takes on the ridiculous visage of whichever strain of Clown Virus they’ve succumbed to — absurd make-up or fake hair or childish facial expressions; their body can even change — developing huge feet or animal features or in extreme cases, tiny hands.”
“You don’t need to explain to me the symptoms, Madison,” he said as he indicated to the aide they could cut the presentation short.
The lights came back to normal.
“You’ve already made the Constitutional Amendment so the Senate could remove a President if they became unfit to lead due to becoming a Clown,” he said in an effort to provide comfort.
“But what if they had become Clowns too?” she asked.
“It would never happen,” he placated her, “there’s no chance a majority of the government would be infected with Clown Virus and allow this insanity to happen. Putting their childish needs before the national interests? Your country’s media and citizens would put a stop to that kind of behavior quick smart.”
“You’re right,” she said, rising from her seat to walk around to him.
He stood to greet her. She reached out her hands, he resisted.
“Social distancing won’t make a lot of difference now, my friend,” she said. Her eyes full of grief.
His hands met hers and the stood for a moment in the silence, accepting the inevitable.
“Want to go for a ride, Nobel Laureate Kozlov?” she asked slyly, “I just got a new VW Beetle that a few friends recommended. It would make a good distraction.”
Shurik nodded, “Yes please Madam President, I could do with a change of scenery. Something full of life — vivid and colorful!”
As they exited the bunker, Shurik queried, “would you mind if we stopped to pick up some balloons? My elephant’s trunk is full”.
“Only if you’ll accept these flowers,” Madison replied with a jiggle of her eyebrows, as she magically revealed a stunning bouquet from her sleeve.
Laughing, they sauntered towards the elevator and their new world.
Originally published in The Junction on Medium.