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

by Graham Masterton

  Prickles pointed to Mr. Henschel, curled up in a stain of blood. ‘What about him? Is he going to be fine?’

  Dr. Petrie sighed heavily and said, ‘Mr. Henschel’s gone to heaven, I’m afraid. He’s dead.’

  ‘Will he come back?’ the child demanded.

  Dr. Petrie stood up, and took the gun back from Adelaide. He ruffled Prickles’ hair. ‘No, baby, he won’t come back. But wherever he’s gone, I’m sure he’s going to be real happy.’

  ‘Is he an angel now? With wings?’

  Adelaide looked at Leonard with sad eyes. He answered, ‘Yes, I expect so. With wings.’

  They cleared up their blankets and their few belongings and stowed them in the car. While Dr. Petrie kept the guardsmen covered, Adelaide dressed Pickles in a short blue dress, and sandals. She herself changed into a white T-shirt and jeans, and unpacked a green plaid shirt and white slacks for Dr. Petrie.

  When they were ready to leave. Dr. Petrie went over to Mrs. Henschel. She was conscious again, and she was groaning under her breath. He knelt down beside her, and laid a hand on her forehead.

  ‘How do you feel?’ he asked her.

  ‘Bad,’ she croaked. ‘Real bad.’

  ‘Do you think you can travel?’

  She coughed up blood, and tried to shake her head. ‘Just leave us be,’ she said hoarsely. ‘You go on and leave us be.’

  ‘Mrs. Henschel – we have to get you to a hospital, if there are any hospitals left.’

  She groaned, and shook her head again. ‘Just leave us. Dave’ll look after me, won’t you, Dave?’

  Dr. Petrie bit his lip, and looked across at David Henschel’s body.

  ‘Mrs. Henschel,’ he said gently, ‘I can’t leave you here to die.’

  She coughed more blood. ‘Die?’ she said. ‘Who said anything about dying?’

  ‘You have to realize that you need attention. Dave – doesn’t she need attention?’

  He paused, and then he said, ‘There – Dave says you need attention, too.’

  Mrs. Henschel opened her eyes. ‘Let me see him,’ she said. ‘Are you there, Dave? Are you there?’

  She tried to raise herself, but then she started coughing, until the blood was splattering the hard ground in front of her.

  ‘I don’t feel so good,’ she said. ‘Just give me a minute.’

  She lay back and they waited. The breeze rustled the grove of palms, and the National Guardsmen shuffled their feet uncomfortably on the roadside. The sky was clear blue, and if it hadn’t been for the silence and the strange absence of traffic, you would have thought it was a day just like any other.

  Later, Dr. Petrie remembered that moment more clearly than almost all others – waiting by the roadside near Palm Bay for Mrs. Henschel to die.

  She went without a sound, sliding easily into death. Dr. Petrie thought she was sleeping at first, but then he saw that she had stopped breathing, and that her right hand was slowly opening like a white flower with crumpled petals.

  He stood up, and walked around to face the National Guardsmen, pointing his gun straight at them. He was scruffy and unshaven, with dark rings under his eyes, and his clothes still had the creases of the suitcase on them. His hair was ruffled in the morning breeze.

  ‘I ought to kill you,’ he told the men. ‘I ought to waste you here and now.’

  The one who was chewing gum looked up. ‘Guess that’s your privilege,’ he said. ‘Seeing as you’ve got the gun.’

  Dr. Petrie cocked the weapon and raised the barrel. For a moment, he was almost tempted to shoot them, but the moment didn’t last long. His angry bitterness of the previous night had faded with the sun, and he was beginning to see that they were all, soldiers included, tangled up in a situation they could neither control nor understand.

  ‘Just for safety,’ he said, ‘I want you to walk down the road a couple of hundred yards. Then we’re going to drive off.’

  The other guardsman said, ‘What about our guns? We aint gonna last long without our guns. Can’t you leave them behind?’

  Dr. Petrie shrugged. ‘You’re not going to last long anyway. What I said about those immunization jabs was true. Now, start walking.’

  He told Adelaide and Prickles to get into the car. He tossed the automatic weapons on the back seat, and climbed in himself. He started the engine, and they moved off northwards up Route 1, leaving the two guardsmen standing in the road watching them go.

  *

  The day was hot and clear. There were one or two other cars on the road, but they kept away from each other, staring suspiciously from their tightly-closed windows. Just outside Melbourne, there were a few hitch-hikers trying disconsolately to pick up lifts, but there were too many bodies lying around the sidewalks and verges to suggest that anyone around there might have escaped infection. It only took one drop of spittle, one breath, to pass the plague on, and Dr. Petrie wasn’t prepared to risk the lives of those he loved talking to anyone if he could avoid it.

  In the center of Melbourne itself the police and the National Guard had set up another road block. He drove cautiously up to it and stopped.

  A heavy-built cop walked up to the car and said, ‘Sorry, sir, you’re going to have to turn around.’

  Dr. Petrie nodded. There was nothing else he could do. There were seven or eight cops and guardsmen surrounding the barricade, and there was no hope at all of forcing a way through there alive. He backed the Gran Torino up, turned it around, and drove southwards again.

  They were hungry and thirsty, and the day was growing hotter. The car’s air-conditioning was faltering, and the interior was becoming unbearably stuffy. Prickles, lying in Adelaide’s arms, looked flushed and sweaty, and Dr. Petrie checked her pulse regularly as he drove. It was probably nothing more than a cold or ‘flu, but he couldn’t be sure. Her lips were dry, and she was finding it more and more difficult to breathe.

  There was no sign of the two National Guardsmen as they drove back past Palm Bay. Not far from the grove of trees where they had spent the early hours of the morning. Dr. Petrie took a right turn inland, and drove down the dusty, deserted road until he reached Interstate 95. Then he turned north again until he crossed Highway 192, and turned even further inland, towards St. Cloud and Lake Tohopekaliga. This time, they came across no road blocks and no troops, but there were signs of the plague everywhere. Bodies lay by the road, smothered in flies, and cars and trucks were abandoned at every junction and layby.

  Around lunchtime, they found a deserted MacDonald’s. Dr. Petrie parked outside, and left Adelaide and Prickles in the car while he scouted around with his automatic weapon. There were two bodies in the yard at the back, both crawling with flies, but apart from that the place was empty. They went inside and sat down.

  Petrie lifted the counter and went in search of baked beans, milk, cheese and soft drinks. ‘The ice cream’s melted,’ he said, ‘but if you don’t mind drinking it, you’re welcome.’

  Prickles was still hot, but she managed to eat a few cold baked beans and drink some milk. Dr. Petrie ate quickly and hungrily, keeping his eye on the empty highway and the surrounding buildings.

  ‘Well,’ he said after a while, wiping his mouth. ‘It’s not exactly the Starlight Roof, but it’s nutritious.’

  Adelaide gave a tight, humorless smile.

  ‘Is anything wrong? You don’t look too happy.’

  She waited until she had finished her mouthful of cheese. ‘I’m not, if you must know.’

  ‘Why not? Come on, Adelaide, we’ve had a hard time of it, but that’s no reason to give in. If we stick together, we’ll get out of this okay, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, casting her eyes down. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Dr. Petrie stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘I don’t understand.’

  She looked up. ‘You might as well know,’ she told him. ‘I think that Prickles has the plague. I think we’re going to have to leave her behind.’

  Prickles b
linked listlessly. Her face was crimson with heat and fever, and she was obviously sick.

  Dr. Petrie burst out, ‘That’s impossible. You don’t know what you’re suggesting.’

  Adelaide reached out and held his wrist. ‘Leonard,’ she said, ‘I know it sounds harsh, but it’s a question of survival. Like you said before. My survival, and your survival. If Prickles has the plague, we could all die. At least if we find some way of making her comfortable, and leaving her behind, then we could live.’

  ‘That’s crazy,’ he said. ‘You’re out of your mind. Prickles is my daughter.’

  ‘Yours and Margaret’s daughter.’

  He leaned forward. ‘Is that it? Is that why you want me to leave her behind? Because she’s Margaret’s daughter!’

  ‘Oh Leonard, I didn’t mean that. I just mean that if we really have to be fierce, the way you said, then we have to be completely fierce. With ourselves, as well as with other people.’

  Dr. Petrie didn’t know what to say. He stroked Prickles’ sticky little forehead, and gave her another spoonful of baked beans.

  ‘Leonard,’ insisted Adelaide, ‘I don’t want to see you die, and I don’t want to die myself.’

  Dr. Petrie said slowly, ‘If you had plague, honey, I wouldn’t leave you behind. I won’t leave Prickles behind, either.’

  Adelaide sighed, and tapped her fingernails on the formica tabletop. ‘In that case, I’m going alone. I’m sorry, Leonard. I love you. But I love life better than lost causes.’

  Dr. Petrie wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist.

  ‘I can’t stop you,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I love you, too, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘But you love Prickles more?’

  He looked at her. He said, ‘Don’t try and measure my love, Adelaide. It won’t work. I’ve told you I love you, and you should know how much. If you want to leave, I won’t stand in your way, but I can’t say that I’m glad to see you go. Just be realistic, that’s all. Prickles is a six-year-old girl, and she’s my daughter, and no father worthy of the name would leave her to die on her own.’

  Prickles looked from Adelaide to Dr. Petrie and back again.

  ‘Am I going to die, too?’ she asked.

  Dr. Petrie put his arm around her. ‘Of course not, honey. We’re just talking stupid.’

  ‘I don’t think we are,’ said Adelaide. ‘Listen, Leonard. I’m not cold-hearted and I’m not a bitch, but I beg you. Leonard, I love you. I don’t know what else I can say. I love you and I want to see you live.’

  ‘Will I be a angel?’ said Prickles.

  ‘No, baby, you won’t,’ Leonard Petrie said.

  He stood up, and collected his automatic weapon. Adelaide stayed where she was, picking at the few remnants of cheese and pickle on her plate.

  ‘You’re welcome to come along,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t seriously think that Prickles has the plague, and I would like to have you with us.’

  Adelaide pouted. ‘You wouldn’t think she had it, would you? You’re her dear devoted daddy.’

  Dr. Petrie didn’t answer. He took Prickles by the hand and led her outside to the car. It was past noon now, and the heat rippled off the concrete car park in heavy waves. They climbed into the car, and Dr. Petrie started the engine. Adelaide stayed where she was, sitting inside the plate-glass window of MacDonald’s, her face hidden from view.

  He waited, engine turning over, for five minutes. Adelaide stayed at the table, not moving. Prickles said, ‘Isn’t Adelaide coming, daddy?’

  Dr. Petrie wiped the sweat from his face. ‘No,’ he told her. ‘I guess not.’

  He released the brake, and moved off across the carpark and up to the highway. He slowed down, and took one last look in the mirror. Adelaide was still inside the hamburger bar, head bent, not even looking their way. He licked his lips, turned on to the highway, and put his foot down on the gas.

  They passed Walt Disney World. It was silent and dead – a fairy-tale land that had been stricken by pestilence. The two of them, father and child, wandered around it for almost twenty minutes, looking at the turrets and towers and silent streets. A warm breeze blew from the west, making flags flutter, and waste paper dance across the empty sidewalks. Most grotesque and incongruous of all, a man in a Mickey Mouse head lay dead on the ground, still smiling cheerfully, still bright-eyed and round-eared and happy.

  ‘Why is Mickey Mouse lying down?’ Pickles demanded.

  He took her back to the car.

  *

  Adelaide spent nearly an hour preparing herself for her solitary escape from Florida. Around the back of MacDonald’s, she found an abandoned Delta 88 with the keys still in it, and a tankful of gas. She drove it around to the front, opened the trunk, and packed it with cans of franks and beans. She also took a couple of MacDonald’s coveralls that she found hanging in a closet, in case she needed a change of clothes.

  She was almost ready to leave when she lifted her head and listened. At first she couldn’t be sure – but then the distant sound became increasingly more raucous and distinct. Half-muffled by the wind, it was the faint ripsaw noise of approaching motorcycles.

  Hurriedly, she packed away the last of her provisions. The motorcycle noise grew louder and louder, and soon it was clear that there were five or six of them, and they were traveling fast. She climbed into the car, and turned the key. The starter whinnied, but the motor wouldn’t fire. She kept trying, jamming her foot down on the gas pedal, turning the key until at last the starter motor moaned in protest.

  The rippling sound of the bikes was so near now that she could hear it even with the car windows closed. Sweat was streaming down her face. Until the motor started, the car’s air-conditioning wouldn’t work, and she was sitting in a ninety-degree Turkish bath with PVC seats.

  The first of the motorcycles came roaring around the curve in the road. It was a massive chopper, with extended forks, and it was ridden by a muscular Hell’s Angel with dark glasses, wild hair, and a metal-studded jacket. Adelaide opened the car door, jumped quickly out, and made a run for MacDonald’s.

  The Hell’s Angel swung his bike around the car-park in a wide, bellowing circle, followed by four others in formation. Adelaide pushed her way through the front door of the hamburger bar, and tried to shut it. The catch was broken. Desperately, whimpering under her breath, she tried to slide a heavy table across the restaurant and block the doorway.

  Outside, the Hell’s Angels parked their cycles, switched off their engines, and casually dismounted. They peeled off their jackets, took off their helmets, and then started s to walk slowly towards the hamburger bar.

  Adelaide tippy-toed hurriedly to the other end of the kitchen and tried the restaurant’s back door. It was open. She tugged it ajar, and looked out. She saw the bodies that Dr. Petrie had seen, smothered in flies, but apart from that the back yard looked clear. Behind her, she heard the front door of the restaurant bang open.

  Holding her breath, she stepped into the back yard and softly closed the door behind her. Then she crossed the yard as quickly as she could, and went through the gate into the car park at the rear of the buildings. She looked left and right, but there was no one around.

  She was just about to circle around the back and see if she could find another car when one of the Hell’s Angels, a tall bearded blonde in nothing but filthy jeans and motorcycle boots hung with chains, came running around the corner in front of her.

  Adelaide’s heart bumped. She turned around and started to run away, her hair flying behind her, along the length of the strip’s backyards.

  She was almost at the end, and just about to turn the corner, when another Hell’s Angel emerged in front of her. Ginger-haired, muscular, in a sweat-stained purple tee-shirt. She turned, and tried to run across the car-park towards the back of some distant houses.

  Her vision jolted as she ran. Glaring sunlight, concrete, abandoned cars. And behind her, the heavy loping of two silent men, and the chink-chunk of their chains and
their boots. She saw far-away palms and white peaceful-looking homes.

  It was the blonde who caught her. For a split-second, she could hear him panting up beside her, and then his hard hand snatched her shoulder, and she tripped and fell sideways on to the hot concrete. He grabbed her arms, dragged her on to her feet, and held her tight. They stared at each other, sweating and panting.

  When the blonde had caught his breath, he licked his lips and said, ‘Oats at last, Trumbo. Real good oats at last. What’s your name, honey?’

  Adelaide didn’t answer. Her lungs felt scorched from running, and her arm was stinging where she had fallen.

  ‘Silent type, huh?’ he said. ‘Well, don’t you worry, because that’s the way we like ’em. Aint that correct, Trumbo?’

  The ginger-haired Trumbo, still gasping for breath, nodded and grunted in agreement. They started to walk her back to MacDonald’s. The other three Angels were waiting for them at the back gate, shading their eyes against the harsh sunlight. Adelaide’s legs went mechanically one in front of the other.

  The Hell’s Angels’ leader applauded Adelaide as his two cohorts brought her in.

  ‘A nice piece of meat there, gentleman. I couldn’t’ve picked it better myself.’

  He came forward and inspected her appreciatively. ‘You got a name?’ he said mildly.

  ‘Adelaide.’

  ‘That’s pretty. I’m the Captain. That’s Trumbo there, and the gentleman holding your arm is Fritz. These others are Okey and Sbarbaro. We’re a kind of a team, if you understand what I mean.’

  Adelaide didn’t answer.

  The Captain said, ‘I hope you don’t think we’re imposing or nothing. I mean, we’d hate to cause you any kind of inconvenience.’

  Adelaide looked at him. She tried to speak boldly, but she felt terrified. ‘Will you let me go, please?’ she said, in a high voice.

  ‘Let you go?’ the Captain said, frowning. ‘Do you think that’s a very good idea?’

  ‘I would like to go,’ said Adelaide quietly. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  The Captain shook his head like a worried welfare officer. ‘It aint as easy as all that,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Y’see, this disease business, well, it’s really changed the way things are. Because the cops have had to help out with the sick people, well, they’ve all caught this disease business themselves, and now there aint too many cops left. That means that folks like us, who didn’t have to help out, we’re left alive. We’re left in charge.’