Phil’s phone rang. He checked the number. “Shit.” It wasn’t Lee. He flipped it open. “Yeah, what?” He was silent for a moment. “You’re shitting me.” He snapped the phone shut, stood up, and strode into the living room.
He stood for a second, scratching his head again. He finally located the remote and turned on the TV. “What happened to your TV?”
The picture worked, despite the spiderweb of cracks in the center. Phil flipped to one of the news networks. The president’s face appeared. He had a grave look on his face, but Phil couldn’t hear anything. He shouted, “Sound, goddamnit! Where’s the sound?”
Grace muttered, “I wanna watch Kipper!”
Kimmy shot Phil a withering look as she walked over and hit the POWER button on the audio receiver. The president’s smooth baritone voice came out of all eight speakers, sounding as if he was there in the room with them.
“—unprecedented scale. Drastic measures must be implemented to counteract this unparalleled threat to our American way of life. I have appointed a special task force to work in conjunction with the CDC response team already in place in downtown Chicago.”
“Aw . . . fuck.” Phil looked like someone had just cut a small hole in a blow-up doll and it was slowly but steadily losing air. He took a step backward and looked like he might just sink to the floor, everything inside of him gone.
The president continued. “Evacuation of the Loop is scheduled to begin in less than two hours. I want to emphasize that this is strictly a precautionary measure, one that will ensure that this virus does not spread beyond the confines of the Chicago Loop. Our thoughts and prayers are with everyone within this magnificent city. To repeat—”
The front door open and Lee stumbled in. His tie was gone, shirt untucked. He spotted Phil. “Fuck you want?” he said. His breath made Kimmy’s eyes water.
In the hall, Grace burst into tears, squeezing her fists.
“Shut that fucking brat up,” Lee said, rubbing his temples. He blinked at Phil, trying to refocus his bloodshot eyes. “I asked you a question.”
Kimmy smacked Grace again and dragged her back to the bedroom.
Phil drew himself up, set his jaw, and found the strength in his legs. He waved a hand at the table. “Sit down before you fall down. Then get your girlfriend to make some coffee. We got a lot to talk about.”
“Why? Thought you were finished with me.”
“You’re not dead yet, not as far as the public is concerned. Believe me, you ain’t on the front page anymore. You been watching the news?” Phil gestured at the TV. “All hell is breaking loose. Maybe we can make it work for us.”
Lee glared at the president, who was saying, “—information we have received, information that is currently being confirmed by no less than the U.S. Army’s Infectious Disease Center. At the moment, however, it does appear that the virus, initially thought to be spread by rats, is actually being spread by the common bedbug. Again, I want to emphasize that everything able to be done is being done, and there is no need to panic.”
“Fuck did he just say?” Lee demanded.
Phil ignored the question. “Remember that freak from the CDC? Dr. Reischtal? Turns out he wants a meet. Needs some help. From you.”
“What? Okay? When?”
Phil checked his watch. “Just under an hour. You’ve got just enough time to shower and shave. This might be just the break we need, so look sharp.” He indicated the TV. The president was still justifying drastic measures. Phil shook his head. “I wouldn’t dillydally. No telling what the big boys have got cooked up.”
CHAPTER 53
9:10 AM
August 14
“Here’s the deal,” Ed said as he raced south down Clark, lights blazing, siren going, weaving around people and blindly sailing through intersections. “We’re fucked.”
While Sam, Qween, and Dr. Menard had wandered over to the counter to watch the president’s news conference, Ed took the call from Arturo. Arturo laid everything out. Word was that the president was about to call a press conference and declare martial law in downtown Chicago. The feds were about to evacuate the Loop and Arturo needed Ed and Sam back on the job. Immediately. All past sins would be forgiven if they pitched in and helped Arturo out. Arturo had a lot of shit to coordinate and zero time. Ed didn’t have much of a choice. He said yes, hustled everyone out to the car, and took off.
“We, the CPD,” Ed said in a flat, official voice, hammering the Crown Vic’s horn at a guy in a white van that wouldn’t move over at a light, “are working in conjunction with special representatives of the forces of the federal government.” They flew through the intersection at forty-five miles an hour, missing the van’s bumper by less than four inches. “That’s what they’re forcing on Arturo. CPD and CFD are responsible for executing a mass evacuation of downtown, using some plan they drew up after oh-one. Platoons of soldiers are responsible for the bugs and rats. And don’t ask me what the fuck that means, ’cause I don’t have a clue.”
“It’s easy,” Qween said. “Uncle Sam just declared war on that virus.”
Sam said, “That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard. There’s no fucking way they’re gonna get all the fucking rats, let alone a billion bugs.”
“Maybe so.” Ed shrugged. “But apparently this Dr. Reischtal believes he can make a serious dent in the bug population, get this virus under control.”
“How the hell are they gonna do that? They’re gonna have to seal off every goddamn tunnel and sewer and drain.... What about the fucking river?” Sam was livid. “Nobody’s figured out that rats can swim?”
“I guess they got themselves a plan.”
“It’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” Sam repeated. “This Dr. Reischtal, he needs his head examined.”
“I told you,” Dr. Menard said, trying to pull his seat belt tighter.
Ed said, “That’s not the scary part. The scary part is, your Dr. Reischtal, he’s in charge now. The president has just declared martial law in Chicago.”
The color left Sam’s face. He stared at Ed. “You’re shitting me.”
Ed shook his head, weaved around a long line of cars and went barreling down Clark in the oncoming lane. “They’re not gonna call it that. They’re gonna use something like a state of emergency or whatever, but it’s the same damn thing. It’ll never make the news, but Arturo said it’s been made quite clear to all the concerned parties. The federal government is in charge, but they’re handing the ball over to a special branch of the CDC. Dr. Reischtal is the last word. We’re supposed to steer clear.”
“Oh yeah?” Sam asked. “What are we supposed to do then? Aren’t we helping out with the evacuation?”
Ed got back in on their side of the yellow lines and hit the horn again, trying to get a cab driver’s attention. “Sort of. We got ourselves a special assignment to make sure that some VIPs get out without any trouble.”
“Oh yeah?” Sam perked up. “Politicians? Celebrities? Athletes?”
Ed gave a grim smile. “We get to babysit all those bad boys and girls at the MCC, make sure they get out of the city okay.”
Stunned silence from Sam. Qween chuckled. Dr. Menard was confused, but decided it was best to keep quiet. Finally, Sam managed to get out, “You said yes to that job? What’s wrong with you?”
Ed shrugged. “We don’t do it, a lot of people are going to get hurt.”
Sam said, “And if we do it, there’s a damn good chance we might get hurt.”
Ed lifted his eyebrows. “Never knew you to be scared.”
“Not scared, brother. Just . . . concerned. Driving busloads of hate ain’t my idea of a good time.”
“Me neither, but you got something better you’d like to do with your time?”
“Yeah. How about driving a bus full of swimsuit models out of the city?”
“Shit,” Qween cut in. “You boys be driving me around. What else you want?”
Sam watched the warehouses and fast fo
od joints give way to the bars and upscale shops and tourist honeypots of the Near North Side. They drew closer to the bridge. On the other side of West Kinzie, two police cruisers were cutting off both lanes, directing people to take alternate routes. Ed flashed his star at them and they moved aside.
As they hit the incline for the Clark Street Bridge, they saw that instead of another police car and sawhorse like they had seen last night, constricting the bridge down to one lane, there was now a Stryker and sandbags, blocking both lanes between the faded purple trusses.
The Stryker was a no-nonsense military vehicle, no less than eight wheels slapped under a wedge of gray, riveted steel, with a .50 caliber machine gun mounted on top like some cherry on a sadistic birthday cake.
“Fuck me sideways,” Sam said. It was one thing to hear about some military force taking over the Loop and quite another to witness it firsthand. Ed pulled up to the gap between the walls of sandbags. A soldier stepped away from the Stryker, holding his assault rifle casually, though it was still pointed in their general direction.
Three more soldiers materialized, ready behind the sandbags. The first soldier said, “Please roll your window down, sir.”
Ed rolled the window down and held up his star. “We’ve got urgent business downtown. You make us late, you can talk to my commanding officer, Commander Arturo Mendoza. You go ahead and take the time to ask him, you feel it’s necessary. Don’t blame me when he rips you a new one, dickhead.”
The soldier eyeballed Qween and Dr. Menard. “You all cops?”
“My partner just explained that we have urgent business downtown. You born this stupid, or did you have to work at it?” Sam said.
A belligerent cabbie pulled up behind the Crown Vic and hit his horn. He rolled down his window and started yelling. “Hey! Hey! You have no right, no right, to block traffic. I am a man making a living here. Hey! I am talking to you. I pay taxes. I am a legal immigrant. Legal! You cannot cut off the streets! Hey! You listening to me?”
“What Detective Johnson means to say is that these people would not be with us at this particular moment unless their services were required,” Ed said. “Seems to me you got your hands full with more important problems.”
The soldier finally stepped back. “Drive safe,” he said, and waved them through.
The cab tried to follow close behind, but the soldiers formed a line across the bridge. Another soldier was now behind the .50 caliber. He racked the bolt back and settled the crosshairs on the cab’s windshield. That got the driver’s attention.
As they crossed over the bridge, a deep thrumming sound reached them. Ed hit the brakes. They twisted in their seats to watch as the bridge, split in the middle, began to rise. It took less than two minutes. The Clark Street Bridge was up. A quick glance up and down Upper Wacker revealed that every bridge in sight had been raised.
As they headed south down Clark, Ed noticed lines of CTA buses, dozens of them, maybe even hundreds, lining the streets that ran east and west. More Strykers and low walls of sandbags had been set up during the night at nearly every intersection.
“Better call Cecilia. Neither one of you is making that interview,” Sam said, nodding at the clusters of soldiers at the corner of each block. “It’s already a done deal. This city has given up.”
“The real question is, for the moment at least,” Dr. Menard spoke quietly from the backseat, “is what are we going to do? You two have a job. Personally, I’d like to get closer to the hospital. See if I can’t grab anything that looks like it might indict Dr. Reischtal. Records. Videos. Something.”
“Doc, you want to go after him, fine,” Ed said. “I don’t know how you can, but understand this—we can’t help you.”
“I know. It’s okay.”
Qween said, “You’re kinda cute, sugar.” She gave Dr. Menard a wink. “I’ll show you a few shortcuts.”
CHAPTER 54
10:24 AM
August 14
Mr. Ullman was almost glad that the president had declared a state of emergency and ordered the evacuation of the Loop. It saved the general manager the embarrassment of explaining to the guests that they were being kicked out of the hotel so the management could exterminate a colony of bedbugs. This way, he could simply spread his hands in mock impotence and point to the official orders coming from both Washington and Chicago’s City Hall. It was all the government’s fault.
Not the hotel’s.
Not the bedbugs’.
In fact, he didn’t have to mention bedbugs at all. Most of the guests were more than happy to check out, and couldn’t get on the hotel’s shuttle buses fast enough. A few, though, were refusing to leave immediately. They were either waiting for their own limos or thought the whole thing was a hoax or wanted to simply sleep through their hangovers. Some of the guests didn’t answer their room phones.
Mr. Ullman guessed he had at least an hour or two before the soldiers entered the hotel and forcibly ejected the stragglers, something the TV newscasters breathlessly told their viewers would happen with each and every building in the Loop.
Since there were still guests inside the hotel, he gave strict orders for what was left of the staff to remain. They weren’t happy, but it wasn’t his job to make sure his employees enjoyed their jobs. It was his job to make sure the hotel was in the best possible hands, and therefore, he wanted everyone on hand in case the guests needed anything. He suspected that many of them had already left before being given the official green light.
He decided that he would give them the benefit of the doubt, and when all of this nonsense was over, he would welcome them back to start with a clean slate. The only problem, a minor irritation really, was that the ineffectual little man from the pest exterminator company, Roger Something or other, had never checked back in with him. He had probably run off with all the rest.
Mr. Ullman rode up to the top floor alone in the elevator. He was determined to verify that every single door to every single room in the hotel was not only shut, but locked as well. He did not trust the officials, some of whom were trying to quell panic by reassuring the city that this evacuation was only for twenty-four hours. The possibility of looters was very real and he couldn’t stand the thought of someone soiling the image of this pristine hotel. So he started at the very top and worked his way down.
On the fourteenth floor he came to room number 1426. The door was still open, forgotten in the chaos. The detectives poking around had suddenly been called away, and even the uniformed officers had vanished, pulled by more pressing matters.
Mr. Ullman couldn’t help himself; he had to step inside and look around. The room was still a mess. The shattered window had yet to be repaired. White fingerprint dust filled the air and formed a fog that clung to the floor and roiled in the ebb and flow of the hot wind.
He made a note to get on the phone immediately and get this window replaced. He could only imagine the shots from the helicopters, zooming in on the lone shattered window in a high cliff of glass, occasionally catching a glimpse inside the sad, empty room. Those soulless producers would die for a shot like that.
The last thing he wanted was that kind of image to linger in everyone’s minds.
He stepped around the bed, calculating the damage. The room was in such a state of destruction that the amount needed to repair everything staggered even him. His initial reaction had been to start the process of billing the estate for the damages, but he’d reconsidered after someone had mentioned the negative publicity he would attract by charging the family of the suicide victim.
He edged around the couch, watching the space under the bed. He bent closer. He couldn’t see any bugs, but Roger had assured him that that didn’t mean anything necessarily. The image of their fecal matter filled his thoughts, no matter how much he wanted to pretend the clotted droppings didn’t exist.
His gaze landed on the corner, behind the nightstand. He pulled it away, shining his flashlight at the partially peeled silicone, the painted trim th
at had been pried away from the wallpaper. Nothing moved in the light. The dead bugs from Roger’s insecticide were still there, as if someone had scattered wet coffee grounds. Once again, he couldn’t help himself; he had to expose the worst wounds of the hotel, and tapped the silicone with the toe of his wingtips. Living bugs erupted around the floor trim in the hundreds. Thousands. It was as if the building itself had vomited the tiny parasites into the room.
The bugs spilled over themselves in an almost liquid movement as they oozed from the cracks. The carpet grew alive under his shoes. They swarmed up the legs of the nightstand. His leg brushed the mattress and he flinched as bugs gushed from the seams.
Mr. Ullman didn’t waste any time getting back to the doorway. He slammed the door shut and locked it. He hustled down to the elevator and hit the button and fought the urge to hit the button again. That little shit Roger was going to hear about this.
Mr. Ullman checked back down the hall. The shadows around the door seemed to grow. He blinked, ran one hand through his thinning hair. The only thing he could hear was the thrumming of the cables and the rest of the elevator, but his eyes caught movement, down at the door to room 1426.
Shadows dripped from under the door. They grew along the corner of the hall. Flowed down the carpet at Mr. Ullman. He punched the down button, over and over.
The darkness grew, still utterly silent. Millions of the bugs flooded the hallway, washing across the carpet in waves of foul-smelling tiny bodies. He heard the elevator come to a slow stop on his floor.
The elevator doors split in half and he fell inside. He leapt for the CLOSE DOOR button, and jumped up and down to activate the capacity indicator, anything to close the doors. Bugs spilled inside.
The doors slid shut.
Mr. Ullman stomped on the bugs, grinding them into the thin carpet. He hit the basement button. He planned to deactivate all of the air systems throughout the hotel, all of the air intake and circulation, anything he could think of. He hoped that it would at least stop the bugs from spreading to different floors. The only way to accomplish this task was to gain access to a secure terminal in the basement, behind ten inches of steel. There were only three keys. Mr. Ullman had one. The facilities manager had a copy. One of the elected officials of the board had the other.
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