An “Oh no!” escaped from Crystal’s lips and she reached up to unlock the front door.
Her mother, who was at the stove with her back turned, heard the lock turn and rushed over to slam the door shut just as Crystal had opened it a crack. “What the hell do you think you’re doing child! You trying to get shot?”
“Momma, I have to go!” Crystal said, “that’s Champ! I need to get him before they hurt him! Please momma!”
“No! I told you about messing with those stray dogs! Now one of them has rabies! You lucky you haven’t been bit. We ain’t got no money to be taking you to the hospital.”
“Please momma! Just let me open the door and call to him. I won’t go outside I promise. Champ will listen to me.”
Her mother didn’t say anything, she just stared at Crystal with a look she had seen many times before. A look of resentment and loathing. The silence between them was interrupted by two loud pops followed by a sharp yelp. Crystal sank to her knees and buried her face in her hands.
Later that day, after she watched from the kitchen window as Champ’s lifeless body was put in a bag and taken away in a large station wagon with the words ‘Animal Control’ stamped on the side, Crystal found the courage to go outside. It seemed like everyone on the block had gathered in the courtyard. There was a thick crowd of adults and children standing in a circle, looking and pointing down at the ground. There was a peculiar smell hanging in the air, not unlike the hot and humid smell of the wet dumpster after a summer shower. But this smell was worse. It was nauseating, and so thick she could taste it. She put her hand over her mouth. I’m gonna be sick, she thought. The adults talked in hushed tones while most of the children hovered nearby, trying to get a good look at the unseen thing the adults had surrounded. Crystal hung back, walking slowly around the outer fringe of the wall of people, choking down the bile that had built up in her throat. She stumbled into the legs of one of the adults. He turned and stared down at her. It was Mr. Williamson. Her momma said Mr. Williamson was harmless, just a lonely old widower who passed the time by being mean to every child he came across.
“You Lucille Givens little girl, right?” he asked.
“Y-Y-Yes sir,” she answered.
“Girl, you greener that you is black! You git up on away from here and go on home to your momma! This here ain’t nothing a little girl should be seeing. Go on now, git!” When Mr. Williamson leaned down to give her a little shove in the direction of her house, she saw past him into the interior of the circle, and what the adults were trying to shield from the children. Where Champ fell after he was shot was a large puddle of blood. The heat from the asphalt had cooked it and kept it from spreading until it had coagulated and solidified into a congealed lump. It looked like someone had dropped a big bowl of opaque red jello on the blacktop. Nausea swam in her gut. She didn’t need Mr. Williamson’s push, she wanted to get as far away as possible from that blob and its smell. She ran to her front door, sat down on the stoop and put her head between her knees.
Moji saw her and came over and sat down next to her. She gave Crystal a big hug. “You alright?” she said.
“No!” Crystal said with a pained expression, “Why did they have to kill Champ? Why couldn’t they have just taken him to the hospital and fixed him?”
“I don’t know. I guess he was too sick to fix. I’m real sorry about your dog Crystal.”
Tears filled Crystal’s eyes. She hadn’t meant to cry, she knew Champ was dead. But the finality in Moji’s voice broke her resolve. “It-it-it’s not fair Moji!” she said, “Champ was a good dog! He loved me and I loved him back. Now I don’t have anyone!” Crystal buried her head in her arms.
“Look Crystal!” Moji said, “Look over there! It’s Dusty!”
Crystal picked her head up and looked in the direction Moji was pointing. Sure enough, Dusty had re-emerged from the alley and was sitting quietly about twenty feet away, staring intently at Crystal, his tail wagging nervously.
“See Crystal,” Moji said, “Dusty still loves you.”
Crystal, her face plastered with snot and tears, stared at Moji silently for several seconds before turning her attention to Dusty. She found a small rock in the dirt next to the stoop then stood and threw it as hard she could at Dusty. It missed but came close enough to make Dusty stand up and back up a few steps.
“Crystal, what are you doing?” Moji said.
Crystal found another rock and launched it in the direction of Dusty. She missed again. “Get outta here Dusty!” she screamed, “Git! Go on, get outta here!”
Dusty, confused by the behavior of the only human that had offered him any love and affection, walked in a small circle, then sat down and faced Crystal, wagging his tail rapidly.
“Stop it Crystal!” Moji said, “You’re going to hurt him!”
Crystal ran at Dusty and tried to kick him but Dusty, sensing the rejection, ran back to the safety of the alley and hid behind the dumpster.
“And never come back!” Crystal screamed. She was breathing heavily now, a bulb of snot hung from her upper lip.
“Crystal, what’s wrong?” Moji said.
Crystal stormed past Moji on her way back to her house, “I will never love another animal again! They just leave you, just like everyone else!” She threw open the screen door and disappeared into the house.
Tears streamed down Crystal's face as she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. Crystal didn’t understand why that memory was so vivid and fresh. She hadn’t thought about her childhood in forever. As a matter of fact, she spent a good portion of her adult life trying to forget it.
“Are you going to be ok, Crystal?” Jamarco asked.
“Yeah,” she said with a weak smile, “that smell triggered a bad memory from my childhood.”
“Well, I don’t smell anything other than the stench of a bunch of unwashed human beings who have spent all night in the same un-airconditioned apartment.”
“You’re a young, single guy,” she said as she wiped her face with the back of her hand and pushed herself off the sink, “your apartment could smell like the inside of a New York city taxi on a hot summer day and you probably wouldn’t notice.”
Jamarco smiled. “You’re probably right.” He took her hand in his. “You ready to try this again?”
“Yeah, I’m ready.”
They stepped back into the living room. Crystal drew a cautious breath then relaxed. The horrible hot blood smell was gone. She went over to Moji and felt her friend’s forehead. “She seems to be resting comfortably.”
“Don’t worry. She’s gonna be ok.”
“Are you sure? What if she wakes up? Did doc show you how to give her the sedative?”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no? What if she, or this other woman, wake up and start acting like Mrs. Reingold did? What are you going to do?”
“Doc told me that the shot I gave him was the last dose of the sedative. He didn’t have any more. It’ll be morning soon. I’m hoping that by then the power will be back on and we can call for help before anybody else wakes up.”
“No, that’s not a good plan,” Crystal said, incredulous. “What if one of them wakes up before you get a chance to call for help? What you gonna do, shoot them?”
“Shit, that sounds like a plan to me,” said a voice from the direction of the front door.
Jamarco and Crystal turned to see Elisha, Thomas, and Frank standing in the doorway. Crystal noticed that an elderly woman with a tall beehive hairdo had joined his group. She was dressed like she was headed for church, in a simple dark dress, beige stockings, and those ugly black shoes with the thick heels that elderly women liked to wear. Frank had a large duffel bag slung over his shoulder and Thomas was carrying the lanterns they had taken earlier. And there was one other notable addition that Elisha proudly brandished as he stood in the doorway, legs spread, hands on hips, looking ever so much like a middle aged, out of shape, caped crusader. Strapped to his waist, in a nondescrip
t black leather holster, was a pistol.
Elisha strolled up to them and looked up at Jamarco then glanced over at Paul who was on the floor, unconscious, with bandages covering his entire face, with only his nose and mouth exposed.
“Boy, what y’all do to the chinaman?”
16
“Sam Millsap! I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” Rose said in a hushed but shrill tone.
“Rose, I’m sorry,” Sam said, “but I just can’t do it! Orders came straight from the mayor’s office. Until the curfew is lifted, no one is to leave the depot.”
“But we just can’t leave Jack out there! Reports came in saying that there was an explosion and a fire at Jack’s last location. I can't reach him on the radio and we lost him on GPS when the power went out. Sam, he could be hurt! How long would it take to send someone to his last stop to see if he’s ok?”
Sam leaned forward in his chair to get a better look at his senior dispatcher. His old office chair squealed in relief as he shifted his substantial bulk over the desk. Although she sat only a few feet away, perched on the couch on the other side of his desk, the dim emergency lighting in his office made it difficult to discern facial features. He had to squint but Sam saw what he needed to see; Rose had been crying.
“Rose,” he said as tenderly as he could, “you know Jack and I are like brothers. We came up through the ranks together, we practically built this place. But if I let you or anybody else leave this building to go check up on loved ones after I have been told specifically by the mayor, governor, and Department of Homeland Security to sit tight, they’ll have my ass.”
He leaned back in the chair. It creaked its displeasure. Sam quickly sat up and shifted his weight, concerned the old chair might finally throw him. “Look Rose, Jack is a big boy. He knows what he’s doing out there.”
“Then why isn’t he here Sam? Why doesn’t he answer his radio?”
“Hell Rose, I don’t know. He still blames management for his wife’s death. Maybe ignoring the emergency recall and going rogue is his way of sticking it to the man. Kind of like his extended lunch breaks.”
Rose unfurled a damp handkerchief from her fist and wiped her nose. “Sam please, I know something has happened to him. I can feel it. I know I’m asking a lot but if you just let me take one of the company cars, I promise to stay in touch on the radio. I’ll—”
“Rose, “ Sam said, “I’m sorry. I just can’t let you, or anyone else, go out there right now.”
It was dark in the room but not dark enough for Sam to miss the look of anguish that washed over Rose’s face. That look made him feel ashamed and uncomfortable. Damn, he thought, why is she making me feel like I just slapped her and killed one of her kids?
They sat in silence for several seconds. Rose, her cheeks damp with tears, stared at the floor, her hands absentmindedly wringing the handkerchief in her lap into a tight rope. Sam leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, trying to push the feeling of overwhelming guilt out of his mind. Rose hovered in his peripheral vision, looking profoundly distraught and grief stricken.
Finally, Sam relented. “Rose, this is what I’ll do. I know a guy at Houston PD, an old army buddy of mine. I’ll radio over there and see if they can spare a car to go check on Jack’s last location.”
Rose jumped up and threw herself across Sam’s desk, her arms locking around Sam’s thick neck, her face awash in tears “Oh, thank you thank you thank you!”
Rose’s sudden show of appreciation surprised Sam. He flinched at her touch but didn’t pull away. It’s been a long time since a broad was in the mood to wrap her arms around my fat ass, he thought. “Rose,” he said, not wanting the moment to end, “All I can do is put in the call, I can’t promise they’ll act on it. With the shitstorm going on out there they have to be pretty busy.”
Rose disengaged and looked up at Sam, her hands resting lightly on his chest, “I know, but I appreciate you making the effort. It means a lot to me Sam, it really does. Thank you.”
Sam stood up to leave. “Well, I’d better go get to it then. There’s a lot a chatter on the emergency channel, it might take awhile to get through to him.”
“Ok. Thanks again,” Rose said and smiled as Sam backed out of his office doorway then turned and rumbled down the hallway toward the dispatcher's office. Please God, let Jack be ok, she thought. I don’t think Karen could survive losing him so soon after the death of her mother. She sighed as she shuffled out of Sam’s office. Who am I kidding? I’m a wreck and Jack doesn’t even know how I really feel about him. I’ll never forgive myself if something happened to him. She was lost in thought, her feet on autopilot, so she didn’t notice Raymond Hillman slide up next to her.
“Hey Miss Rose, wait up,” Ray said.
“Huh? Oh, hi Ray. What’s up?” Rose said, trying, but failing, to shift into a more cheerful mood.
“Are you ok? Your face is all red and puffy.”
“Yeah, I'm alright. There's just so many people suffering right now because of this horrible explosion, it’s hard to listen to it over the radio. You know what I mean?” Rose hoped her comfortable half truth would satisfy Raymond's curiosity.
He reached out and gently put his hand on her shoulder. “Trust me Miss Rose, I know exactly what you mean. I've witnessed my share of human suffering during my tour in Afghanistan. I wouldn't wish that kind of anguish on anybody. Do you want to talk about it? Sometimes that helps.”
“ Oh no no Raymond, thank you for your concern but I'll be ok. I just need some rest. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“I heard you were going to ask D.B. whether we could go get Skip. What’d he say?”
Rose hated the way the guys made up nicknames for each other. She thought it was demeaning. They named Sam the “Pillsbury Doughboy”—or D.B. for short—because Sam was a large man who had unfortunate genetics. He carried the majority of his weight around his head, neck, and torso. His legs were like matchsticks by comparison. The poor man was built like a poorly trimmed Christmas tree. And Jack, or “Skip” as everyone loved to call him, was notorious for disappearing or “skipping out” during his shift. At least they had the good sense to refrain from bestowing nicknames on the women. My goodness, she thought, I would hate to imagine the name they’d give me. She turned her attention to Ray. “He said that no one was allowed to leave the depot until given the all clear by the mayor. But he promised to call a guy he knows in the police department who can send someone out to check Jack’s last known location.”
“Miss Rose, I don’t think we should wait around for the police. Do you believe the official story about what's going on?”
“To tell you the truth Ray, I don't know what to believe. When Sam recalled the crews there was lots of radio chatter about how there was a bright light in the sky and an explosion big enough to knock down trees and blow out windows all over the city. I don’t know much more than that but I do know that everybody is scared.”
“It’s a terrorist attack Miss Rose,” Ray said, “and the government is trying to cover it up. They’re telling everyone that a meteor exploded and the shock wave caused the power outage and blew the shit outta all the buildings. But I ain’t buying it and neither are most of the guys down in the garage. A meteor doesn’t make people sick and it damn sure doesn’t make them act like they’re whacked out on drugs. Only radiation poisoning or an airborne virus can do that. We think ISIS finally got their hands on a dirty nuke and figured out how to smuggle it into the country and set it off.”
“Ray, are you sure?” Rose said, horrified. “Oh God, that just cannot be true.” The thought of another terrorist attack on American soil made her feel sick to her stomach.
“That’s what everybody is saying.”
The slack look on Ray’s face gave Rose some pause. Ray, on the job for a little over a year, was a product of the company’s revamped veteran hiring initiative. He was a millennial, fresh out of the Marine Corps with a tour of Afghanistan under his
belt and the PTSD to go with it. His veteran status gave him considerable cache with the guys he worked with but it didn’t stop the ritualistic hazing that all apprentice lineman endured. His position garnered him the distinction of being at the butt end of a variety of practical jokes and the head gofer for whichever crew he was assigned to that day. They nicknamed him ‘Obama,’ presumably because he was the depot’s first African-American apprentice lineman hire in over a decade. Rose thought it was more likely because the career bigots who make up a majority of the guys in the garage enjoyed yelling “Hey Obama, go get me some more coffee” or “Thanks Obama” every time Ray made a mistake. But Ray never complained or got upset about how he was treated. Rose didn’t know if that made him stoic and dignified or just naive and gullible. She hoped it wasn’t the latter. Ray must of saw the doubt in her eyes because his mood went from excited to sour.
“You don’t believe me Miss Rose?”
“No, no it’s not that Ray, it’s just that you know how the guys like to kid around, you know, play tricks on the new guy. A nuclear bomb exploding over the city sounds really crazy, don’t you think?”
The Scourge Page 19
