Sleep Tight

by Jeffrey Jacobson

  Ed fingered the tears in his own hazmat suit. “Hell, we need four. Them bugs’ll crawl right inside.” He shook his head. “Maybe we can go a short distance. I can try and keep ’em off.”

  “That’s how we gonna get out of here,” Qween said. “We’ll go down into the subway and come up on the other side of the street.”

  “We don’t have enough suits,” Tommy said.

  Qween gave a tired smile. “It’s okay. I ain’t fitting in one a’ them things anyhow.” She held up her hand and the look on her face was enough to tell them that she was already bitten.

  “We’ll split up then,” Ed said. “Me and Qween will take the subway and come out across the street. If they don’t see us, then I’ll call Arturo soon as we get a chance. If they spot us, we’ll draw them off you.”

  Tommy shook his head. “Won’t matter. I’m going deep. Gonna head down, go under the river, come up into the storm drains on the other side.”

  Ed thought a moment and nodded. “Fair enough. But don’t waste time. I got a feeling that sonofabitch ain’t gonna be satisfied by just watching those choppers shoot the shit out of City Hall. I bet he’s got something else up his sleeve.”

  Tommy unfurled one of the hazmat suits and climbed inside. Ed and Qween helped Grace climb into hers. It was huge on her; her arms and legs barely reached the elbows and knees of the suit. “Doesn’t matter,” Tommy said. “Seal her in. Got an idea.”

  Once his own suit was completely sealed, he leaned over Grace and said, “Okay, little girl. Ready to go for a ride? Pull your arms and legs in and sit Indian style, okay?” Grace did. Tommy took the empty arms of her suit and lifted her onto his back, pulling the left arm over his shoulder and the right arm under his right armpit. Ed saw where he was going and tied the arms together across his chest, then pulled the empty legs around Tommy’s hips and tied them.

  “Good luck,” Ed said.

  As the Apaches continued to fire missiles into the building, the group descended into the darkness under Chicago.

  CHAPTER 77

  10:31 PM

  August 14

  Dr. Reischtal’s phone lay faceup on the table. The trucks had been synced. The voice recognition software had confirmed Dr. Reischtal’s identity. The system was armed and ready for the signal. On his phone, the green SEND button blinked patiently.

  He’d been waiting, hoping to see some sign, something, someone trying to escape from the wreckage of City Hall. The Apaches had fired over thirty Hellfire missiles into the doorway and first-floor windows, but the building still stood, a testimonial to the strength and tenacity of the stone structure.

  One of the Apache pilots’ voices crackled over the radio. “Still no sign, sir. Should we expand the sweep?”

  Dr. Reischtal slumped back and didn’t bother to answer. While his sense of professional responsibility had been bruised, as well as his pride if he was honest, he told himself it mattered little. One tiny signal, and it would be all over.

  “Sir? Do you copy?”

  Dr. Reischtal shut the radio off.

  He looked at his phone.

  Yes, the toll had been devastating. The ancient one had almost succeeded with infecting the world and bringing with it a new age of darkness. But with God’s grace, Dr. Reischtal was about to choke the life out of the evil, and send it back to hell by burning Chicago off the map.

  He picked up his phone.

  The door to the chamber on the other side of the plastic slammed open and Dr. Reischtal watched as the black detective and the homeless woman stared back at him.

  “It’s over,” the detective said.

  Dr. Reischtal agreed with him. Nodding, he hit SEND. “Yes. Now it is over.”

  Tommy found a discarded flamethrower and used the blue pilot light to find his way through the darkness. He had only encountered a few of the infected, and these were too sick to move much. They flinched and turned away from the light, forcing themselves tighter into cracks and under ledges.

  Bugs covered everything.

  Sometimes they crawled over Tommy and Grace and Tommy had to stop and wipe them off his faceplate. The hazmat suits worked, and kept the bugs out. Once in a while he would turn and see how Grace was doing. He couldn’t hear her because she was too far away to use the little microphone in the air filter, but he could see her chubby fist giving him a thumbs-up in the flattened faceplate.

  Tommy used his experience from working for Streets and Sans, and tried to remember everything that Don had taught him about the labyrinth of tunnels and cracks and abandoned lines under Chicago. He worked his way through the darkness, flicking the trigger on the flamethrower to make sure the tunnels were clear. In some ways, it was almost easier than if the city was up and running. Back then, they would have had to work hard to avoid the rushing trains and electrified third rail. Now, Tommy could walk straight up the center of the tracks.

  He passed the signs of the battles. Huge piles of dead rats. Misty pockets of pesticides, where the dead bugs created a swamp nearly two feet deep. Bodies of soldiers. Bodies of subway passengers, caught by the rats or bugs before the evacuation. The bodies of the infected, who had crawled down into the musty gloom to escape the noise and light from above.

  He untied Grace and cradled her as he slipped through a crack that took him down nearly twenty feet. This particular tunnel had not been used in years, and the tracks were covered in dust. No bodies of humans, but plenty of dead rats. And always, always, the bugs. They swarmed over Tommy and Grace, sensing heat and blood inside. Tommy moved slow, careful not to snag their suits on anything sharp.

  He retied Grace on his back and studied the tunnel before him. It split in two, and Tommy’s gaze went back and forth between the two dark channels. “Goddamnit.” His metallic whisper echoed around the chamber. One of the tunnels eventually hooked up with north branch of the Blue Line at Clinton. The other dead-ended back in the massive cavern where Lee had been dumping all the illegal trash.

  He couldn’t remember which tunnel was which.

  The blackened railroad ties under his feet shivered, and he heard a distant, deep rumble. The cracking roar grew louder. Dust sifted off the walls and filled the air. The ground started to shake in earnest, as if Chicago was suffering an earthquake.

  There was no time left.

  He picked the left tunnel and started running.

  When Dr. Reischtal hit SEND, they heard a growl of thunder somewhere far off on the horizon. But that was all. A few minutes later, there was a gentle rocking as the warship rode the lazy swells that had been pushed into the lake from the blast.

  Ed ran his palm over the smooth, transparent plastic and ignored Dr. Reischtal. Qween clutched her bundle of rags, sat at the table, and just watched the man inside the sterile room.

  Dr. Reischtal was hitting buttons, making phone calls, but no one was answering. Ed wasn’t surprised.

  Earlier, they’d come up out of the subway across Clark and quietly made their way east to the lake. Ed had called Arturo. Arturo sent a police launch for them and told Ed that somebody in the upper levels of the federal government, somebody with some juice, maybe even somebody in the joint chiefs of staff wanted the mess in Chicago over. They couldn’t trust Dr. Reischtal anymore and they were more than willing to let someone else do their dirty work for them.

  Whoever it was had called ahead. No one on the boat stopped them. The soldiers stood silent and still and watched as Ed helped Qween along. One soldier had escorted them down to Dr. Reischtal’s safe room, then stood aside while they went in.

  Dr. Reischtal said, “I know your names. As before, I will find you. I will finish you.”

  Ed didn’t say anything. He studied the bubble of plastic, feeling for any cracks, any stress fractures. He settled on the curve along the upper right corner, then hefted the fire axe he’d picked up on the way down into the bowels of the ship.

  Dr. Reischtal almost laughed. “You do realize that this material is virtually indestructible. This
warship could sink to the bottom of Lake Michigan and I would still be sitting comfortably inside when the divers came.”

  Ed peeled his hazmat suit down to his waist, hefted the axe and swung it sideways in the cramped room, as if he was swinging for a high fastball. The blade bounced off the plastic with the sound of a boat propeller hitting a frozen pond. Ed looked like he expected nothing less. He pulled the axe back and swung again.

  And again.

  Dr. Reischtal said, “Even if you manage to crack it, it will take you days to create a hole large enough to fit inside. And I have no intentions of leaving. I have enough rations to last weeks, if necessary. When the authorities do show up, I will make you wish you had died back in that city.”

  Ed never stopped. He kept swinging, smashing the axe blade into the same spot, over and over. After nearly half an hour, sweat was pouring off of him and he was breathing in short, whistling bursts. He swung again, and this time, it sounded slightly different.

  A tiny sliver of plastic landed on the table in front of Qween. She picked it up and sleepily inspected it. She smiled. Ed stepped up the pace, swinging even harder. When the blade struck, it now sent up a flurry of plastic shards.

  Before long, the blade broke through, puncturing the surface.

  “Not so airtight now, are you, motherfucker?” Qween asked.

  Dr. Reischtal didn’t answer. He tried his phone again, but it wouldn’t function at all.

  Ed didn’t stop. He worked at the hole, created a jagged rupture nearly a foot in diameter. He stepped back, gasping, and dropped into one of the chairs. The axe clattered to the floor. Then, as if remembering something else, he picked the axe back up, walked over to the locked door that led into Dr. Reischtal’s safe room, and wedged the axe handle up under the door handle. He kicked it tight, then went back and sat down.

  Qween rose with all the regal elegance her name implied, and approached the hole. She still carried her bundle. She gave Dr. Reischtal another chilling smile, untied the bundle, and pulled out a rat by the tail.

  Hundreds of bugs wriggled through the coarse hair.

  The rat blinked, dazed, trying to shake off the deep sleep. She gently pushed it through the uneven hole and dropped it inside the once sterile room.

  As Dr. Reischtal gave a hoarse cry, she turned to Ed and leaned on the table. “I need to breathe some real air.”

  He stood and took her arm. They left Dr. Reischtal scrabbling around, stomping at the bugs that were flowing off the rat. He slapped his phone down, squashing four or five at a time. But they kept coming, covering the floor. He climbed up on his chair, then to his table. All of the monitors had gone dark.

  As they were leaving, Ed turned out the lights, leaving Dr. Reischtal alone with the bugs.

  Dr. Reischtal still had lights, of course, but the darkness beyond the plastic bubble filled him with a horror he hadn’t felt since his parents had used to lock him in the basement closet.

  For a few brief moments, he thought he might actually be able to kill all of the bugs, until he spotted one nestling into the cleft between his toes. He snaked a finger down there, squashing it. His finger came back up with just the hint of a smear of blood. It was enough.

  And while he stared at the fresh blood on his index finger, more bugs swarmed his bare feet and ankles, and started up his legs. He knew it was over and knelt back down on the floor, clasped his hands in front of his chest, and closed his eyes.

  If he could only see the stars.

  Ed and Qween made their way to the bow, faces lit by the glow of the fires in the Loop. The skyline was so different, as if a child had come along and swept his building blocks away, leaving some stacks barely standing, dashing others to the ground.

  The sky over the lake was alive with helicopters.

  “I’m awful damn tired,” Qween said. “Gonna rest now, I think.”

  “You want help?” Ed asked without looking at her.

  “You got a good heart for a cop, Ed Jones. And I thank you. I truly do. This is my job. Not yours.”

  Ed nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He stood abruptly, pulling his .357 out of its holster. He held it by the barrel and offered it to her, handle first.

  She took a deep breath, then finally took it. “Now go. Find your woman. Take care of her. And yourself.” She met his eyes, shiny with unspilled tears. “Gonna take me a nap.”

  He kissed her forehead and left.

  She watched Chicago burn for a while, felt her eyelids grow heavier and heavier. She considered the long sleep ahead of her and what awaited when she finally awoke. She could feel the strength slowly leaving her bones, replaced by something cold and sluggish.

  She thought about her home. Gone now.

  She opened her mouth and put the barrel of Ed’s .357 inside. As she watched the distant glow of the shattered Chicago skyline, she tilted the handgun until she felt the tip of the barrel tight against the roof of her mouth. She took one more deep breath and let it out slow, aware of the humidity in the air, the slow roll of the warship in the new waves spreading out across the lake, the coolness of the bench under her, the faint spattering of stars above, the rough checkerboard pattern of the handgun’s grip in her hand.

  Then she squeezed the trigger.

  And slept.

  Ed got back in the police launch and heard the single gunshot.

  He sat heavily in the stern. He kicked off the hazmat suit and threw it in the lake. He stuck his hand in his back pocket and pulled Sam’s flask out. He unscrewed the lid, avoiding the surreptitious glances from the two cops at the controls.

  “You wanna go back?” one of them asked.

  Ed shook his head. “No. It’s gone. How much gas we got?”

  The cop checked. “Full tank.”

  Ed took another shot from Sam’s flask, felt the burning as it trickled down his throat. “East. Michigan.”

  The cops looked back at the ruined city. One threw the line back to the soldiers on the warship. His partner hit the throttle, spun the wheel, and they headed east.

  Ed screwed the cap back on the flask and tucked it safely away. As they sped across the lake, he leaned back and watched the sky.

  A harsh, foul-smelling wind swirled down Clinton, a narrow side street west of the Loop. Tiny pink particles floated in the air currents, little messengers of death for anything that used oxygen. Flowers wilted. Leaves fell from trees.

  Down in the middle of the empty street, a manhole cover moved slightly. It rose up, then fell back. It was lifted again from underneath, and this time, it was pushed up hard enough to slip out of its circular edging, and shoved across the pavement. A figure in a hazmat suit climbed slowly out, then lifted another suit with a smaller figure curled inside.

  The hazmat suit staggered along, carrying the second suit, slung over its shoulder like hobo luggage. It bent over, peering into parked cars. It came to a car, a late-model gray sedan, double parked, blocking the right lane. The door was unlocked. The keys were in the ignition.

  The hazmat figure looked at the pink dust on his suit, then back at the peculiar rainbow smoke rising from the manhole. Beyond the manhole, back toward what was left of the Loop, a shimmering glow filled the sky.

  Tommy lifted Grace, put her in the passenger seat, and strapped her in. He held the faceplate over her head and asked, “You good?”

  She smiled as if sitting in this strange car, encased in an adult’s hazmat suit was the most natural thing in the world, and gave him another thumbs-up. He smiled back, unable to contain his joy. He had his daughter.

  He twisted the key in the ignition, expecting to hear the monotonous clicking of a dead battery. But it had only been four days, after all. The engine turned over almost immediately. He turned on the headlights, put the car into drive, and they pulled away.

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2013 Jeff Jacobson

  All rights reserved. No
part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-3078-1

  First electronic edition: August 2013

  eISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3079-8

  eISBN-10: 0-7860-3079-8

  Notes

  1 Taken from the World Health Organization website.