Sleep Tight

by Jeffrey Jacobson

  At some point, Sam would invariably say, “I’m doing well, Mom.”

  This morning, his call was interrupted by a call from Ed.

  Ed said, “Turn on your radio.”

  Chicago detectives, like all Chicago police officers, were required to carry department-issued radios at all times. Most detectives clipped them into their bulletproof vests, another pain-in-the-ass direct order, but left the radios off. They knew the boss would use the phone. Almost all the time.

  “Listen, sorry, Mom, I just got a call from headquarters. I have to hang up now. I will call you later, okay?”

  “Well, if you have to leave your mom worried sick and everything just because of work, I understand,” she said, both of them knowing damn well she didn’t.

  “I’m glad, Mom. Bye,” Sam said, switching on his radio.

  “—and therefore, district commanders will be in contact with their individual teams. All department personnel are required to report for duty, regardless of rank. This message will repeat every five minutes.” A click. “All department personnel are on high alert for persons exhibiting unusual behavior.”

  What the fuck constitutes unusual behavior? Sam wondered.

  “Specifically, be on the lookout for signs of an addict undergoing severe withdrawal symptoms. Pale skin. Uncontrollable shivering. Sweating. Bloodshot eyes.”

  Sam unwrapped a stick of nicotine gum. Were they fucking serious? By now, he was at the car.

  “You hearing this Dragnet shit?” Ed asked, holding up his radio.

  The radio continued. “First responders are required to wear appropriate protection when in contact with anyone displaying these symptoms. Members of law enforcement are directed to transport any individuals exhibiting these symptoms to Cook County General Hospital, where a team of emergency personnel has been established to counter the situation.”

  Sam and Ed looked at each other.

  Ed’s cell phone rang again. “Fuck. It’s Arturo.”

  “Might as well answer it. Get it over with.”

  CHAPTER 35

  7:56 AM

  August 13

  “Have you heard of the rabies virus?” Dr. Reischtal asked.

  “Of course,” Tommy said.

  “This new virus . . .” Dr. Reischtal trailed off, looking beyond Tommy. “It’s not exactly rabies though, is it?” It was clear Dr. Reischtal was asking a rhetorical question. “Similarities, oh, certainly. But something else, indeed.” He gathered his thoughts and pinned Tommy again with his gaze. “We believe you are hiding the virus.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “That is, I believe the virus is hiding from you.”

  “What?”

  “You and your partner deliberately placed yourselves in a hot zone when you engaged in skin-on-skin contact with an infected rodent. You ruptured this animal’s body with . . . an aluminum baseball bat, I believe, releasing possible airborne toxins. Blood-borne pathogens as well, with the remains left on the wall. You—knowingly or unknowingly, it makes no difference—infected an entire building, no less than the government building of City Hall of Chicago and Cook County, Illinois. Whether or not you meant well or were being a bad boy makes no difference.”

  He gave that rictus grin again. “And this is why I retreated. I could not risk having my team exposed to a new disease. We were not properly prepared. Now, we are.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Precisely. This is why it is important that you answer the following questions. It is my job to track this . . . virus. It is my sworn duty. My sacred duty.”

  Tommy watched Dr. Reischtal warily.

  “This city”—Dr. Reischtal sat on a wheeled lab stool and rolled closer—“this city is facing an invasion, do you understand this? The danger is there, waiting . . . waiting for us, to relent, to slip, to ignore it and turn our backs. If we fail to recognize the true signs, the pure signals, we are doomed. Organisms that exist, thousands of them, millions, within the dregs of your glass of water. A billion in the crumb of your donut. That breath you take between the kitchen counter and your refrigerator. The blood between you and a . . . partner.” He fixed Tommy with his tiny glasses. “Was your partner bit?”

  “Bit? By what?”

  “Do not play games with me, Mr. Krazinsky. We are out of time and it is imperative that we trace the path of infection. Do you understand?”

  “I guess so, sure.”

  “Was your partner bit?”

  “No.”

  “Were you bit?”

  Tommy forced himself not to look down at the scratches on his hands. “No.”

  “I am not a fool, Mr. Krazinsky. You cannot deny the evidence.”

  “Okay, fine. I was bit. Not by that rat.”

  “Where then?”

  Tommy didn’t answer. He didn’t want to mention the house party. He didn’t want to get anyone in trouble.

  “Where did you and your partner go after leaving City Hall?”

  “Nowhere. I mean, we did our job. Drove around, checked traps.”

  “I see.” Dr. Reischtal pulled off his glasses and leaned in close. His eyes, without the glasses, appeared startlingly large and unblinking. “I will ask only one more time. Before you answer, consider this room carefully. It may be where you draw your final breath.”

  He replaced his glasses, pulling the curved wires over his ears. “Your partner is infected with a virus that, until now, was unknown. We have since determined this virus possesses the capability to devastate our species. I implore you to consider the implications. Now, for the last time, where did you go last night?”

  Tommy was a guy who spent his life following the rules. Listening to authority. Deep down, he truly believed that fate worked out in the end, that life really would reward his patience and understanding, his genuine kind-hearted virtues, and that nice guys didn’t necessarily finish last. He wasn’t naive enough to believe they might actually come out on top all the time, but he thought once in a while, God might recognize someone who lived an honorable life.

  Despite this, one did not grow up in Bridgeport, in the shadow of downtown Chicago, and not learn the hard way about a few of life’s truths. Those in authority did not always have your best interests at heart. And some people simply cannot be trusted.

  Tommy didn’t trust Dr. Reischtal.

  He shrugged. “Like I said, we did our jobs.”

  “You, sir, are a liar.” Dr. Reischtal ground his teeth together.

  “Did you seriously think that we would not watch you? We know you went to a club with a clientele composed exclusively of city employees. Then you attended a private event in the southern suburbs. I want to know exactly what happened last night. I want to know who came into close contact with both you and your partner. I want names and I want them now.”

  “You know so much, you tell me.” Tommy hoped that sounded a lot more badass than he felt.

  Dr. Reischtal shook his head. “Very well. As I have stated, I believe you are hiding the virus. Perhaps there is more than one patient zero. Perhaps this virus is working with an unexpected dispersal rate.” He got up. Knocked on the door. “Unfortunately, the only way I can be sure is to obtain a sample of brain tissue. Fortunately, modern science renders this procedure non-life-threatening. This is good news for you, yes?”

  “Brain tissue?”

  “Only a little bit,” Dr. Reischtal came back and leaned on the table next to the bed. “Relax. Only a tiny sample is required. We can obtain this without anesthetic, if you prefer. Only a needle is necessary.”

  The door opened and three men walked in. One carried a tray, setting it up next to the table. The others interlocked their fingers over Tommy’s face, locking their elbows, and held his head perfectly still.

  Dr. Reischtal pulled the blue cloth off the sterilized surgical tray, revealing a syringe the size of a robust cigar and a tiny drill. “Of course, we need to get through your skull first.” The needle on the syringe could suck up hom
emade spaghetti sauce. The drill made a whine like a dentist’s tool. He said, “See? Only a small hole. I find that if possible, it is far more useful to keep a subject alive, so we can talk. Perhaps after, you will be more inclined to tell me the truth.”

  Sam could hear Arturo’s voice just as clear as Carolina’s. “Are you fucking serious? What is fucking wrong with you?”

  Ed didn’t bother to answer. Arturo kept shouting. After a minute, Ed put the phone on the seat and started the car. He pulled into the early-morning traffic and they listened to Arturo the entire way home. He finally handed the phone over to Sam as he unlocked the front door to his building.

  Sam said, “Listen, Commander, I know it looks bad—”

  “Is this fucking Johnson? Is fucking Johnson trying to speak to me? I was in the middle of a conversation with Detective Jones. What the fuck are you doing on the phone?”

  “We got some serious problems, Comm—”

  “You’re goddamn right we got some serious fucking problems, Detective. How fucking astute.”

  “When I say we, Commander . . . ah fuck. You know what I mean. This city. Us.”

  “This city, Detective, has withstood almost a hundred and eighty years of everything God wants to hurl at it. How dare you align yourself with this city. And I know you wouldn’t be stupid enough to try and involve your fellow brothers and sisters on the force.”

  Sam hadn’t slept in thirty hours and he was stumbling through a fuzzy patch. He needed a moment. He needed a shower. He needed to sit quietly for about three hours and get up and make a pot of coffee. “Okay. Fine, absolutely,” and hit the END CALL button. He realized he was still standing on the sidewalk, long after Ed had gone inside. He tucked Ed’s phone into the inside pocket of his sport coat and stepped inside, firmly closing the door behind him.

  The light above flickered and eventually broke apart in the reflections of a fluid sun on water. Tommy floated to the surface. They’d brought him out of his anesthesia and he had one hell of a headache, but he didn’t feel much of anything else. This was mostly because some tech had jammed a suppository in his ass, flooding his system with oxymorphone. He blinked as Dr. Reischtal loomed over him.

  “We have samples of your brain now. We will learn the truth very, very soon.”

  Tommy tried to move his mouth, hiss, anything. A low croak escaped his lips.

  “You’re welcome,” Dr. Reischtal said and left.

  CHAPTER 36

  9:16 AM

  August 13

  Carolina poured coffee, then served them eggs, bacon, and toast. She said, “So. Sam. You got a girl yet?”

  “No.”

  “That’s your fault and you know it. Guy like you, you choose to, you can get a girl.”

  “Sure.”

  “Ed here, he’s got himself a girl. Too dumb to know how good he’s got it.” She slammed eggs on Ed’s plate. “But I bet you’d be a little more thoughtful, wouldn’t you, Sam?”

  “Sure,” Sam agreed. He wasn’t an idiot.

  Carolina turned to Ed. “Hmm-mmm. See that. Man smart enough to go out and find himself a woman, he oughta treat her with respect. Don’t you think?”

  Ed nodded. He was no idiot either. “Sure.”

  The TV on the kitchen counter caught Sam’s eye. Cecilia Palmers stood in front of County General with her concerned expression, the one she usually saved for major car accidents. The news crawl at the bottom read, BREAKING NEWS—POSSIBLE VIRUS OUTBREAK IN CHICAGO. SPREAD BY RATS, BUT IS NOT FATAL IN HUMANS. THOSE WITH COMPROMISED IMMUNE SYSTEMS SHOULD SEEK TREATMENT IMMEDIATELY. A PRESS CONFERENCE HAS BEEN SCHEDULED FOR TEN A.M.

  Sam said, “Turn it up.”

  Carolina caught the edge in his voice and didn’t argue.

  “—want to stress that this is not contagious, nor overly dangerous to most adults. However, young children and the elderly can be susceptible. Authorities are simply warning the public to remain vigilant and report any rat sightings to the police.”

  The male anchor broke in, “And Cecilia, is it true that they have taken to calling this the ‘rat flu’?”

  Cecilia stuttered a moment, her eyes flicking to someone off camera. “Uh, this has not been confirmed at this time. . . .” She trailed off helplessly, waiting painfully for someone to say something to fill the void.

  The female anchor recognized her panic and said, “We would like to repeat that this is nothing Chicago’s citizens should pan—for people to worry . . . unnecessarily about. This is simply a general warning, to keep everyone fully aware of the situation.”

  The male anchor wouldn’t let up, though. “Is it true, as sources here at the station have said, that this is related to the escaped rat at City Hall two days ago?”

  Again, Cecilia didn’t know how she should answer. “We cannot confirm anything at this time. . . .” Her eyes checked with her off-screen contact again. “But that event, at this time, would appear to be an isolated, unrelated incident. Again, I have been told that the authorities are emphasizing that this is a general precaution and should not interfere with anyone’s plans or daily routine.”

  Carolina asked, “Is this bullshit? Or should I be worried?”

  For several seconds, Ed and Sam didn’t answer. Finally, Ed said, “I don’t know, baby. I just don’t know. But I want you and Charlie to pack and leave as soon as possible. Get out of the city. Go visit your mother. I don’t care. Just get out.”

  Work hadn’t been quite the same for the two paramedics, Scott and Vince, since they picked up the Streets and Sans guy. Ever since they’d gotten the call to bring the patient to Cook County General, not Northwestern, they seemed to get all the sketchy calls. They weren’t the only ones, of course, but pretty soon it seemed like the only calls they got were the weird ones.

  First off, they always seemed to be the only guys who took care of the meatloaf calls. These were the traffic accidents, where there wasn’t enough left of the poor sonofabitch to fill the body bag. It’s tough to determine a pulse when you can’t even identify body parts from the pile of slick meat scattered across the asphalt. Sure, they’d scraped their fair share of corpses off the streets over the years, but during these past weeks, something was off. It was like they were the only paramedics on duty when it came time to shovel the remnants of some poor bastard into the thick black bags. And the statistics were skewed. A hell of a lot of people in Chicago suddenly seemed to be driving the wrong way down the Kennedy or Ike, intentionally slamming into concrete dividers or semi trailers at seventy miles an hour.

  Usually, this time of the year, the total deaths were somewhere between five hundred and six hundred. They had seen the death toll mount over the past few days to around fourteen hundred.

  And it wasn’t like Scott and Vince didn’t notice that everybody else kept their distance when it came time for the wet work. The paramedics upgraded to thicker, heavy-duty rubber gloves and started wearing cotton surgical masks.

  Then there were the calls that took them to single-family homes, sometimes apartments, and they had a ride-along. The ride-along was usually some silent military guy, pretending to blend in by wearing surgical scrubs. The guns the guys carried tended to give it away. It was a different feeling, riding with a guy who never talked and carried a goddamn machine gun.

  These military guys always rode with them when some psycho had butchered their family or roommates and had invariably barricaded himself in a bathroom or closet. The psycho was either shot or held down long enough to snap cuffs on his wrists and ankles, then hustled out to Scott and Vince’s ambulance.

  The next stop was always the CCG. Never any other hospital. They didn’t know why. But they knew that dead-eyed bastard in the Hawaiian shirt probably had something to do with it. They would unload the patient, and drive off to the next tragedy, and once in a while, they would hear about the suspicious fires that had somehow erupted in the neighborhoods and suburbs they had just visited.

  The days became a blur. Whenever they dealt w
ith one of these calls, they had to wear a hazmat suit. Pretty soon, every call required these special requirements. Their hazmat suits were coated in some noxious liquid that burned if it touched their skin. Then a rinse. They peeled out of the suit helmet first, the first step in a long, complicated process. It was sometimes better and easier to simply sleep in the suits. Scott and Vince stewed in their own filth, sleeping at the hospital on the visitor benches. The body bags were sealed and placed in dry ice, then shipped to God knows where. They watched more and more soldiers come and go.

  Until that night.

  That dead-eyed bastard in the Hawaiian shirt had been waiting in the break room, wrinkling his nose at the awful coffee. He noticed Scott and Vince. “Hey, you guys want some real coffee? I know they’ve got some decent sandwiches upstairs. No reason for you two to try and survive on this shit.”

  It sounded awfully tempting for Scott and Vince. Something inside told Scott that it wasn’t a good idea, something about it felt wrong somehow, but he was so damn tired and hungry. They followed the man in the Hawaiian shirt to the elevator and rode it up to the sixth floor.

  The man in the Hawaiian shirt didn’t get off the elevator. He said, “There’s plenty of food and coffee down there, down at the end of the hall.”

  Scott and Vince looked down the empty hall. It didn’t look inviting.

  “It’s down there. Trust me,” the man in the Hawaiian shirt said. He hit a button and the doors closed.

  Vince shrugged. Scott started down the long hallway, wondering if he had time to get out of the damn suit. As he passed each room, he noticed every single door was open. From what he could see, the rooms were empty, but he couldn’t help but feel as if there were people on this floor, people hiding out, people waiting for the right moment to appear.

  A low, keening moan. Down on the right.

  Some kind of banging, way down at the far end of the left side.