Ejecta

by William C. Dietz

  ***

  Portland, Oregon

  It was nearly dark by the time Palmer got back to his car, drove downtown, and checked into the Benson. It was a traditional hotel, with upscale comforts, located near the things he liked most. One of which was Jake's Grill. A typically crowded restaurant known for its steaks and seafood.

  On the theory that it was too late to follow-up on the woman Tamby had told him about Palmer took the familiar walk to Jake's. It was necessary to wait fifteen minutes before being shown to a table. Then came the moment of truth. Drink or no drink? For some reason it had been easy to have iced tea during the get together with Tamby. But now that he was tired, worried, and alone the desire to order some liquid comfort was very strong.

  Palmer looked up to discover that the long-faced waiter was still standing there and wondered how much time had passed. “I'll have water, thank you. I know what I want.”

  After placing his order Palmer was confronted by something he already knew. And that was the fact that even the best dinner in the world can be a very lonely experience. So he dialed Cooper's number hoping for some news. But, when Palmer ran into the agent's voice mail, he chose to hang up rather than leave a message. What could he say? That he loved Sara? That he was worried about her? Cooper knew that. Or should have.

  But just in case Palmer left the phone on the pristine white table cloth where he would be sure to hear it if it rang. Courses came and went, the phone was mute throughout, and Palmer slipped it into a pocket as he got up to leave. The night took him in.

  ***

  Palmer rose early the next morning, ate breakfast in the hotel, and was on the road by 9:00 AM. According to the information obtained from McGinty the hunchback's name was Florence Kelty. Having entered her address into the car's nav system it wasn't long before Palmer found himself in a pleasant neighborhood called Healy Heights. It wasn't what he expected, given the photo of what looked like a bag lady, but so what? Quinton had been living in a million dollar house before he was infected. And Podry had been down and out. It seemed as though socioeconomic status had very little, if anything, to do with being infected.

  And sure enough the house he was looking for had a gabled tile roof, arched windows, and was beautifully landscaped. Palmer parked the car, got out, and made his way over to a wrought iron gate. A curved path led him to a porch and a door that was the same shade of red as the tiles on the roof. He pushed a button, heard distant chimes, then the rap, rap, rap of footsteps. Palmer suspected that he was being scrutinized via the door's peephole and produced what he hoped was a winning smile.

  His reward was a snicking sound as a bolt was thrown followed by a squeak as the heavy door opened partway. A TV could be heard in the background as an elderly woman with carefully coiffed hair looked out through the opening. She had a heavily lined face and flour white skin, with a patch of rouge on each cheek. “Yes?”

  “My name is Alex Palmer,” the geologist said. “And I'm looking for Florence Kelty. Do you know her?”

  A look of sadness came over the woman's face. As if the mere mention of the name was enough to make her unhappy. “Yes, I know her. Florence is my daughter. What has she done now?”

  Palmer produced his cell phone and showed the picture taken the day of the robbery. “Is this your daughter?”

  The photo of Florence licking a rock caused the woman to wince. “Yes, that's her. Where was she? We haven't heard from her in weeks.”

  “At the Galactic Gem and Mineral show,” Palmer replied. “You say you haven't heard from her. Do you have any idea where she might be?”

  “Are you with the police?”

  Palmer considered lying but decided against it. “No. I'd like to talk with her that's all. I have a friend with a similar condition. I'm trying to learn what I can.”

  The woman opened the door a little wider and seemed to study his face. “If that's true you understand the extent of our pain,” she said. “Florence is an accountant and a good one. She came to stay with us after her husband was killed in a car accident. Then, about a month ago, she began to act strangely. As the days passed she quit work, stopped bathing, and became very distant. We tried to take her to counseling but she grew angry and left home.”

  “So you don't know where she's living?”

  The woman shook her head. “No, I don't. But she used to talk about the God Sent Mission in downtown Portland. I think she goes there sometimes.”

  Palmer nodded. “Thank you. I'll check with them.”

  The woman's lower lip trembled. “Your friend... What's wrong with him?”

  “She's ill,” Palmer answered honestly. “And I'm part of a team that's trying to find a cure.”

  “Good. Please call me if you figure out some way to help Florence. And let me know if you locate her.”

  Palmer took the woman's phone number, thanked her again, and returned to the car. He could feel the weight of the woman's gaze, as well as her pain, and felt sorry for her. How many more are there he wondered? Hundreds? Thousands? And how fast are they are reproducing? Maybe Cooper knows, Palmer thought to himself. The bastard.

  ***

  The God Sent Mission was located on the west side of Portland. A neighborhood where the process of gentrification was still underway and homeless people were a common sight. Three men were sitting out front of the facility passing a poorly disguised bottle of wine around as Palmer approached. All of them were male and had bedrolls or packs nearby. The eyes that stared at Palmer seemed to see straight through him. I could be one of those men, Palmer thought to himself. Living from one bottle to the next.

  And perhaps that was why Florence Kelty frequented the place. Because like the addicts around her she was no longer in charge of who or what she was. Although her affliction had been imposed on her and was even more cruel than drugs or alcohol.

  Such were Parker's thoughts as he pushed through the door, passed a list of house rules, and made his way toward a raised desk. The room was in need of paint, and heavily trafficked sections of the linoleum were worn through, but everything was clean. People, men mostly, were seated here and there. Some were reading, or staring at the TV that hung in one corner, but at least three were asleep in their chairs. Or passed out. It was impossible to tell.

  The man seated behind the desk was completely bald. His arms were bare and heavily decorated with tattoos. If he was surprised to see a regular citizen appear inside the mission there was no sign of it on his face. “Good morning, brother. My name's Lou. What can I do for you?“

  “I'm looking for a woman named Florence Kelty,” Palmer said. “Her family is worried about her. Here's what she looks like. Have you seen her?”

  Lou accepted the cell phone, examined the screen, and nodded. “Yeah... We call her Suitcase Annie because she tows a suitcase around. Too bad you weren't here an hour ago.”

  “She was here?”

  “Yup.”

  “When will she be back?”

  Light rippled across the top of Lou's skull as he shook his head. “Who knows? Our clients don't have schedules. When the rain falls they seek shelter. When the monkey tells them to shoot up they do. Annie ain't no different.”

  Palmer felt a profound sense of disappointment. “Can I wait for her?”

  “Suit yourself. But it could be days, weeks, or months.”

  “Thanks,” Palmer said, before turning away. “I'll be back.”

  He knew what to do. Check out of the Benson, move into the mission, and wait for Suitcase Annie. There was a message on the door that opened onto the street. It read, “Never give up.” I won't, Palmer thought to himself, I sure as hell won't.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Somewhere south of Portland, Oregon

  The slipstream tore tears out of Nail's eyes as the drifter stood in the boxcar’s open door and stared into the wind. He had two bodies to dispose of and that was no small chore. Rather than simply dump the hobos next to the tracks where they would be found within hours Nail was dete
rmined to toss them into a river. That should have been simple given the number of tributaries that the southbound freight train had passed over during the last couple of hours.

  But most of the railroad bridges were built in such a way that a maze of steel girders prevented them from throwing anything larger than a loaf of bread into the water below. So the wait continued as Nail eyed the track ahead and Devlin sat with arms wrapped around her knees. It would have been nice to dispose of the bodies at night. But Nail was afraid that the train would stop before then thereby increasing the possibility of discovery.

  Finally, just as he was starting to wonder if they should abandon the plan, he saw a bridge in the distance. “Okay,” Nail said, as he pulled himself back into the boxcar. “There’s a bridge coming up. This could be the one we’re looking for. So let’s get ready!”

  The bodies were heavy. And the task of disposing of them would have been impossible had it not been for Devlin’s ability to summon what seemed like super human strength. She bent over, pulled Cowboy's stiffening body upright, and lifted all one-hundred and sixty-five pounds of dead hobo up over her head before staggering towards the open doorway.

  Nail watched in open mouthed amazement, realized that the bridge was coming up fast, and went to fetch the second corpse. He had to drag it across the floor and shout in order to make himself heard over the rumble of the slipstream. “Remember…. If this turns out to be the one, toss yours and give me a hand. It won’t take long for the train to cross the bridge.”

  Devlin gave a short jerky nod as the locomotives pulled the train onto a long span. Vertical support beams began to whip by. They were at least fifteen-feet apart. And that was the sort of situation Nail had been hoping for. The water had a cold, gray appearance, and there was plenty of it thanks to winter rains. “Okay,” Nail yelled. “Do it!”

  Devlin threw Cowboy's body outwards. But her timing was off and the corpse hit a vertical support beam. Fortunately there was some spin on the body so it fell free.

  Rather than watch the body fall Devlin turned to help Nail lift Watch Cap's inert form up off the floor. She took the hobo by the wrists, Nail grabbed his ankles, and by working together they were able to swing the dead man outwards. Devlin saw the body pass between two uprights, and felt a sense of exhilaration as it disappeared from sight.

  After going through the dead men’s belongings Nail had returned the roll of bills to Devlin and kept the .38 for himself. Thanks to the fact that they had been wearing gloves he felt confident there wouldn’t be any fingerprints to give them away. Still, it paid to be cautious. So even though the hotshot was headed in the right direction Nail knew they should switch trains soon.

  Devlin had begun to tremble as the adrenaline faded away. So Nail wrapped his arms around her. She was too old to make a pass at, but too young to be his mother, so he thought of her as a sister. A weird sister. “Don’t worry,” Nail said soothingly, as he pulled Devlin close. “Everything will be alright.”

  ***

  Portland, Oregon

  Palmer was making love to Sara. Except it wasn't Sara. It was something horrible. And it wanted to lick him. “Hey bro,” a voice said. “Wake up.”

  Palmer opened his eyes to see Lou standing over him. The overhead light created a halo around the man's head. “She's here,” the big man said insistently. “Suitcase Annie is here.”

  Palmer sat up. His cot was in a row of twenty all of which were occupied. More than two days had passed since he had taken up residence in the God Sent Mission. Palmer glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that four hours had elapsed since he had begun what was supposed to be a twenty minute nap. “Where?” he croaked. “Where is she?”

  “Out front,” Lou replied. “Come on.”

  Palmer swung his feet over onto the floor, stood, and followed Lou out to the lobby. And sure enough, there was the woman in the photo, standing in front of a table on which a modest array of refreshments were laid out. Frazzled hair, gray rain coat, and a pronounced bulge at the top of her spine. A beat-up roll-around suitcase rested next to her. As Kelty held a cup of coffee with both hands she peered around as if she had never been in the mission before.

  Palmer remembered the attempt to take Sara into custody and how paranoid she'd been. With that experience in mind he was careful to approach the woman slowly. “Hi. My name is Alex. Are you Florence? Florence Kelty?”

  Kelty jerked as if an electric shock had been sent through her body. She tried to speak, produced a horrible gargling sound, and ran. Or tried to. Because the suitcase was heavy and slowed her down.

  Palmer looked over at Lou who shrugged. He saw strange occurrences nearly every day.

  So Palmer followed Kelty out onto the street. It was dark, a light rain was falling, and the cones of greenish light produced by the streetlights marched off into the distance. Palmer faced a difficult decision. Should he retrieve the rental car? Or pursue the woman on foot?

  After a moment's hesitation he chose the first option. Because if he didn't, and Kelty hailed a cab, he'd be left behind. But what if she disappeared while he went to get the car? That danger was very real as well.

  So Palmer ran the block to the U-park lot, opened the door, and fumbled the key into the ignition. After starting the engine he slipped the transmission into gear and pulled out onto the street. A hard right took him back toward the mission. The wipers made a screeching sound as he passed the blue neon sign and scanned both sides of the street. Then he felt a sense of relief as he spotted Kelty up ahead. She looked back over her shoulder from time-to-time while she hurried along. She didn't seemed to be alarmed by his headlights however for which Palmer was thankful.

  Rather than try and stop her Palmer had decided to follow Kelty and see where she went. So when Kelty paused at a bus stop, and took a long slow look around, he pulled over and killed the lights. Having satisfied herself that she wasn't being followed, Kelty opened the top of her suitcase, and removed a brick. After licking the object a couple of times she dropped it onto the ground.

  That process continued for a couple of minutes as Kelty sampled the outside of an aluminum can, a leather shoe, and a metal dustpan. Then, as a couple of skateboard toting teenagers arrived, she stopped.

  A bus appeared a couple of minutes later. The door opened, and Kelty was struggling to lift her suitcase up the short flight of stairs, when one of the boys gave her a hand. That was the beginning of a journey which led east on Burnside to the intersection of Burnside and 82nd avenue.

  Brake lights came on as the bus stopped and Kelty lowered her suitcase onto the sidewalk. Then the brightly lit box roared away. Both sides of Burnside were lined with bars, used car lots, and shabby storefronts. Canyons of darkness separated the buildings and Palmer feared that if Kelty entered one of them she might disappear before he could park and follow her. So he guided the car into a slot in front of a pawn shop. It was closed and had been for hours.

  Cold raindrops hit his face as Palmer made his way up the sidewalk and caught sight of Kelty as she took a right. It was necessary to hurry in order to keep up. After arriving at the corner Palmer looked down a side street and saw Kelty cross at mid-block.

  Palmer angled across the street as Kelty made straight for what had clearly been a small motel thirty or forty years earlier. At some point, judging from the dimly lit sign out front, the building had been repurposed as the “Blue Moon apartments.” A modern day flop house where one could rent a room by the hour, day, or week.

  An old wooden fence ran next to the sidewalk as if to screen the building off from the rest of the world. Palmer watched Kelty turn left and disappear behind the barrier. He followed her to the point where a pull-through driveway curved in from the street. Having slipped under a towering monkey tree Palmer paused to check his surroundings.

  There was a long low building in front of him. Part of it was blocked by a huge motor coach. Further down he could see what was clearly a vehicle in spite of the blue tarp draped over it.<
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  The office was lit up, and judging from the persistent thump, thump, thump of bass, plus the movement of shadows inside, a party was underway. In an effort to see better Palmer slid along the fence to the point where a dumpster offered some cover. The office was the only unit that was lit up. Palmer got the feeling it'd been sometime since the complex had been fully occupied.

  There was a squeaking noise as the office door opened, followed by a momentary burst of music, and a rectangle of buttery light shot out onto the oil stained driveway. Palmer watched a man make his way over to the motor home, where he vanished from sight. A light came on inside the vehicle as he took a seat behind the wheel. The starter strained, the engine caught, and the man disappeared again. Then, as he left the vehicle for the office, Palmer heard him shout. “Hey Flo! Get your ugly ass out here. Let's get going.”

  Flo? As in Florence? Suddenly Palmer wanted to call Cooper and bring in some help. But could the government react quickly enough? Palmer had his doubts. Especially since Wilson, Cooper and the rest of them were operating independently of the FBI. He could call 911 of course. But what then? If Biosecurity wasn't cooperating with the NYPD, it wouldn't be working with the Portland police department either.

  Palmer pushed his way along the fence, darted across the driveway, and stopped next to the tarp draped vehicle. After glancing around left and right he lifted the cover. There was no mistaking the front end of a Dodge Ram 4 X 4. These were the people who had broken into the convention center alright. And Florence Kelty was one of them.

  Palmer made his way over to the last unit in the complex and tried the door. It opened without protest. Palmer didn't have a flashlight. So he felt for his cell phone, brought it out, and flipped it open. The light from the display produced a ghostly glow. The bed was unmade, there were empty fast food containers laying around, and he saw a cockroach scuttle into a beer can.

  Satisfied that there wasn't anything of interest in the apartment Palmer left, paused outside, and heard a burst of laughter. The party was still in full swing. The coach was running, and the interior lights were on, but no one was visible.