The Turn

by Kim Harrison

  The big man sat up with a weary sigh. “Can it, Phil,” he said as he extended his thick hand across the empty cot. “I’m Thomas. I teach fourth grade math and history.”

  Daniel shook his hand gratefully, appreciating the solid strength of it. “Daniel. I’m a . . .” His words faltered. He couldn’t tell them he was a geneticist. “I’m nothing at the moment,” he decided on, getting a rueful head bob from Thomas and a “Hell yeah” from Phil.

  He let his things slip from his arms to land on the cot, and after a moment, he sat down, appreciating the canopy even more. The sound of the kids playing cowboys and Indians in the stands was incongruous with the man weeping nearby, and Daniel quickly looked away. Thomas had gone back to his paper, and Phil to his shoes. Daniel’s stomach rumbled. “Did I miss lunch?” he asked.

  Thomas kept reading, even as he said, “No. Meals are three times a day. Women and kids first, then the men.”

  “They take us into the back to the kitchens,” Phil said as he capped his marker and wedged it between the mattress and the cot frame. “Try not to look sick. That’s when they pull out anyone showing signs of it. If you stay at your cot, you’re gone when the rest of us get back.”

  “So we suggest you go even if you’re not hungry.” Thomas slowly turned a page.

  Phil scooted closer to the edge of his cot. “Women have the home showers, men the away. Don’t go through your care package too fast. They won’t give you a new one. I tried.” Phil stretched, making him look even thinner. “I’ve got three care packs if you need something. They leave ’em when someone gets taken out. I’ve got shavers for two weeks.”

  “Phil,” Thomas intoned tiredly as he went back to his paper, shaking it out to all but hide behind it. “Shut up.”

  But Phil leaned across the narrow space, whispering, “Tom’s wife and little girl died yesterday.”

  The paper hiding Thomas’s face trembled. “Phil. I swear I will reach over there and pull out your tongue. Shut the fuck up.”

  Expression dark, Phil pushed back and settled silently to stare up at the blue canopy.

  “I’m sorry to hear of your loss,” Daniel said as he took his shoes off, blanching when he saw another man’s loafers under the cot.

  Thomas sighed. The paper dropped, and he looked toward the sound of the boys now flying balsa wood airplanes down the bleachers. “I still have my son. His cot is with my sister and her two boys. I think he’s pretending it’s a sleepover and the world hasn’t gone to hell.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Guilt was thickening, and lunch, as Thomas had said, was yet to be served. The women and kids ate first. What kind of a man would he be if he did nothing as they died from a pizza? “Ah, I’d be willing to bet your son doesn’t like tomatoes,” he said hesitantly.

  Thomas chuckled, the sound a mix of rueful parenting and pride. “He hates them. I can’t tell you how many times my wife tried to bribe or bully him into trying them. She did love her tomato sandwiches. A little salt. A little pepper . . . I’m with my boy. All that slime.”

  But then Thomas’s expression of heartache shifted to one of questioning, then anger. Moving slowly, he sat up, carefully setting the paper at the foot of the cot. “What are you saying?”

  Daniel dropped his eyes, torn between telling him and saving the few lives that he could here, and keeping his mouth shut in the hopes that he could get out and spread the word to a wider audience. The first would save lives, but as soon as the police realized he was talking, they’d shut him up and the truth would end here at Chicago Stadium.

  “How do you know my son and I don’t like tomatoes?” Thomas said again, his thick hands clenching.

  But as he saw the man’s grief, Daniel knew there was no choice. The authorities might realize they’d made a mistake and haul him off at any moment. He would do what he could.

  Head down, Daniel leaned forward. “The plague is carried by tomatoes,” he whispered.

  “No way!” Phil plopped down on Daniel’s cot beside him.

  “A virus that kills humans carried by a plant?” Thomas said quizzically, and then his expression went empty, horror flitting behind his eyes as he probably mentally reviewed his and his family’s diet the last few days. His focus suddenly cleared, hard as it found Daniel. “Why is this the first we’re hearing about this?”

  Phil scooted closer, his bad breath washing over Daniel. “Is it the Soviets?”

  “No,” Thomas said, glancing at his newspaper. “They’re in worse shape than we are.” But then he seemed to go still, his dark eyes narrowed as they found Daniel’s. “You,” he said, voice accusing. “I’ve seen you before. Yeah. A few days ago.”

  Daniel put up a placating hand, his pulse quickening. “I’m trying to fix this, but I can’t do anything stuck here. I have to get out or the truth dies with me.”

  “You can’t leave,” Phil said as Thomas stared at him. “The only people who get out are the dead.”

  “You’re from that company on the West Coast that caught on fire, aren’t you,” Thomas said, and Daniel stood, jerking when he bumped into a third man who’d come over to listen. “Dr. Plats.” Thomas snapped his fingers three times in thought. “No, Plank. Dr. Plank,” he said, pointing at him. “I saw you on TV. You’re wanted for killing your boss.” His eyes narrowed. “You let something get out, didn’t you.”

  “No. It’s not like that.” Daniel edged around his cot, but more men were coming, angry with loss and frustrated. “I can stop it, but I need to get out of here.”

  “My Amy is dead because of you!” a weary red-faced man shouted, held back by a boy in his teens, the wisdom of an old man already in his eyes.

  “No. Will you listen?” Daniel said, then stumbled when someone pushed him. He flailed, going down on one knee in the tight confines. Someone’s foot lashed out, and he lost his breath when it slammed into his middle. Eyes watering, he curled into a ball as more feet struck him.

  “I’m trying to help,” he gasped out, thinking that perhaps humans deserved to die out if they couldn’t think past their grief and pain to the hope beyond it. But this, probably, was why the authorities weren’t worried he’d talk. If he did, he’d die that much sooner. I am a fool to have thought otherwise.

  “Get off!” someone shouted. “Mathew, I said get off!”

  It was Thomas, and Daniel blearily looked up to see the teacher standing over him.

  “I’m the king of this death camp, and no one is going to get lynched on my watch,” the man said, his grief obvious in the new, deep wrinkles at his eyes. “You hear me? Get back before someone comes over here and sees Mathew has the rash and takes him away. Go on, now. Get back!”

  They retreated with muttered threats and promises, and Daniel hesitated when Thomas extended a hand to help him up.

  “It’s his fault my kids are dead!” the rash-marked man was shouting, half in tears. “It’s his fault.” Shaking, his finger pointed at Daniel and Thomas. “And you aren’t big enough to stop me, Thomas. I’ll get him. I’ll get you both!”

  Phil had set his cot back up, wadding the bedding up and dumping it on the foot of the bed. Uneasy, Daniel sat down. Mathew had the rash. He wouldn’t have time to “get” him or Thomas. He’d be joining his family by morning, dead.

  “I’m sorry,” Daniel whispered as he brushed the grime off his pants. His side hurt, and he held it. “It wasn’t supposed to be lethal. It wasn’t supposed to be able to multiply outside of the lab at all. That was the beauty of it. It couldn’t kill. I designed it that way.”

  “So why are we dying?” Thomas said, and Daniel shook his head, silent as he felt his ribs, wondering if one was broken. Trisk wouldn’t have lied to him. Daniel’s hands clenched, and he forced them to open. Others, like Kal, would lie to her, though.

  “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you and everyone in that company!” Mathew shouted, held back by three other men who looked as if they wanted to let him go.

  Thomas grunted and sat down across from Dani
el, their knees almost touching in the close confines. “Someone shut Mathew up!” he shouted.

  “This isn’t what I had planned,” Daniel said, and Thomas laughed without mirth.

  “You think?” Thomas eyed Daniel, his desire to throttle him clearly just in check. “Start talking, or I’ll let Mathew force-feed ketchup to you.”

  Daniel exhaled long and slow. “It was only supposed to make people sick,” he said. “A new way to help the military avoid lethal action. You get sick, and in two days, you’re back to normal. It couldn’t spread or replicate outside of the lab. It was perfect.”

  “So what went wrong?” Thomas asked, and Daniel finally looked up, reading in him the need to understand outweighing the need to make someone pay for it—just barely.

  “Someone tampered with the safeguards,” he said, not sure how he was going to handle this. He couldn’t blame Trisk, which also might be why the authorities had dropped him here, thinking he’d sell her out to save his own skin. They’d call him a crackpot if he said elves had done it.

  “That’s not going to wash, Plank,” Thomas said, his own hands clenching. “Why should I believe anything that comes out of your mouth when in all likelihood the simple truth is that you didn’t make your weapon safe and it got out of control?”

  Daniel grimaced. His knees were shaking, and he couldn’t stop them. “It was perfect,” he said, not wanting to bring Trisk into it if he could avoid it. “A researcher sent to check its safety made a link between it and one of our experimental tomatoes as a way to destroy a rival’s reputation. I don’t think he had any clue that it would multiply like it did. I will not believe that this plague was intentional.” He swallowed hard. “Not that it makes any difference.”

  Thomas just looked at him as if he was one of his students, trying to force a confession of truth from him with guilt alone.

  “Look,” Daniel said, nervous as Mathew began sobbing, five men standing protectively over him. “If I can’t get out of here and start telling people how not to get sick, no one will.”

  Thomas frowned even as he relaxed, apparently willing to believe him until proven otherwise. “I’m listening,” he said sourly.

  “Dr. Cambri is the only one who can prove how it’s being spread,” Daniel said. “She’s the one who designed the tomato, knows the adhesion points and how it’s condensing the toxin to lethal levels. She and I can show how someone intentionally created a bridge between the two. The people responsible are trying to keep it quiet until they can find a way to blame it on me and Dr. Cambri. I can’t let that happen. The longer I sit here, the more people are going to die. I need to try to stop it, but I can’t do it here.”

  Daniel winced as Mathew shouted, “Force his mouth open. Pinch his nose. Get me some ketchup!”

  “I’m trying to help,” Daniel said, knowing if he couldn’t convince Thomas, no one else would believe him, either. “If I can’t get out of here, they’ll just keep covering it up until every last person susceptible to it is dead. Why do you think they dumped me here? They want me to die.”

  Thomas shook his head, clearly not believing him. “I’ve seen people eating tomatoes who didn’t get sick. Entire families,” he said. “We had tomato soup last night. Are you saying everyone here is going to die tomorrow from tomato soup?”

  Daniel glanced at Phil, then Thomas, emboldened now that they seemed to be listening. “It’s . . . genetic,” he whispered, trying to stick to the truth and still hold to Trisk’s precious silence. “Some people get sick and recover, as it’s supposed to work. Others it doesn’t affect at all. And it’s only the Angel tomato that can carry it, so if the soup wasn’t made from an Angel tomato, it’s perfectly safe.”

  “Which would explain why you’re not sick,” Thomas said, thick arms crossing over his chest in accusation. “Is there an antibiotic?”

  “For a virus?” Daniel blurted, then reminded himself that not many people outside the medical profession knew the difference between viruses and bacteria. “No. And it’s not just this year’s crop you have to be aware of. Anything canned or frozen can pick it up once it’s thawed or opened.”

  Thomas rubbed a hand slowly across his clean-shaven cheeks. “How can something processed last year have your virus in it?”

  “It’s the hairs,” Daniel said. “I can’t be sure because I need lab access, but if the virus is attracted to the hairs on the tomato, anything containing them can condense and pool the toxin. Once there, it multiplies.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” someone swore behind him, and he turned to see that a semicircle of men had gathered to listen. “How do you survive that?”

  “You don’t eat tomatoes,” Daniel said, relieved they were listening. Not only that, but they believed him. And even more important, they weren’t trying to kill him anymore. “That an old product can become toxic is probably why we’re seeing some people eating something that ends up infecting someone else,” he said to try to obscure the fact that it was only humans who could die from it. “It takes a while for the hairs to attract enough virus, but once they do, it multiplies rapidly. And like I said, it’s only the Angel tomatoes. Any other kind is okay.”

  “I gotta tell Margret,” a sallow-faced man said, bumping into people as he turned and tried to force his way clear. “Margret!” he shouted, and Daniel tensed, not wanting the authorities to know that their secret was coming out lest they shut him up. Permanently.

  Thomas rose, the big man seeming to have found his strength again. “No one else is going to die here,” he said, and for the first time, it didn’t sound like a prayer but a promise. “Go get the word out about what to avoid. Phil, go after Fred and make sure he and his wife keep this quiet. No tomatoes or tomato products, and don’t tell anyone you aren’t sure about.”

  “Sure about what, Thomas?” someone asked, and Thomas chuckled.

  “Sure they aren’t the government,” he shot back. “Go.”

  They scattered, and Daniel dropped his head into his hands to take a long breath, keeping it shallow because of his hurt ribs. Startled, he realized his nose was bleeding as well, and he wiped it on a cotton handkerchief that Thomas handed him.

  “Thank you,” he said, still shaky from the knowledge that it could have gone the other way. “I have to get out of here. I’m not letting the man responsible force me and Dr. Cambri to take the blame.”

  “And who is responsible?” Thomas asked, waving his hand to tell Daniel he could keep the handkerchief.

  “Dr. Trenton Kalamack,” Daniel said, the hatred and bile in his voice surprising even him.

  Thomas nodded, his gaze over Daniel’s shoulder where a man sobbed, “I shouldn’t have given them the pizza. They ate it and got sick. I thought it was the old mushrooms. I hate mushrooms, otherwise I would have eaten it, too.”

  Guilt slithered back, coating Daniel’s feeling of relief with a black haze. “Soon as they realize you didn’t kill me for them, they might send someone to finish the job.”

  “Not to mention you have to find that lady scientist,” Thomas said, and Daniel’s fear for Trisk redoubled.

  Phil sat back down on the edge of Daniel’s cot as if it belonged to him. “I’m telling you, there’s no way out. Only the sick and dead leave.”

  “Then maybe I should be dead,” Daniel said in desperation. Maybe I should be dead . . . he thought, his eyebrows rising in hope as he met Thomas’s eyes.

  Thomas started at his expression, then catching on, he began to smile as well. “Phil,” he said as he casually reached for his shoes and began to put them on. “Go find Betty Smitgard for me, will you? She worked in the entertainment industry and knows her makeup.”

  “Betty?” Phil questioned, and then grinned in understanding. “You got it,” he said, dashing off.

  “Don’t worry, Daniel,” Thomas said, dropping a heavy arm across Daniel’s shoulder in a show of shared strength. “We’ll have you sick and out of here tonight for sure.”

  28

  It w
as cold, but not enough to bother Kal. He was more uncomfortable with being in the same slacks and shirt he’d put on Saturday morning. Orchid, though, had him worried, the tiny woman shivering under his hat as he stole through Chicago’s curfew-emptied streets looking for a working phone. The sun was nearing the horizon, and the wind funneled through the tall buildings, skating down the river to blast him with a wall of lake-scented air.

  “Let’s try this way,” he whispered as he took a right to get out of the wind and perhaps find something for Orchid to eat, and the pixy tugged his hair in agreement. He was reluctant to start knocking on doors, as he’d been dodging patrolling packs of what looked like Weres both in fur and on two feet, bringing in anyone who wasn’t where they were supposed to be. The chance that a random door might lead to an unwanted confrontation was too high.

  But there were plenty of closed businesses downtown that showed promise, and he slipped into an alley, appreciating the still air as he crossed to another street.

  Feeling small between the buildings, Kal picked his way past the Dumpsters and burn barrels, wanting to get Orchid somewhere she could warm up. It didn’t escape him that his overwhelming concern might be because he’d begun to identify Orchid’s plight with that of his own species. Pixies were failing because of a lack of territory due to their need to hide. The elves were failing because they lacked resources due to a need to hide as well.

  The fading light brightened as he reached the end of the alley, and stumbling on the trash, Kal caught his balance against a damp building. He hesitated, looking carefully out onto the seemingly empty street. A traffic light blinked from yellow to red, but there were no cars except those abandoned at the curb. The shops were smaller here, and he felt a hint of hope when he spotted a pharmacy across the street with only one window broken.

  “Wait,” Orchid said as he rocked forward to check it out, and he immediately halted.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, one hand going to his hat when she pushed it up and took to the air. “Orchid, it’s cold.”