Plague: A gripping suspense thriller about an incurable outbreak in Miami

by Graham Masterton

  Manny said quietly, ‘Very well. We will agree to an adjournment until the present national crisis has passed.’

  Judge Secombe said, ‘Adjourned sine die,’ and rose. The court rose, too, and people began to shuffle out.

  While Manny Friedman busied himself gathering his papers, Ivor Glantz sat still, his head in his hands. Esmeralda came and sat next to him, and stroked his few sparse curls.

  ‘Papa,’ she said. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’

  He grunted. Then he smiled warmly, and took her hand. ‘Don’t mind me,’ he said. ‘I’m disappointed, that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she reassured him. ‘As soon at the plague is over, you can apply for the hearing to continue.’

  Ivor rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘The way this plague’s spreading, that could be never. If it goes on like this, we’ll all be six feet underground by the time this action gets heard.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s that serious, do you?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. What disturbs me is that they don’t have any way to cure it. We’re all so used to living in a society that protects us with drugs and medicines that when we’re exposed to something really deadly, we don’t take proper precautions.’

  ‘Come on, Ivor,’ Manny Friedman said. ‘This whole thing will fade away in two weeks, just like swine ’flu did. One minute it’s panic stations, the next minute everybody’s saying, “Plague? what plague? I never heard of no plague!”’

  Friedman led the way out of the courtroom. ‘What will you do now?’ he asked over his shoulder. ‘Do you want to see if you can bring the action forward to a specific date?’

  Ivor shook his head. ‘I don’t know yet. This thing has cost me a goddamned mint as it is. I have five corporations wetting their pants to buy this process, and until I can clear it through the courts, I’m fucked.’

  Outside the courthouse, in the humid afternoon sun, they met Sergei Forward and his attorney. Forward came up to Ivor with his hand extended, and a watery smile on his lean, Nordic features.

  ‘I hope there are no tough feelings,’ he said.

  Ivor ignored the Finn’s hand, and pulled a face.

  ‘It is our patriotic duty, you know – as Americans,’ Forward added.

  Ivor turned and stared at him. ‘You’ve been an American for precisely four months,’ he said sarcastically. ‘When I need lessons in patriotism from you. I’ll pack my case and go live in Russia.’

  Manny Friedman took Ivor’s arm. ‘Come on, Ivor, don’t get involved in a fight. He’s up to something, and there’s no point in losing your cool until you know what it is.’

  Ivor shouted angrily, ‘No half-baked Finnish quack is going to—’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ insisted Friedman, and pulled Ivor away. ‘I’m your attorney, and when I say leave off, I say it for your own good.’

  Esmeralda, following close behind, said, ‘He’s right, papa. Let’s just have a drink and forget about it.’

  Ivor surrendered, and took his stepdaughter’s hand. ‘Okay, Es. You win. I could do with a quart of Scotch right now.’

  They walked around the block to the meter where Esmeralda’s Skylark was parked. Manny climbed into the back, and Esmeralda herself was about to get in when someone called, ‘Miss Baxter!’

  Esmeralda turned. A tall, good-looking young man in a pale suit was waving to her across the street. ‘Are you calling me?’ she asked.

  The young man dodged a passing cab, and came across the street. He was a little out of breath. He had dark, slightly Italian looks, with black curly hair, a straight nose, and a firmly-cleft chin.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind. Miss Baxter,’ he said, ‘but I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time. You are the Esmeralda Baxter who runs Esmeralda’s gallery, aren’t you?’

  Esmeralda looked puzzled. ‘That’s right, I am. But should I know you? I don’t recall your face.’

  The young man grinned. ‘Oh – I’m sorry. My name’s Charles Thurston. Charles Thurston III, actually, but my father and my grandfather were so undistinguished that nobody gets confused. I write books on art. Maybe you saw my book on Man Ray.’

  Esmeralda blushed slightly. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t. Listen – do you want to make an appointment to see me? I’m pretty tied up right now.’

  ‘Can I call you at the gallery?’

  ‘Well, sure.’

  Unexpectedly, Charles Thurston III lifted Esmeralda’s hand and kissed it. ‘You know something,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you and I will get along like a house on fire.’ Afterwards, as they drove back to Concorde Tower, Ivor said caustically, ‘Did you see the way he kissed your hand? Goddamned almost swallowed it. Maybe kids these days don’t get enough to eat.’

  ‘Oh, papa,’ Esmeralda protested. ‘He’s not a kid. In fact I think he’s rather gracious.’

  *

  In the plush quietness of their condominium, Mr. and Mrs. Victor Blaufoot tried again and again to call their daughter Rebecca in Florida. Each time, the lines were busy. After five hours of dialing, Mrs. Blaufoot went and sat at one end of the shot-silk settee, fiddling restlessly with her large diamond engagement ring, and biting her lips in endless nervousness.

  Mr. Blaufoot came up and put his arm gently around her shoulders. ‘The lines,’ he said, ‘they’re bound to be busy. It’s a crisis. But don’t worry. If she’s in trouble, she’ll find some way to let us know. She always has, hasn’t she? Always, when there’s a problem.’

  Mrs. Blaufoot suddenly started to weep. Her tears dropped on the rug.

  ‘But what if she’s dead?’ she cried miserably. ‘What if she’s caught that plague, and she’s dead? How could she call us then?’

  At five-twenty, Kenneth Garunisch announced on television that the Medical Workers’ Union were coming out on strike, after the failure of negotiations with the federal government for emergency pay increases during the plague crisis. There would be no porters, no hospital cleaners, no janitors, no administration assistants, no sanitation engineers, no ambulance maintenance men, no electricians, no pharmacy assistants.

  The government insisted that to pay emergency rates would be to surrender to ‘heinous moral blackmail’ and that it would create ‘a disturbing and destructive precedent.’

  On the six o’clock news, an outbreak of possible plague was reported at Newport News, and the ban on sea bathing was extended northwards to Delaware Bay. Residents of cities and towns along the eastern seaboard were urged to remain calm, and not to take hasty or ill-considered action. All airlines reported heavy bookings for westbound flights, and the Highway Patrol said that traffic through the Alleghenies was well above seasonal norms.

  Quiet fear began to spread throughout the eastern states, but nobody knew quite how bad the plague was, or what to do about it, because the press and television were still keeping a low profile. Nobody knew that four hundred people – men, women and children – had been shot dead by the Army and National Guardsmen while trying to escape from quarantined areas.

  *

  Edgar Paston ate a quiet dinner at his home in Elizabeth, New Jersey. His wife Tammy had come home from the telephone company half-an-hour early, and had made a chocolate pudding. Edgar sat at the round table with its red check tablecloth, silently spooning the pudding into his mouth, and thinking.

  ‘You’re awful quiet,’ said Tammy, bustling into the dining room in her apron. She was a short, big-breasted woman of 33, with wiry blonde hair and plump cheeks.

  ‘I was thinking,’ said Edgar.

  ‘You’re not still worried about those kids?’

  He sighed, chasing the last spoonful of chocolate around his bowl. ‘No, I guess I’ve reconciled myself to that. I was thinking about this epidemic, this plague.’

  ‘What about it? It’s miles away! I mean – how far is Georgia from New Jersey?’

  ‘I don’t know. Eight hundred miles, I guess.’

  ‘Well, then.’

  Edgar Paston laid down his spo
on and pushed his plate away. ‘It’s eight hundred miles away today, Tam – but how long is it going to take to get here? I mean, I’m kind of worried.’

  Tammy took his plate away, and flapped some crumbs off the table with her apron. She kissed him loudly on the forehead.

  ‘The television said it wasn’t going to spread too far, and that nobody should worry about it, or panic. If the television says that, well…’

  Edgar pushed his chair neatly under the table, and followed Tammy into the kitchen to help with the washing up.

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ he said. ‘They don’t usually put anything on the television unless it’s true. All the same, I think we ought to have some kind of emergency plan, in case the plague does spread.’

  Tammy stacked the dishes in the dishwasher while Edgar rinsed them under the tap. Their kitchen was simple and modern, and decorated in candy-apple red. On the wall was a color print of fall tints in the Catskills, and a wrought-iron profile of President Eisenhower.

  ‘Emergency plan?’ asked Tammy. ‘Eddie – I don’t think we have to. You remember the last time we had an emergency plan, during Cuba? You spent the whole weekend digging a hole in the garden for an atom shelter!’

  Edgar laughed at the memory of it. ‘I guess you’re right, Tam. I guess I made a fool of myself over that.’

  After they had washed and wiped the dishes, they went into their yellow-decorated living-room and joined their children, 10-year-old Marvin and 14-year-old Chrissie.

  Both children were watching television. Edgar asked, ‘Is there any more news about the plague?’

  Chrissie said, ‘Nothing much, dad. They said they had some people in isolation at Newport News, but they didn’t know if they were sick with the plague.’

  ‘Newport News? I though they only had the plague in Georgia.’

  ‘Well,’ she shrugged, ‘that’s what they said. They’re going to have another speech by the President later.’

  Edgar frowned. ‘That doesn’t sound too healthy. I just hope the darned thing doesn’t spread up this way.’

  ‘Dad – what’s plague?’ Marvin said.

  Edgar Paston blinked. ‘Plague? Well, it’s a kind of disease. You know, a real serious disease, that you can die of.’

  ‘Sure, Dad. But what’s it like?’

  Edgar Paston looked at Tammy, but Tammy knew as little about it as he did.

  ‘I don’t know. Why don’t you look it up in your Children’s Encyclopedia? It cost me five dollars a month for three centuries, you might as well use it.’

  Edgar watched television until seven o’clock, then roused himself to go and close the store. Gerry was in charge at the moment, but Edgar always liked to check the final day’s takings himself, and make sure that everything was locked up. He kissed Tammy at the front door, and went out into the cool darkness to fetch his car.

  A cricket was chirruping on the front lawn. He climbed into his Mercury wagon, and switched on the lights. Tammy waved from the front door. He drove down the road, and round the corner to the junction where the Save-U Supermart stood.

  He didn’t realize that anything was wrong until he pulled up outside. He saw Gerry inside the brightly-lit store, bending over for some reason. Then, as he climbed out of the wagon, he saw what had happened. He ran heavily across the car park and into the supermarket, panting with exertion and alarm.

  Gerry had a red bruise on his left eye. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Paston, I did try to stop them. But they held me down, and they hit me. I’m just trying to clear up.’

  Edgar looked around his store in frantic horror. Every shelf in the entire store had been cleared of groceries, and every can and packet and bag had been tossed on to the floor. Thousands of dollars’ worth of flour and candies and nuts and cake-mixes and household goods had been spilled and trampled on.

  He walked the length of the supermarket in a stunned dream of despair. A few customers still stood around, embarrassed and silent. As Edgar walked, he trod on fruit and broken glass, corn-meal and crumpled packets. Gerry, dabbing his bruised eye, followed behind.

  ‘What happened here?’ Edgar said hoarsely, when he got to the freezer cabinet. Though he could see for himself.

  ‘They – er – they pissed in it,’ said Gerry. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Paston. I did try my level best to stop them.’

  Edgar stood still and cast his gaze over the whole wrecked store. The new store-front window, which had been installed first thing that morning, had been cracked. Displays and signs costing hundreds of dollars had been tom down and smashed. Honey and molasses oozed from cracked jars, the contents of cereal boxes were strewn everywhere.

  ‘Who was it?’ asked Edgar quietly. ‘McManus?’

  Gerry looked at the floor. ‘They said they’d kill me if I told. I’m sorry, Mr. Paston. I’m so sorry.’

  Edgar laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I understand. Well, I guess we’d better call the cops.’

  ‘I would have called them myself, sir, but after yesterday I didn’t know whether they’d like it.’

  Edgar shook his head. ‘It’s not a question of whether they like it. It’s their job.’ He went to the wall phone, and picked it up.

  He was in the middle of dialing when he heard someone laughing outside the store. A raucous, mocking laugh. He paused, and then laid the telephone receiver down again. Quickly, making sure that he didn’t tread in any debris, he made his way towards the cash-desk, searching in his pants pocket for his keys.

  Gerry called, ‘Mr. Paston—’ but he ignored the boy, and ducked low behind the counter. He lifted his keys, examined them closely, and picked the right one. Then he unlocked the drawer under the till, and took out a .38 revolver.

  Holding the pistol behind his back, he stalked slowly towards the front of the store. He eased open the glass door, and looked out into the breezy night. Across the car-park, close to his station wagon, he saw a huddled group of kids. They were laughing and hooting and horsing around, and he knew damned well who they were.

  He shouted, ‘McManus! Shark McManus!’

  The kids went quiet, and looked in his direction. He raised the .38 in his right hand, supporting his wrist with his left, and squinted down the barrel. The kids were all close together, and they presented an easy target.

  Edgar, his voice tight, shouted again, ‘McManus! Stand forward, McManus, and get what’s coming to you!’

  The kids evidently didn’t realize that Edgar was holding a gun, because they started laughing again, and jeering. Edgar aimed carefully at the tallest figure in the group, and let out his breath. He fired, and the pistol kicked in his hand. There was a flat, echoing bang. One of the kids fell to the ground, without a sound. The rest of them suddenly scattered.

  Edgar, holding his gun raised up, walked slowly across the car park to the fallen youth. The boy was sprawled on his stomach, and there was a wide pool of glistening blood around his head. Edgar hunkered down and examined him. The bullet had hit him in the back of the skull, and must have killed him instantly.

  He looked around. The car park was silent.

  Gerry, walking on tippy-toes for some reason, came up behind him.

  ‘Mr. Paston—’ he breathed.

  ‘What is it, Gerry?’

  ‘Mr. Paston, you shouldn’t have!’

  Edgar stood up. ‘Shouldn’t have? Did you see what these scum did to my store? These are scum, Gerry, and don’t you forget it! He tried to destroy my way of life, and the only way I could answer that was to try and destroy his! Don’t you forget that, Gerry!’

  Edgar was shaking. He still had the gun in his hand, but he didn’t know what to do with it.

  ‘Mr. Paston,’ said Gerry, miserably. ‘This isn’t Shark McManus. This isn’t his gang.’

  Edgar felt cold. He looked down at the boy’s body lying on the concrete. The blood kept spreading, and there was no way to mop it up and return it to his veins.

  ‘I don’t understand you. He was laughing. They were all laughing.�
��

  ‘They come around here quite often,’ Gerry said. ‘They don’t mean no harm. I know one or two of them. They come around to the store after meetings, and buy candy.’

  ‘Meetings?’ said Edgar numbly. ‘What meetings?’

  ‘Boy scout meetings, Mr. Paston. They’re boy scouts.’ Edgar stared down at the body. ‘Boy scouts,’ he whispered, ‘Well – what – I mean – boy scouts?’

  He was still standing by the body when the black and white police car came howling into the car park, lights flashing, and squealed to a stop beside them. The doors opened, and Officers Trent and Marowitz came briskly across the concrete.

  They looked down at the body. Marowitz said briskly, ‘Is he dead? Has anyone checked?’

  Edgar said, ‘He’s dead all right. I got him in the head.’

  He lifted his pistol, and handed it silently to Officer Marowitz.

  ‘It appears he’s a boy scout,’ explained Edgar. ‘I thought he was a vandal, and I shot him by mistake.’

  Officer Marowitz looked hard at Edgar for a moment, then at the boy’s body.

  ‘You shot and killed a boy scout by mistake?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Officer Marowitz, with a humorless grin, ‘I had better advise you of your rights. You’re under arrest, Mr. Paston, for suspected homicide.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Edgar. He stepped around the body, and walked towards the police car of his own accord.

  Book Two

  The Dead

  One

  They had been driving for ten minutes when Adelaide, in the back of the car, said, ‘Look!’

  Dr. Petrie had already seen the first distant flickers in his rear-view mirror, but they could have been anything – a burning car, or an isolated house on fire. Now, when he slowed the Torino and turned around in his seat, he could see that the whole southern horizon was growing red with flame, and that the city of Miami was ablaze from stem to stem, like a gigantic ocean liner burning on a rippling ocean of sparks.