The Yawn

Yawning is contagious, but what if it’s also deadly?

Photo by Bill Adler

The loudest thunderclap Joaquin ever heard rocked the Starbucks window so violently he was sure the glass would shatter. Only it didn’t. And it wasn’t a thunderclap. Glints of daylight broke through the openings between the sheets of paper that the cafe’s occupants had covered the window with. Whatever threatened them wasn’t the weather.

Mia, a lobbyist, who, along with Joaquin and Adam, was one of the three customers, tiptoed to the window, moving as silently as her heels would let her. She extended her forefinger and thumb to pry back the paper and peek out.

Joaquin rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’m not sure that’s wise,” he whispered. “We don’t want the outside world to know we’re here.” Joaquin was built like a linebacker. His touch was gentle but firm.

Mia turned to Joaquin and narrowed her eyes while she considered his opinion.

“We don’t,” Adam agreed. He powered off his Kindle and slipped it into his backpack. Adam, a software engineer, was a morning regular, inseparable from his Kindle and extra tall lattes. “The messages said don't look outside.”

Heather stepped from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. “I think we’d better find out what’s out there.” She nodded at her co-worker, Yoshiko, the only other staff member working at 7:15 a.m., hoping for agreement. On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, management expected that even in notoriously workaholic Washington, DC, the morning rush for coffee would be a fraction of its normal franticness. Two staff members would be sufficient from opening until 10 a.m. Heather and Yoshiko had drawn the short straws.

Yoshiko bit her lip and said, “I don’t know if we should look.”

Joaquin turned to Heather. “Maybe whatever’s going on will just end on its own accord. Maybe it’s self-limiting.”

“And maybe it’s a bomb with a bigger one coming,” Heather said. “Knowledge is power. Please pull back the paper just enough to peek out.”

Twenty minutes earlier, they had locked the door, wedged a table against it, and covered the window with every piece of paper they could find—napkins, coupons, newspapers, magazines, paperback pages, flyers, receipt rolls, an urgent and sensible response to witnessing everyone on the street simultaneously die. Terrifying news exploded on their phones.

“The plague spreads by sight.”

“Don’t look at strangers!”

“Real life or in a picture, doesn’t matter. If you see it, it kills you.”

“Turn off your phone now! Turn off the TV! Close the blinds. Don’t go out!”

Messages pummeled social media with lethal warnings, cautioning the entire world to barricade itself inside and sever all electronic communications.

The five Starbucks’ occupants powered off their phones and slapped them face down on the tables.

Heather and Yoshiko unplugged the store’s cash register, wifi node, and displays. They cut themselves off from the outside world.

Mia pried back a napkin and pressed her nose to the glass. “There’s a huge limo with its front bumper against the building. That’s what made the bang.”

“Some driver must have keeled over because of..this...whatever this is. Died, then crashed,” Adam said. “I don’t want to see more dead people. Please re-cover the window.”

Mia’s lips quivered and her voice cracked. “There are also two guys in suits with machine guns pointed at the door like they’re about to shoot their way in.” She gulped. “There’s a woman between them.” Mia hesitated while her brain caught up with the sight before her eyes. “Carol Perez, the president of the United States.”

A fist pounded the door.

“Open,” the voice blared. “Open this door now.”

Heather and Adam moved the table away from the door while Yoshiko unlocked it. A split second after the lock clicked, the door burst open, knocking Yoshiko over. Her head hit a table, releasing a copious flow of blood. She caught the table’s edge, thwarting a fall to the floor, but not before tearing a gash in her leg. She wobbled into a chair.

“You okay?” Heather asked.

“Hurts. But I don’t see stars or anything.” Yoshiko ran her fingertips along her hair and sensed a large bump. Her blood-matted hair stuck to her neck, and blood oozed from her leg.

Joaquin passed Yoshiko a wad of napkins, which she pressed to her injuries. She stood.

“Stay where you are!” one of the Secret Service agents shouted. He painted the room with his FN P90 submachine gun. “Everyone against the wall. Keep your hands out of your pockets and in the air. Move slowly.” He turned to the other agent. “Willis, take the door. Consider anyone entering a hostile.”

“Kevin,” the President said. “There’s no need to point your weapon toward these people. We’re in this impossible situation together. I don’t think anyone here is a threat. Lower your gun. We’re fine, as long as nobody yawns.” Perez’s voice resonated like a general’s. At five feet ten inches, with piercing, emerald eyes, and long, auburn hair, her mere presence commanded any room she was in.

“Yawns?” Yoshiko asked. “What’s this about yawns?” She furrowed her brow as she extricated a memory from her throbbing head.

“You haven’t heard?” President Perez asked.

Everyone shook their heads.

“No,” Yoshiko added. “We don’t know what’s going on. We turned off our phones.”

“Tell them,” Perez ordered. “Meanwhile, this is a Starbucks and I need a coffee. Can somebody help me with that?”

“I’d be delighted, Madam President,” Heather said. “How do you like your—?”

“Anything will be fine. Just as long as it’s fast.”

“Madam President, would you mind taking a seat at that table?” Agent Kevin Trembly said, extending his hand toward the table in the corner, the farthest away from the door. “It’s the most secure location here.”

Trembly removed his mirrored sunglasses and studied each of the Starbucks occupants. He caught Adam’s serpent tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve and spent a few extra seconds examining him. His finger never wandered from the trigger.

“At 4:04 a.m. local time, TV anchor John Goldenring yawned on live television during Sunrise America. That’s not surprising—sometimes morning show hosts can’t help but yawn because to start work at four, they’re up before two. Only this morning, everyone in the studio yawned right after Goldenring. From the report we received, it appears that the television audience yawned, too. And those who saw the TV viewers yawn—family members, friends—yawned as well.”

“Yawning is contagious,” Mia said.

“Right,” Agent Trembly continued. “Seconds later, everyone who yawned was dead.”

Joaquin gasped.

Adam dropped his latte.

The President took the floor. “Yawning is instantly contagious and one-hundred percent fatal. If you see somebody yawn, you yawn. Seconds after yawning, you die.” She shook her head. “This is the deadliest plague the world has ever known, unstoppable, with the potential to wipe out humanity before the week is over. It almost killed me. We were on our way to a prayer breakfast when my Homeland Secretary called to inform me about the yawning plague. We took refuge in the closest place, this Starbucks, because there was little chance we'd make it back to the White House. The rest of my motorcade is dead.”

Heather handed the President a coffee cup with POTUS written on the side.

President Perez continued, “The Vice President, Speaker of the House, and over half the cabinet are dead. The rest of the cabinet are probably still asleep, but when they wake, they’ll catch a yawn, too. Based on the scattershot information we were able to get, Europe, South America, and Asia are mostly gone, except for the more remote and sparsely populated regions.” She held her cup tightly. “My national security advisor, who was sitting beside me, was looking out the window as we headed up Connecticut Avenue. He must have seen someone on the street yawn because suddenly the muscles around his jaw tightened, and his mouth began to open wide for a yawn.”

“I shot him in the head,” Agent Trembly said. “I shot him before he could yawn.”

“So, here we are,” the President said. “We made it just in time.” She glanced at her watch. “The question is, what do we do now? Will this plague burn out, or are we stuck in this Starbucks until we run out of food and water and die?” She took in a deep breath of coffee-scented air. “Or until one of us gets sleepy and yawns."

Yoshiko cleared her throat. “We broadcast a message.”

“What kind of message?” Trembly asked.

Yoshiko reached into her backpack, retrieved a pack of white surgical masks and passed them out. “First, everyone put one on. Then I’ll explain.”

The President raised an eyebrow. “Yes, of course. The mask covers our face,” she said. “If we can’t see a yawn, we can’t catch it.” She donned her mask.

“Exactly. We’re safe for now.”

“For now?” Mia asked. “How do we eat or drink? Do we have to wear these masks for the rest of our lives?”

Yoshiko locked eyes with the president. “Can you broadcast a message to the entire country?”

“Through the Presidential Emergency Alert System, I can text every phone in America. What message?”

“Tell everyone to wear face masks.”

“Most Americans don’t have face masks at home.”

“Bandanas and scarves will work, too.” Yoshiko tightened her mask’s straps. “Or ripped pillowcases with holes for the eyes, but not the mouth. Whatever they wear needs to stay on for twenty-four hours.”

“Why twenty-four hours?” Joaquin asked.

“Japanese are fond of surgical masks. Visitors naturally assume we wear them to prevent colds or the flu, or to keep pollen out of our lungs. And that’s true. We wear them to prevent sickness. Some women wear them when they don’t want to put on makeup but need to go to the store for a quick trip. Sometimes people don masks to increase the social distance between them and strangers. But none of those reasons are why the Japanese mask-wearing custom began.”

Everyone focused on Yoshiko, except for the two now-masked Secret Service agents, who remained at attention, their eyes in constant motion.

Yoshiko continued, “Wearing masks started three centuries ago when a plague like this one struck the northern island of Hokkaido. Yawns spread from person to person, killing everyone. Nobody was immune, not samurai, priests, or royalty. The yawns killed as swiftly and assuredly as a sword to the heart. Hokkaido was a sparsely populated, isolated place, so the plague didn’t spread beyond the island, but over five thousand people perished. The first masks were made of cloth, but they worked. After a day in which everyone wore masks, the plague stopped.”

“Does everyone have to wear a mask?” Mia asked as she adjusted her mask’s straps.

Yoshiko nodded.

“Are you saying that a virus that originated in Japan three hundred years ago is the cause of this pandemic?” President Perez asked.

“It’s not a virus.”

A puzzled expression covered the president's face.

“It’s a yokai. A ghost.” She paused a beat, as if terrified of the next word. “Gushiken.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Agent Trembly said. “There’s no such thing.”

“If there’s no such thing as ghosts, how do you explain today? The wall between our world and the spirit world is porous. Numerous ghosts pass through every day, but the wall keeps out the most horrifying ghosts most of the time because their large essence can’t squeeze through the small openings.”

“But not this time?” President Perez asked.

“Not this time. Gushiken is a powerful ghost, able to break through the wall between realms. What’s worse is that for the first time Gushiken now rides the wave of technology. In previous eras, Gushiken had to travel from person to person, but in the internet and television age, he spreads via TV, Facetime, phones, and social media.”

“Gushiken?”

“Shogun Tsunayoshi sent Taishiro Gushiken to Hokkaido in 1700 to help unite Japan. The shogun’s rival, Hagihara, captured, imprisoned, and tortured Gushiken by keeping him awake for ten days, ringing large brass bells in his ears, waving lanterns in front of his face, and forcing wasabi down his throat, until Gushiken died from lack of sleep. Gushiken’s ghost wears a deadly yawn.”

Mia said, “I don't understand. How can a ghost affect the entire world? I thought ghosts were limited in scope.”

“How can gravity bend space-time? How can quantum particles on opposite sides of the universe affect each other instantly? All I can tell you is what’s true.”

Yoshiko locked eyes with the President. “Broadcasting an alert to wear masks will stop this yokai because Gushiken will return to its realm once it realizes it can no longer kill.”

The President pivoted to Trembly. “Do it. Somebody must still be alive in the bunker or at the Pentagon. Get the word out now.”

Trembly spoke rapidly into his walkie-talkie, activating the Presidential Alert.

The radio returned a reply, “Affirmative.”

“We need to prepare," Yoshiko said. “Gushiken knows we are ruining its plan. It will come for us. It will find us and kill us to try to stop us, and if it fails at that, it will kill us for revenge.”

“That’s insane,” Joaquin said. “How do we defend against a ghost?”

Something large crashed against the exterior window, cracking fissures in the glass. An enormous shadow wrapped itself around the surrounding buildings, darkness shrouding everything like a sudden eclipse. Outside, a million locusts buzzed.

“Gushiken is here. It knows.”

The Secret Service agents powered up their flashlights, lightsabers piercing the darkness. They aimed their weapons at the door a moment before the door shattered. Airborne book-sized shards of glass instantly killed Adam, Mia, Heather, and Joaquin. Agents Trembly and Willis stood on either side of President Perez, forming a protective shield. The wind ripped off their masks. A preternatural creature of smoke and skeleton with rotting, bulbous flesh glared at the Secret Service agents, its mouth frozen in a yawn.

Trembly's body shook like it was caught in a tornado, and his last thought before dying was, How can I be yawning and terrified at the same time?

A few seconds later, Agent Willis and the President yawned and died.

Yoshiko slashed her wound with her fingernails, spilling blood everywhere. She laid her head on the table, her arms dangling like broken branches. She closed her eyes, pressed her face to the tabletop, held her breath, and willed her heart to slow to near-nothingness, mimicking the dead. Yoshiko remained motionless until she felt the sunlight warm her skin.

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If you enjoyed The Yawn, I think you’ll like my story, Lockdown.