The Stopover

Kyla wasn’t the only passenger wearing a surgical mask on her flight to Iceland. But after landing at Keflavík International outside of Reykjavík, her mask remained in place as she entered the arrivals concourse pulling her jammed carry-on.

Avoiding the long car rental lines, she hurried outside, fighting the urge to run. Lineups for taxis sent her to the shorter limousine queue. 

The driver jumped out, but she heaved her bag into the rear seat herself. He shrugged and got back in. "Reykjavík?"

No. Too many people. "Selfoss. Is that far?"

He pulled into traffic. "About an hour."

With crowded airplanes and airports behind her, she sank back against the soft leather, trying to relax. The driver eyed her in the mirror. She touched her mask. "I have a cold," she lied.

His face softened. "Thank you. I do not want to get sick."

No. No one wants to get sick.

They drove through a landscape like nothing she’d ever seen. An unbroken expanse of black rock, dotted with colored lichens and mosses. A cone-shaped peak rose in the distance.

"Lava fields," the driver said.

"It’s beautiful. It’s… surreal," she said, some tension leaving her.

"Like the Moon, people say."

The Moon. That would be far enough. But this will do.

She checked the time. Soon, her booked flight out of Reykjavík would depart without her. She would not arrive in Amsterdam tonight. Or the next day. Or the next. And she would not be going back to Atlanta. 

She would not be going anywhere.

Visitors could stay here ninety days without a visa. Long before then, the world would change. She’d seen the vectors. The report became public tonight. By tomorrow, airports around the globe would begin to close.

No one would be going anywhere. But it would all be too late.

"Where are you staying in Selfoss?" the driver asked.

From her purse, she pulled her business card, the hotel address scribbled hastily on the back. A photograph came with it, falling face-up onto her lap.

She stared at the photo for a breath, then handed the driver her card.

He read the address for the boarding house, then read her card. "Center for Disease Control? You work there?"

The face in her lap smiled up at her. Her fingers brushed the lips. Forgive me. Folding the photo, she returned it to her purse. "Not anymore."