novelraw Chapter 142: Lockdown
Chapter 142: Lockdown
<🎧 Song Recommendation: Breakeven by The Script>
...
{Hypoxia-19 Spreads Nationwide: The President Gives Warning One Week Into Emergency Declaration.}
{Just one week after declaring a National State of Emergency, the White House addressed a terrified nation this morning, painting a grim picture of the weeks ahead.
"Things aren’t looking good," the President stated during a heavily restricted press briefing. "The rapid transmission rate of Hypoxia-19 is unlike anything our modern medical infrastructure has ever faced."
The virus, colloquially dubbed "The H" by the public, isn’t entirely new. Intelligence and medical agencies identified clusters of the respiratory illness abroad as early as two months ago.
However, the severity of the pathogen was largely downplayed by international authorities until it reached American soil in a deeply public fashion.
The turning point occurred just a week ago when Rex Sterling, the multi-millionaire CEO of Cloudary Holdings and founder of Project: Star, became the first highly publicized domestic case.
Sterling collapsed on live television from sudden, severe oxygen deprivation — the hallmark symptom of H-19 — moments before he was scheduled to present the Breakthrough Artist of the Year award at the Indie Music Awards in Los Angeles.
Sterling currently remains in a medically induced coma at Cedars-Sinai. His sudden incapacitation sent immediate shockwaves through the corporate and entertainment sectors, triggering a massive sell-off on Wall Street.
The panic has thoroughly gripped the masses. Supermarket shelves across the country have been stripped bare.
Just yesterday, the CDC reported over five thousand new confirmed cases, a staggering spike that has overwhelmed hospitals in major metropolitan areas.
State governors are tightening lockdown measures, warning citizens that...}
Von tapped the screen of his tablet, closing the browser window. He let out a long sigh that echoed slightly in the quiet space.
He was sitting in the open-air cabana by the massive infinity pool of the Pinecrest estate. The Florida sun was shining brightly, the water was crystal clear, and the palm trees swayed in a gentle breeze.
It was a picture-perfect morning, entirely disconnected from the apocalyptic reality unfolding on the news.
Over a week had passed since the chaotic escape from Los Angeles. By Tuesday morning, exactly as Von had predicted, the President had dropped the hammer. A National State of Emergency was declared.
Commercial flights were grounded entirely. Borders were sealed shut. The news cycle was a relentless, 24-hour loop of infection numbers and stock market crashes.
As he had guessed, navigating the fallout was a lot more difficult than he expected.
But on the bright side, his people were safe.
After their phone call in the SUV, Alex had eventually realized the severity of the situation.
He skipped his Hollywood party, booked a commercial red-eye flight, and managed to return to Miami just hours before the FAA grounded domestic travel.
Noah and the guys from Midnight Pulse had similarly scrambled out of California, making it back to their respective home states just as the lockdown borders snapped shut.
The virus was terrible, but from a purely business standpoint, it wasn’t bad news for Von.
The exact opposite, actually.
The physical world had shut down as he predicted and now Von’s investments were currently paying out astronomical dividends.
Footsteps sounded against the stone pavers.
Emily walked into the cabana, wearing sun glasses and casual clothes.
She had decided to stay with Von at the Pinecrest compound for the foreseeable future. Unlike Zack, who was currently weathering the lockdown out in Central Florida, Emily hadn’t actually purchased a permanent home in Miami yet.
Staying at the fortified estate was the safest and most efficient option, even if she insisted on covering her own living expenses to maintain her professional boundaries.
"They’re all bleeding out," Emily said, resting her chin on her hand as she slumped onto the outdoor sofa directly across from him. "Live Nation, WWR, Colorado, Cloudary... the whole board is red. Everyone is losing tens of millions of dollars today trying to untangle their tour contracts and refund venue deposits."
She set her tablet down on the glass table and just stared at him.
"You refused to let me book a tour," Emily said slowly, piecing it all together.
"You rushed to buy this compound months ago. You invested all that money into stockst before the market crashed. You made us take that outbreak seriously from the start."
Von already knew where this was going. He leaned back in his chair, playing innocent, and raised both hands in a gesture of denial.
"Can’t we agree it was a coincidence?"
Emily narrowed her eyes. "Yeah, right. I’m not buying that anymore. You definitely saw all this coming."
Von didn’t deny it a second time. He just offered a small, mysterious smirk.
"Well. Who knows? And even if I did, what difference does it make? Do you think I can see the future?"
"Well, of course you can," Emily scoffed. "Now tell me, what’s the secret to immortality, and exactly what date are the aliens coming to Earth?"
"Haha. I wish."
"Seriously though. What are your plans? I’m hearing that this lockdown might last a few months. The government isn’t letting anyone outside. You can’t just do nothing while the world burns."
The question made Von think. He looked out at the pristine blue water of the pool.
"I didn’t really plan that far ahead," Von admitted truthfully. "But well, there’s a massive studio right inside this house. If I really have to, I’ll make Patch come down here, and we’ll make some songs in the meantime. Give the fans something to listen to while they’re trapped inside. I’m not entirely sure what the rollout would look like yet, though."
Before Emily could answer, the glass sliding door from the main house opened. Olivia walked into the cabana, holding a sanitized cardboard shipping box in one hand and a silver letter opener in the other.
"Mail just got cleared by security," Olivia said, setting the box down in the center of the patio table and taking a seat herself. "It’s from the Indie Awards committee."
Because the broadcast had been violently cut short by Rex’s collapse, the committee hadn’t rescheduled a private ceremony. They had simply certified the final voting tallies the next morning and posted the results online without any fanfare.
Von sat forward. He took the letter opener and sliced through the heavy packing tape. He reached in, pulled back layers of thick bubble wrap, and lifted out a heavy, crystal-clear glass trophy. It was beautifully carved into the shape of a vintage studio microphone.
The engraved metal plate at the bottom read: Breakthrough Artist of the Year – Von.
Emily smiled proudly. "Five wins out of seven nominations. You officially tied the Pink Lions’ all-time record."
Von looked at the engraving for a moment, then set the fifth trophy down on the table next to his tablet.
It was a sweep, indeed. It was the absolute peak of a debut year.
But the victory felt incredibly strange. He had completely conquered the independent music scene, but there were no after-parties to attend, no clubs to pop champagne in, and no crowds to perform for.
The world had locked its doors. Now, they just had to wait.
"So, about that..."
***
By day twelve of the lockdown, the massive Pinecrest estate had settled into a relatively peaceful routine.
Max had already moved into one of the massive guest wings a few days before the LA trip, effectively making himself a permanent resident.
Following Von’s suggestion, Patch, who was luckily in Miami for private reasons, had agreed to come down to stay in the Pinecrest Mansion.
The eccentric producer was now completely locked in the estate’s studio wing, descending into a state of creativity since he had nowhere else to be and a good budget for plugins.
Von had spent the better part of the morning in his expansive master bedroom, reviewing vocal mixes on his laptop and tweaking EQ levels. But mentally, the isolation was starting to itch at his brain.
The adrenaline high of the awards show sweep had completely faded, replaced by a restless desire to do something thrilling.
He sat at his desk, staring blankly at the audio waveforms on his screen. He reached for his mug and realized he had completely finished the coffee Olivia had brought him hours ago.
Coffee was a strange new vice. In his past life, he loved foods a lot and mostly ate junk, he could never settle for something boring.
But in this new life, with access to imported beans and a personal chef, he had come to love coffee. Sometimes, he even got worried about his daily consumption.
Looking at the empty porcelain cup, he decided he didn’t want to bother anyone.
"I’ve barely walked around today anyway," Von muttered to himself, stretching his arms over his head. "There are still my daily quests for tonight, too. Need to get some steps in."
Von slipped on a pair of comfortable slides, grabbed his empty mug, and walked out of his room into the massive, echoing hallway of the second floor.
The house was usually quiet during the day. But as Von descended the grand, sweeping marble staircase toward the main floor, he heard loud shouting coming from the west wing.
"Chat, I’m telling you, this is purely a texture issue! It feels like I’m chewing on an expensive ocean sponge..."
Von frowned at the incoherable words, altering his path toward the open-concept kitchen.
"Signore Max, please. It isn’t to have a crunch factor. It is to melt."
Von peeked around the marble archway and froze.
The pristine, architectural-digest-worthy kitchen looked like a war zone.
One entire corner of the massive marble island was overflowing with a chaotic mix of culinary tools, half-empty bags of junk food, opened boxes of dry cereal, and a dozen dirty plates.
There was a camera tripod propped up on top of a stack of dirty dinner plates to get the right angle.
Max was currently sitting on a barstool, wearing a black silk blindfold over his eyes.
Standing opposite him was Marcello. Marcello was wearing his usually white chef’s coat, which now had an odd orange cheese stain near the pocket.
He was holding a pair of silver tweezers, looking like a man whose entire life’s work was being insulted.
Marcello was feeding the blindfolded Max from different plates, and he did not look eager about doing it.
Max chewed loudly, his face contorting in thought.
"Okay, wait. Let me get another taste. Is this the truffle one?"
Marcello sighed, dropping his hands to his sides.
"Un disastro," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head at the mess around them. "I thinks it has to stop. Everywhere is a mess."
Von stepped closer and Marcello’s head snapped up. Upon seeing his employer, the old chef completely froze.
He immediately dropped the tweezers onto the counter, crossed his hands respectfully in front of his apron, and took a quick step back, looking exactly like a man who had been caught committing a terrible crime.
Max, unable to see what was happening, just chewed his food happily.
"My food is better, Marcello. Don’t you think so, chat?"
"I’m telling you, the chili-cheese corn chip completely bodies the Wagyu beef. It’s just science."
Max waited for a response. When the kitchen remained completely silent, he began to wonder what was going on.
"Cello? You good, bro?"
Max reached up and pulled the blindfold off his eyes. He turned to look in the direction Marcello was staring, and he saw Von standing near the archway, holding an empty coffee mug, staring at the towering pile of dirty plates and the camera tripod.
"What’s going on here?"