Sleep Tight

by Jeffrey Jacobson

Watching Don on the closed-circuit TV had been bad. This was worse.

  Tommy could now actually hear the sounds coming from Don’s throat. It wasn’t screams exactly, it was more like someone trying to force air through a saxophone that had been buried in the bottom of a swamp for a long time.

  The other thing was the smell. Tommy’s neighbors composted their own fertilizer when he was a kid. They would dump everything into the box out back of their house. Coffee grounds, leftover eggs, bones, rotten fruit, everything. Every once in a while, the husband would go out and churn the decomposing mess with a pitchfork, bringing the dark matter on the bottom up to the top. Once, Tommy had tried to help. Until the smell attacked him and made him vomit. The neighbor had laughed and scraped the bile and half-digested scrambled eggs and toast into the compost pile with a shovel.

  The putrid smell in Don’s room reminded him of that decaying organic matter. Tommy breathed through his mouth, trying to be a silent as possible. He wanted Don to forget he was in the room. He wanted Don to rest. He wanted Don to find peace.

  But Don wouldn’t stop screaming. He was like some malfunctioning machine.

  The hoarse cries grated against Tommy’s eardrums. After half an hour, he could almost understand why some asshole parents hurt children who wouldn’t stop crying. He just wanted it to stop. Finally, after another twenty minutes or so, Don’s whispering squeals began to taper off. An hour later, Don was still and quiet once again.

  Tommy didn’t move. He barely breathed. He was afraid that any movement, any sound at all would trigger Don’s panic once again.

  After another hour, his own eyelids grew heavy. He fought sleep, because he was afraid of making some kind of unconscious noise, like snoring, or jerking against his own wheelchair straps, reawakening Don.

  He was also acutely aware of the two cameras in the room. One was attached to the ceiling, aimed down at the bed. This was the feed that Tommy had been watching down in the conference room. The other camera had been set up on a tripod on the far side of the room, getting a closer view of Don’s body. Tommy knew that he was in the shot as well.

  Both cameras’ red lights were on.

  That helped to keep him awake. For a while.

  CHAPTER 46

  9:36 PM

  August 13

  Lower Wacker was an industrial tunnel that ran along the Chicago River, originally designed for through traffic and deliveries to the buildings above. Ed coasted past the loading dock and they all took a good look. There was nothing special about the dock; it looked like a hundred others that were spaced out along the street.

  Ed checked the mirrors. The street was practically deserted. Only a few parked cars dotted the sides. He cruised down another hundred yards, whipped a U-turn at the next intersection, and parked so they could watch the loading dock. A cab passed them, going fast and gaining speed, as if it was nervous about being underground.

  “Now what?” Qween asked. She seemed happy to leave the decision making up to the detectives now that they had finished with the homeless shelter.

  “Let’s sit tight for a while,” Ed said. “See if we can’t spot anybody going in or out.”

  Qween grunted. “Shit. You two ain’t gonna bust any heads open, I’m goin’ to sleep.”

  Sam popped more nicotine gum and got comfortable. Most of the time, he had about as much patience as a pregnant woman waiting to use the restroom. With stakeouts though, he adjusted, somehow slowing his internal clock, altering his rhythms to endure long periods of sitting still, often watching a home or building where nothing would move for hours. Ed thought it might have something to do with Sam’s insomnia. The detectives’ combined ability for patience when necessary was part of the reason they worked well as partners.

  An hour passed. Two.

  This time, Ed was the one getting impatient. “I’m thinking we might be wasting our time out here. Maybe we should take a closer look. See if that door’s really locked.”

  “And if it isn’t?”

  “Might be a quiet way of getting inside. See if we can’t take a look-see.”

  “And Sleeping Beauty?”

  Ed glanced at Qween, snoring in the backseat. “Let her rest.”

  Sam opened his door, but Ed said in a sharp voice, “Hold up.”

  A rumbling reached them. Sam eased back into the car, pulling his door closed in a smooth, unhurried motion. Headlights filled the car. Ed and Sam sank down in their seats. The roar of diesel engines grew louder, shaking Lower Wacker.

  A convoy of M939 military trucks thundered past the Crown Vic. They were all painted in gray and black camouflage instead of the usual green and brown. The first truck pulled left, bouncing up over the center divider between the heavy concrete columns, then backed up to the loading dock.

  Someone had been waiting for the trucks. The heavy loading dock door rolled up as soon as the brake lights flashed, and four soldiers stepped out and opened the flaps at the back of the truck. Dozens more soldiers hopped out and disappeared inside the dock. As soon as the last soldier left, the first truck pulled away and waited fifty yards up the street. The second truck repeated the process. As did the third and the fourth.

  There was no confusion, no hesitation. The entire operation was finished in less than three minutes. Ed counted a dozen trucks. He guess there must have been at least twenty to twenty-five soldiers in each truck. The last truck pulled away and the first four soldiers slammed the loading dock door. When they were once again in a line, the trucks smoothly accelerated toward Congress, leaving nothing but a cloud of diesel exhaust in their wake.

  Lower Wacker was silent and still.

  “I got two-eighty. Three hundred, tops,” Sam said.

  “Same here,” Ed said.

  Qween rested her chin on the back of Ed’s seat. “So much for your big plan to sneak inside.”

  The grumbling, rhythmic thud of boots in the hall jerked Tommy out of his sleep. For a moment, he wasn’t sure where he was. He remembered a faint sense of being in his parents’ kitchen, the vague memory of sitting in the old vinyl chairs and a whisper of the smell of bacon. It was nothing of particular importance, not really, but for some reason, it all seemed very special. Even as he clung to the image, the smell, the comforting sense of safety, the memory or dream slipped through his grasping fingers, like wisps of fog in the sunlight.

  The figure on the bed came into focus and everything came rushing back. The hospital, the rats, Dr. Reischtal, Grace in danger, all of it. Tommy froze, afraid he had awakened Don, and he couldn’t stand to watch his partner writhe and scream anymore.

  Don was already awake. His mouth was open, but Tommy couldn’t hear anything.

  Don’s mouth was full of black, clotted blood. He vomited, spraying bloody chunks across his right arm and the side of the mattress. His nose bled in a steady stream. It leaked from his eyes.

  The blackened tongue tried to push the viscous fluid out of his mouth so he could breathe. He sucked in a gurgling breath, enough to galvanize the oxygen-deprived muscles, and he spewed out more of the thick, rotten glop with a wet, gagging sound.

  Globules hit the carpet and quivered like half-digested Jell-O.

  Tommy twisted his ankles against the straps and strained to reach the floor. His bare toes managed to graze the plastic. The slick sheet slid against the tile floor underneath, stopping any movement of the wheelchair. He shoved his hips forward, putting more weight on the restraints. This time he gained enough traction to push the wheels backwards an inch.

  On the bed, Don continued to shiver and flail. The sad, liquid sound of the expulsion of gas came from underneath him. The unbearable stench of shit and blood and rotten flesh filled the room. An impossible amount of blood kept erupting from his mouth, steadily pumping it out of his body and onto the bed and floor.

  Tommy threw his body into pushing himself backward, one squeaking inch at a time. He didn’t think the virus could spread through the air; if that was the case, the whole bar full of
Streets and Sans guys would have come down with it. No, the virus probably wasn’t airborne, but he sure as hell didn’t want any infected blood touching his skin.

  He heard a soft pop and froze. It felt like one of the leather restraints had torn, just a bit, but he didn’t want to give it away. The problem was, he wasn’t sure which leg might have torn. He looked around, and found he was nearly back against the door. There wasn’t much else he could do. If the virus was now airborne, then he was dead. If it wasn’t, then hopefully he was far enough away from Don to avoid contamination.

  He forced himself to concentrate on the wheelchair. He mimed rocking around, still thrashing against his restraints for a while, but he was actually trying to read anything he could off of the wheelchair. He discovered that it had a certification sticker on the arm, and this particular wheelchair’s certification was over fifteen years old. If the leather had not been taken care of properly, it could be brittle by now. That might be what he’d heard. He thought about that faint tearing sound, lingering in the air for a quarter second. Maybe less. Wondered if THEY had heard it. Wondered if it truly had torn something major, something that he could tear completely away, or if it was nothing, just a cruel joke to get his hopes up.

  Don flopped against the bed, still vomiting. He was blind now; two pools of blood filled his eye sockets. The thrashing slowed. His fingers fluttered. The legs stopped moving. The chest rose, sank, rose once more, then slowly sank. It did not rise again. Blood bubbled out of the mouth, pulled by gravity, instead of forced out by muscle contraction.

  Don was dead.

  CHAPTER 47

  9:49 PM

  August 13

  Dr. Reischtal hated meetings. They gave everybody the illusion their opinions were important. That they had some kind of right to be included in making decisions. Especially the slob, Dr. Menard or something. Dr. Reischtal didn’t care if he was one of the top vector-borne virus men in the country. He seemed to still think that he was part of a team.

  And he wasn’t the only one. Dr. Halsey had actually had the audacity to challenge his decision regarding Krazinsky, in front of the others, no less. Dr. Reischtal promised himself that she would pay for that deliberate breach of protocol. Once this current situation had been resolved, she would never again work on anything at the federal level.

  The insubordination was spreading. Instead of following their orders, some of these doctors seemed to think it was their duty to “think outside the box.” Dr. Reischtal would like to rip out the fingernails of whoever had come up with that asinine phrase, but he had to admit, even he found himself using it on occasion. Nevertheless, it was beyond him why these doctors and scientists couldn’t simply do what they were told.

  It was time to remind them who was in charge.

  “I would like to begin by clearing away any misconceptions.” Dr. Reischtal glared around the table. Everyone had stopped talking and stared at his biohazard suit when he strode into the room. No one was sure right off if they were supposed to be taking such extreme precautions outside the patients’ rooms. They were dressed in scrubs, mostly because they hadn’t had a chance to change.

  Dr. Reischtal drew it out, knowing he had their full attention. “You were brought here because you are expert virologists. To decipher this organism, we need your full cooperation, and that means—”

  Dr. Menard raised his hand. “Is this a test or something, doctor?” He gestured at the hazmat suit.

  “I can assure you this is no test. For myself, the suit is a necessity. If you do not feel that is it necessary . . . that is your decision.”

  “What are you not telling us?”

  “You are being told everything you need to know. Now, as I was saying—”

  Dr. Menard held his hand up again, like a kid in fifth grade who has to go to the bathroom. “Need to know? What does that mean? You mean to say that you have information that you won’t tell me?”

  “Possibly. I am providing you with the information that you will find important. Is that clear?”

  “Not really. What information?”

  “I can assure you—”

  “We’re all dealing with a drastic virus here. Something that’s dangerous as all hell. If you know anything else, you are obligated to let us all know. So, is there any news on Mr. Krazinsky?”

  Dr. Reischtal fixed Dr. Menard with an ice-cold stare. For a moment, all anyone could hear was Dr. Reischtal’s metallic, amplified breathing. “Tell me, Doctor . . . Menard, is it? Tell me, Dr. Menard, is it customary to interrupt your superiors out west, or wherever it is you are from?”

  “I just want some straight answers. I—and I think I speak for many of us here in this room—we’re sick and tired of all the limited information and clandestine bullshit around here.”

  “I concur,” Dr. Halsey said. “What about the original patient, Mr. Wycza? What is his status? I am hearing reports that his door is locked.” She clicked her pen as if it were a weapon.

  Dr. Reischtal drummed his gloved fingers on the table. Rather than face a full-scale mutiny, he decided to pacify the usurpers. For now. For later, he had methods of dealing with troublemakers like Dr. Menard and Dr. Halsey. And if they would not listen to reason, there was always a solution to be found in Sergeant Reaves.

  “Very well,” Dr. Reischtal said. “Mr. Krazinsky is resting comfortably. As for Mr. Wycza, I regret to inform you that he passed away earlier this evening.”

  “Why were we not notified? Who is doing the autopsy?” Dr. Halsey demanded. “I would like to observe.”

  “There will be no immediate autopsy. The remains are far too infectious and the room is contaminated beyond measure. My team will be responsible for all postmortem investigations.”

  Dr. Halsey muttered under her breath, “This is absurd.”

  “If there are no more interruptions,” Dr. Reischtal continued, “we now have a timeline for the virus. Mr. Wycza was the first living host that we were able to examine. We also have a fairly accurate timeline. Once infected, estimates place the host’s life expectancy at approximately ninety to one hundred hours.”

  “Four days. Jesus,” Dr. Menard said. “Is Mr. Krazinsky displaying any symptoms yet?”

  “Mr. Krazinsky’s symptomology does not follow the usual pattern, no.”

  “Then why the hell do you still have him on a floor with a known contamination?”

  “I believe he is a carrier.”

  “This virus has shown zero inclination to simply ride along in a host. It is destroying every single infected patient in this hospital as we speak. And yet, you insist on keeping an otherwise healthy, non-infected patient within close contact with other patients.”

  Dr. Reischtal placed his hands flat on the table. “Do you not understand that this individual had more contact with the infected rat than Mr. Wycza? By all logic, the virus should have spread through his system like wildfire. Why is it that the disease ravages anyone else that gets close, but Mr. Krazinsky has remained untouched? There are many, many unanswered questions about this man.”

  Dr. Menard frowned. “There are many, many unanswered questions about your methods, doctor.”

  Dr. Reischtal struggled not to draw his hands into fists. “I would suggest, Dr. Menard, that you choose your words carefully. It appears that you are obsessing over a single individual that may hold valuable clues to a virus with the power to wipe out the other three million human beings in this city, if not the entire country. We are on the precipice of an outbreak the likes of which this world has never seen. That, Dr. Menard, is my responsibility.” He saw no reason to discuss how insects were transmitting the virus. It would only serve to muddy the waters and distract them from focusing on a way to defeat the virus. He would leave the decision on when to reveal the truth to the President, and deal with the fallout at that point. If these people were beyond saving when that happened, then so be it.

  His gaze swept the room. Even through the plastic faceplate, his stare held an almost physi
cal impact. “I would encourage my fellow doctors to, if you feel I am in any way failing in my capacity as special investigator to unknown viruses, please, by all means, speak up. Voice your dissent.”

  The table was silent. Dr. Menard tried to meet everyone’s eyes, but no one would look up from their notes. Even Dr. Halsey placed her hands in her lap, endlessly twisting her wedding ring.

  “I believe you stand corrected, Dr. Menard,” Dr. Reischtal.

  Dr. Menard met Dr. Reischtal’s glare. “Intimidation may achieve results, but it is temporary and has many unanticipated consequences. Remember that. In the long run, the truth will come out. It always does. This entire operation is a farce, for chrissakes.”

  Dr. Reischtal said, “I will not tolerate blasphemy. Watch your language.”

  “What?”

  “As a man of science, you may find matters of faith contemptible. I, however, do not.”

  “Goddamnit!” Dr. Menard pounded on the table. “Explain yourself! You are putting every single one of us at risk, not to mention the rest of the population of the city. You need to be held accountable.”

  Dr. Reischtal spoke slowly, carefully enunciating each word. “This is your last warning, Dr. Menard. I will not tolerate any more dissension on this team. I sincerely hope you understand.”

  “Or what? Or what? Is that a threat? You’ll sic your attack dog on me? Huh? Your shadow?”

  Sergeant Reaves, leaning against the wall near the door, did not change his blank expression. His eyes, dull and lifeless, stared out at the room, focusing on nothing and everything at the same time.

  Dr. Menard said, “We’re not fooled. These soldiers, they’re not part of the U.S. Armed Forces, so who are they? Who do they work for?”

  Dr. Reischtal picked up the conference room phone and said, “Please escort Dr. Menard from the property.”

  Dr. Menard stood and it became clear that he was a fairly large man. “What if I decide not to leave? What are you going to do, shoot me?”