Free Fever (Flu) by Wayne Simmons Page B

today were brand new, hardly out of their packaging. Martin wasn’t going to let them go for pennies. He’d rather give them to charity.
    He spotted an Indian family. They were usually good for a sale, descending like hawks, mid-morning, filling plastic bags with clothes and toys for their children, anything they couldn’t get cheaper elsewhere. Martin recognised them. He’d seen them haggling in the local shops, broken English sounding aggressive to whatever old dear was manning the till.
    “How much for the tape?”
    Martin looked around, finding an old man waving a roll of half-used masking tape. He wore a white string vest, formidable belly hanging over belted trousers, bare arms sun-scorched and covered with white hair.
    “A pound,” Martin told him.
    The old man sniffed, turned his face up and set the roll back on the table. “Fifty pence,” he said without looking at Martin.
    “Pound,” Martin said, reaching his hand over to ruffle the head of Fred.
    The old man smiled, sticking his hand into his trousers pockets and jingling change. A rucksack hung from his shoulders, packed full. “Is the dog for sale?” he said smiling, then handed Martin a pound.
    “You wouldn’t want him,” Martin said, already sick of the quip he’d heard about twenty times that day.
    The old man dropped his rucksack, unzipped it and placed the masking tape inside. Martin noticed some other rolls in there along with a clear plastic tub filled with nails and screws.
    He noticed Martin staring. “Stocking up,” he said. “For the end of the world.”
    “That so,” Martin said.
    He knew the old boy as one of the regulars from the boot sale. A bit of a head-melter, always preaching to all and sundry about the latest conspiracy theory he’d picked up from some book he’d just read. No harm in him, mind. Usually filed along quietly, once you looked bored enough.
    But today the old fellow was keen. He pulled a crumpled brown envelope from his rucksack. He looked over his shoulder, as if whatever new top secret he was about to divulge hadn’t been shared to every other stall holder. He opened the envelope, carefully removed what looked to be a glossy leaflet. He placed it on top of Martin’s pasting table, spreading it out flat, clearing stock to make room.
    “These are going out next week,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “I’ve a friend in the know.” He smiled mischievously. “If you ask me,” he continued, voice still low, face beaming as if this were all good news being shared, “I’d say it was all them wars landed us in this shit.” His eyes rolled slightly backwards, gesturing towards the Indian family, the mother shifting through a cardboard box of old toys and showing them to a disinterested child in a buggy. “Probably one of them biological attacks you hear about...”
    Martin said nothing, simply flicking through the brightly coloured leaflet detailing methods to prevent the spread of germs. There were pictures on every page with smiling, middle-class mothers helping to fit yellow surgical masks over the faces of their children. Other pictures showed a calm workman, also wearing a mask, stepping back to admire the handiwork of a window he’d fully covered with clear plastic using the same sort of masking tape Martin had just sold. All measures your family should take in the unlikely event of the flu virus becoming a ‘Stage 2 Pandemic’.
    Of course, none of it mattered. Just nonsense some joker on the internet had dreamed up from his bedroom. Fairly well done, mind.
    Martin handed the brochure back, blowing some air out of his mouth.
    “I’m telling you,” the old man protested, reading Martin’s mind, “This is the real Mc Coy!” He was getting more and more worked up. A volley of spittle left his mouth.
    Martin felt Fred’s hackles prick up under his hand and instinctually grabbed the dog’s collar. “Not saying there’s no truth in it,” he said. “So calm yourself down, okay?”
    The