Public Enemy Zero by Andrew Mayne Page A

broadcasting school, he’d learned the quickest way to feel confident was to assume the posture of someone who looked confident, even when you were alone. He turned around and hopped up and sat on the counter. For a moment, he would try to think of a reason why certain people were trying to kill him.
    If the girl by the side of the road hadn’t attacked him, he would have thought that something happened to him at the radio station. But she had. If he’d been attacked by Rookman or Bonnie or the old man at the gas station, things would make more sense. Why not them but everyone else? It couldn’t be proximity. He was much closer to most of them than anybody else.
    Mitchell looked at his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror, hoping for the more confident version of himself to give him an answer.
    It did.
    “ Rookman, Bonnie and the gas station dude were behind glass, dumbass,” said Mitch.
    Fuck.
    Mitchell thought back over the last two weeks since he’d been sick. When was the last time he’d actually been face to face with anyone who wasn’t behind glass or on a Skype screen? He hadn’t.
    What was the most significant thing that happened between the time when people just ignored him and when they wanted to murder him on sight?
    Getting sick.
    What did he come down with? Reverse rabies? Could there even be such a thing?
    It was stupid, but it made the most sense for the time being. It gave him something to think around. Rather than thinking it was something so far beyond his understanding or involving a cosmic-level conspiracy, that hypothesis was something he could deal with on a rational level.
    Seeing him wasn’t what made people want to kill him. It was something in the air. Something he gave off, either his scent or something else like a fast-acting virus. Maybe it was like the pheromones bees gave off when it was time to attack? Did getting sick mess up his pheromones and tell people to kill him?
    It didn’t matter for the moment. Knowing that it was scent or something else he gave off allowed him to focus on the problem. The key to his immediate survival was going to be to avoid having people smell him or breathe the air near him. Handing out gasmasks or finding a spacesuit weren’t practical solutions. Until the authorities understood what was going on, he had to avoid them as well.
    Mitch hopped off the counter and walked through the house, checking the windows and doors again. Everything was locked down. Not that it mattered if the police surrounded the house. They’d have no trouble getting inside.
    Mitch walked back into the bathroom and splashed some water under his arms and on his chest. He dried off using toilet paper. No time for a shower, he just wanted to get some of the sweat and smell of fear off of him.
    He looked back at the reflection. “What now?”
    “ Find out what’s going on and move to someplace else.”
    He pulled out his iPhone. It was still turned off. Could they locate it when he powered it on?
    He knew they could trace phone calls, but what about just the phone? There was a “Find my phone” function that used GPS and WiFi spots to find iPods and iPads. All he had to do to use that was to log into his Mobile.me account and click a button to see where the device was.
    Fuck. His iPad. Mitchell put his phone into his pocket and ran to his backpack. He pulled out his iPad and pressed the Home button. It was on.
    He quickly powered it down.
    He knew the odds were against them having gotten a search warrant and accessed his account to trace him. But there was that small chance. He could take a risk or he could assume the safe house was blown.
    The scared Mitchell wanted to just stay there or, better yet, go hide in the attic. The Mitch he caught a glimpse of in the mirror knew it was a bad idea to stay. The more he tried to guess the risk on things like that, the more likely he was to put himself in harm’s way.
    Something Mitchell had put at the back of his mind finally made