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

by Graham Masterton

  A scatter gun went off with a deep boom, and one side of the Delta was tom and spattered with pellets. Dr. Petrie wriggled under the car on his elbows, and fired again – a random arc of bullets that may or may not have hit something.

  There was silence again. He quickly elbowed his way out from under the car, tossed the rifle inside, and climbed in himself.

  Adelaide said, ‘Are you all right? Did you hit them?’

  He started the engine, backed the car wildly into the woods, swung it around and put his foot down. The scatter-gun went off again, and the Delta 88’s rear window was turned to milky ice. Dr. Petrie drove fast and wild, and thumped heavily into two or three roadside trees before he considered it safe to switch on his lights.

  Adelaide sat up. Only her reclining seat had saved her from the first bullet, which had passed through the car in a diagonal line. Prickles was awake, but she was so tired that she wasn’t even crying. She, too, was unhurt. The scatter-gun had ripped the car’s outside skin, but hadn’t penetrated the soundproofing inside the doors, or the vinyl upholstery.

  ‘Did you hear what he said?’ asked Dr. Petrie tersely.

  ‘About the vigilantes?’

  ‘Exactly. It looks like they’ve drawn a plague line down the Appalachians, and anyone who tries to cross it gets killed. Maybe they’ve even got themselves federal backing. The way this situation’s been handled, who can tell?’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘I guess we could try to cross someplace else, but the chances of getting through in a car must be pretty remote. Maybe we ought to try our luck in the north. Try and get into New York City. If we stick to the back roads, it could take us two or three days, but if they’re going to make it a secure quarantine area, it’s worth a try.’

  Adelaide rubbed her eyes tiredly. ‘Let’s do it then. Let’s just get someplace where we can stop and have a bath and eat a decent hot meal. If I don’t get out of these clothes soon, I’m going to stink like a skunk!’

  Dr. Petrie grinned at her through the darkness. ‘Me too. But then, skunks seem to fall in love just like the rest of us, don’t they, so what’s wrong with smelling like one?’

  Adelaide settled down to sleep again, trying to make herself comfortable in the jolting car.

  ‘Leonard,’ she said, ‘I’ll give you a hundred good reasons. But not right now. Tomorrow.’

  When it was scarcely dawn, and the car was still silvered with the cold breath of the night, they drove quietly out of the Georgia woods and back towards the main highway. They were low on gas, and Dr. Petrie’s first priority was to find a filling station. Then, tanked up and refreshed with sleep, they would make the long and complicated back-road haul to New York City.

  Adelaide was yawning. ‘Do you think we’ll make it?’ she asked him.

  Dr. Petrie pulled a face. ‘Maybe, maybe not. It depends how far the plague has spread. Half of the time, though, I feel more frightened of the people than I do of the plague.’

  She looked serious for a long while. Then she said, ‘Yes. I know what you mean.’

  Two

  Esmeralda was arranging the last paintings in her Marek Bronowski exhibition when Charles Thurston III strolled into the gallery. He was looking very Fifth Avenue, in a lightweight suit of cream-colored mohair and a big floppy hat. He took off his sunglasses and stood back from the wall, ostentatiously admiring the pictures.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said Esmeralda. ‘If it isn’t Charles Thirsty the Third.’

  Charles gave a strictly regulated smile. ‘Thurston, actually. If we’re going to be friends, we ought to get it right.’

  Esmeralda, in a dark red smock, was tapping the last hook into the green hessian-covered gallery wall. ‘Who said who was going to be friends?’ she said, through a mouthful of nails.

  ‘I hoped that we were. You and I.’

  Esmeralda straightened the painting. It was a vivid gouache of reds and yellows. Charles Thurston stepped forward and peered closely at the label underneath.

  ‘This is a painting of Coney Island?’ he said. ‘It looks more like Hell on a warm day.’

  ‘Same thing,’ said Esmeralda.

  She picked up her hammer and toolkit, and walked back towards her elegant white-painted office at the back of the gallery. Charles Thurston followed her, and perched himself on the edge of her desk.

  ‘You’re very sure we’re going to get along,’ said Esmeralda.

  ‘Of course I’m sure. Here’s me, the famous art writer, and there’s you, the beautiful gallery lady. It’s a match made in Heaven, or someplace quite close. Perhaps a suburb of Heaven.’

  ‘Heaven has suburbs?’

  ‘Of course it does. Where do you think the people from Queens go when they die?’

  Esmeralda laughed. She found Charles Thurston an inch too elegant for his own good, and an obviously incurable smartass, but there was something about him she really liked. He was, after all, very good-looking, and he gave the impression that when he got a woman into bed, he would lavish a great deal of time and athletic energy on exotic forms of stimulation. Esmeralda liked that.

  ‘Well?’ she said, reaching for her chrome cigarette-box. ‘Have you come to buy a painting? Bronowski is young and vital and, most important of all, he’s still quite cheap.’

  ‘Is that because nobody’s discovered him yet, or because he’s been discovered and nobody wants him?’

  ‘Don’t be so cynical. He’s the new wave in gouache. Go on – buy one.’

  ‘If I buy one, will you come out to lunch with me?’ Esmeralda lowered her eyelashes provocatively. ‘Is that a condition of sale?’ she asked him.

  Charles Thurston laughed. ‘How much is this young and vital and cheap artist of yours?’

  ‘To you, five hundred.’

  Esmeralda didn’t look up. This was a favorite test of hers. It immediately weeded out the unsuitable suitors from the genuinely enthusiastic, because if a man wasn’t prepared to toss away five hundred bucks for the sake of getting to know her better, then in Esmeralda’s opinion he couldn’t be really sincere.

  Charles Thurston III flipped open his checkbook and scribbled a check with a handmade gold pen. He blew it dry, and passed it over with a flourish. It was for one thousand dollars.

  ‘This is too much,’ said Esmeralda, raising an eyebrow.

  Charles Thurston shrugged. ‘What’s the use of buying just one painting? I have a couple of blank spaces either side of my living-room door, and Mr. Bronowski will liven them up nicely.’

  He stood up, and tucked his pen back in his pocket. ‘Perhaps you could show me some more sometime,’ he said. ‘My bedroom could do with livening up, too.’

  Esmeralda smiled. ‘I’m afraid Jacob Bronowski is into landscapes – not erotica.’

  ‘We can’t all be perfect,’ said Charles. ‘Now why don’t we find ourselves a bite to eat?’

  She took off her smock. Underneath she was wearing a simple but beautifully cut blue dress, with a Victorian pendant and lots of bracelets. She brushed her hair, and then pronounced herself ready.

  ‘Have you heard any more about the plague?’ asked Charles Thurston, as they rode across town in a taxi.

  ‘Nothing very much. Father’s furious about it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Haven’t you read the case of the plagiarized bacteria? Father’s suing some Finnish character in the Federal District Court, but the Finnish character’s got himself a sneaky adjournment, on the grounds that all public-spirited bacteriologists should be off fighting the plague.’ Charles Thurston nodded. ‘I see. I wondered what you were doing in that district. This plague’s pretty serious, though, isn’t it? They’ve got cops on the Lincoln Tunnel and the 59th Street Bridge, and they’re turning back everyone with a southern license plate.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘No, it’s true. I saw it myself this morning. They had some guy in a pick-up with a Maryland plate, and they were making him turn right around a
nd go back to Maryland. They said on the news that there’s a contingency plan for sealing off the whole of Manhattan.’

  Esmeralda crossed her legs. ‘Well, I don’t know. It sounds to me like they’re exaggerating the whole thing.’

  Charles Thurston laughed. ‘I’m glad someone’s optimistic. Especially the daughter of the nation’s leading bacteriologist.’

  ‘Step-daughter.’

  ‘Does it make any difference?’

  ‘You bet it makes a difference. Where are you taking me for lunch?’

  ‘There’s a unique little bistro I know. The prices are astronomic, but the food’s terrible.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Chez-moi.’

  ‘You mean the same chez-moi that has a couple of blank spaces either side of the living-room door, and has a bedroom that also needs livening up?’

  ‘You guessed,’ said Charles Thurston, with a winning smile.

  Esmeralda didn’t look amused. ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘you’d better get this hack to turn itself around and take me right back to the gallery. I’ve heard of fast workers, but this is ridiculous.’

  ‘What you’re really saying is that you haven’t even had time to clear my check.’

  ‘I’m saying, Mr. Thurston, that I’m not a painting. I can’t be conveniently bought with a paltry thousand dollars to fill a blank space on one side of your bed.’

  ‘Don’t you like me?’

  ‘Like you? I don’t even know you.’

  Charles Thurston sighed. ‘Well, if you want to skip lunch, you can. But at least come and look at it. I’ve prepared it myself – cold soup, smoked fish, salad, and chilled vintage champagne.’

  Esmeralda looked at him curiously. He was very self-assured, and very handsome, and somehow she couldn’t imagine him going to the trouble of spending the morning in the kitchen, just to make lunch for a girl he hardly knew. He was either very innocent or very devious, and right now she wasn’t quite sure which. But he was intriguing.

  ‘Okay,’ she said slowly. ‘I’ll come and look at it. But that’s all.’

  The cab dropped them on the corner of a faded but still-elegant street. It was one of those tired enclaves of wealthy old widows who were too set in their ways to move away from encroaching slumdom, and there was a mingled smell of decay and expensive perfume in every lobby.

  ‘This is a strange place to live,’ she said, looking around the street.

  ‘I like it,’ said Charles Thurston. ‘It reminds me every day that style is never permanent, and that today’s lounge lizards are tomorrow’s drawing-room dinosaurs.’

  They ascended five floors in a dingy wrought-iron elevator that shuddered and groaned at every floor.

  ‘You speak in riddles,’ she told him. He smiled.

  Charles Thurston’s apartment was expensively decorated in a clean and rigid Scandinavian style that surprised her. There was plenty of natural stone, plain wood, and glass. Everything was in whites and browns and grays, and the fabrics were all woven wool or leather.

  ‘This doesn’t look like you,’ she said, sitting down on a soft tan cowhide settee.

  ‘Drink?’ he asked her.

  ‘Vodka martini on the rocks, please.’

  He mixed the cocktails and brought hers over. She sipped it, and it was as cold and uncompromising as everything else in Charles Thurston’s apartment.

  ‘Why don’t you think it’s me?’ he asked her.

  ‘You’re warm, and this place is chilly. I imagined you living with good Indian carpets and a few well-chosen antiques.’

  He walked across to the window. ‘I like my backgrounds neutral. The most important things that happen in a room are the people who live and love in it. I don’t like to interfere with human beauty by cluttering my living-space with inanimate objects that keep crying out for attention.

  ‘I think you just made that up. I don’t believe a word of it.’

  He turned back from the window and smiled at her. ‘Would you like to see the lunch that you’re not going to eat?’

  ‘I’d be delighted.’

  He took her hand, and led her into the dining-room. He had been telling the truth. The table was set for two with stainless-steel cutlery and hand-made Swedish glass and pottery.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I have to confess I’m convinced.’

  Charles Thurston ran his hand through his dark curly hair. ‘Won’t you just sit and watch me eating mine?’ he asked, with a mock-plaintiveness that, for all its obvious artificiality, still appealed to her.

  She couldn’t help giggling. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘And since I don’t like to be rude, you might as well give me just a teentsy piece of fish, and maybe a tiny bowl of soup.’

  ‘And just a thimbleful of champagne?’

  She smiled. ‘That will do, yes.’

  Charles Thurston rang a small bell on the table. Esmeralda hadn’t expected that, but then she supposed that a young man of his means would naturally have a servant.

  Charles Thurston pulled her chair out for her, and she sat down. He himself sat at the opposite end of the table, shook out his napkin, and grinned at her.

  The servant was no ordinary servant. When she walked in with the soup, Esmeralda took one look at her, and then shot a quick quizzical look at Charles to see if his face showed any signs of mockery or amusement. But there was nothing.

  She was black, with close-cropped hair and a thin silver headband. She was exquisitely beautiful. Her eyes were deep and vivid, and her mouth ran in sultry curves. She was also extremely tall – at least six feet – despite the fact that her feet were bare. She wore a flowing kaftan that clung, as she walked into the dining-room, around huge firm breasts.

  ‘This is Kalimba,’ smiled Charles Thurston, off-handedly. ‘Kalimba is what you would call a treasure.’

  Esmeralda watched the black girl with widened eyes as she padded out of the room, her bare rounded bottom plainly visible through the diaphanous kaftan. In a small voice, she said. ‘I suppose you would, yes.’

  They sipped consommé in silence for a moment. Then Esmeralda laid down her spoon.

  ‘Are you trying to tell me,’ she said, ‘that Kalimba is really your servant? And nothing else?’

  Charles Thurston paused with a spoonful of soup half-lifted from his plate. ‘I’m not trying to tell you anything.’

  ‘Well, she intrigues me. I mean, she’s very beautiful, and very sexy. Are you friends?’

  ‘One has to be friends with one’s servants.’

  ‘Don’t mock me, Charles.’

  ‘I’m not. Kalimba is everything you say she is. She’s beautiful and she’s very sexy. She’s also a very good cook, she makes beds, she cleans and dusts. Okay?’

  Esmeralda frowned. ‘I don’t know. You baffle me.’

  ‘Why do I do that?’

  ‘Because you’re after something and I don’t know what it is. Up until I saw Kalimba, I thought it was my body.’

  He finished his soup and laid his spoon down. ‘You’re reacting just like every girl does when she first sees Kalimba. She thinks: Why the hell have I been playing hard-to-get when he’s got a woman like that around the place? It throws them off their usual game.’

  Esmeralda raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that why she’s here? As an aid to seduction?’

  Charles stood up and poured her a glass of Moet & Chandon 1966. It was well-chilled, and ferociously dry.

  ‘Kalimba is here to serve lunch,’ he said simply, with a faint suggestion of a smile.

  A few minutes later, Kalimba came back for the plates. There was something about the black girl, silently serving and collecting up food, that was disturbingly erotic. She looked like a fantasy slave girl, with her sullenly pouting mouth and her lowered eyes. Esmeralda couldn’t help noticing the way her charcoal-black nipples stood stiff under the flimsy fabric of the kaftan, and somehow it made her feel both aroused and inadequate. She often liked to play the slave girl bit herself with her step-f
ather, but in the presence of the dark and musky and mysterious Kalimba, she felt pale and plain.

  The lunch continued. By three, two bottles of champagne were empty, and they were well into their third. Kalimba softly came and went, with coffee and sweets. Esmeralda felt light-headed and unreal, and somehow everything about Charles Thurston and Kalimba was no longer puzzling or threatening, but funny. She laughed at almost every story he told, and when he suggested they go into the living-room, and he put his arm around her, she didn’t object in the least.

  They drank more champagne, and Charles put on some soft drumming record that mesmerized her with its endless complicated rhythms. They sat on big embroidered cushions on the thick rug, and shared a cigarette, and laughed even more.

  ‘You still confuse me,’ she said, taking another sip of her drink. ‘I mean – you’re a very confusing person.’

  ‘I think I’m very straightforward,’ said Charles.

  ‘That’s what’s confusing about you. You’re straightforward, but you’re not deep. You’re like a rubber tunnel.’

  He laughed. ‘I’m like a – what? I was never called that before.’

  Esmeralda was giggling so much she could hardly explain what she meant. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘just imagine you’re driving along and you see a tunnel ahead of you. Very straightforward. But supposing you drive into it, well, you just bounce back out again, because it’s rubber. That’s what you’re like. I think I’m getting someplace with you, but I just bounce back out again. You’re a rubber tunnel.’

  They laughed and laughed until Esmeralda thought she was going to cry. Then, when they had quietened down, Charles reached over and took her arm and said, ‘Esmeralda – do you mind if I lay something on you?’

  She was bright-eyed. ‘What?’

  ‘Do you dig massage?’

  ‘M-massage?’ The idea of it seemed hilarious.

  ‘No, listen, I’m serious. Massage can do fantastic things for your inner being. It calms you down, it brings you closer to yourself. I don’t mean your massage parlor stuff. I mean real meditative massage.’