Joe took a step closer to the tracks. “Well, you shouldn’t have been playing Babe Ruth footsie with that ...”
Brian waited for the end of Joe’s sentence. It never came. Joe became consumed with looking down on the tracks. “Joe?” Brian neared him. “What’s wrong?”
“Those.” Joe pointed down.
“What?”
“By your buddy. They weren’t here an hour ago.”
Brian peeked down. On the tracks were six dead rats. The one Brian himself obviously kicked lay a foot from the pack. “So.” Brian shrugged. “Why are we concerned with a bunch of dead rats?”
“Brian, rats just don’t come up and die within an hour. Unless they were poisoned and ... shit.”
“What?”
A grunt escaped Joe. “Brian. Why were we chasing Ashrad?”
“For sending threatening faxes to the CDC?”
“And what exactly does the CDC handle?”
“Shit.”
“That boy shot himself out of fear. Fear of what?” Joe motioned his head to the rats.
“Want me to get them or you?”
“I think the younger of us should ...”
A thunderous roar of a train cut off Joe’s sentence as a subway car barreled around the bend and sped by them.
When the silence of the train’s passing was over, Joe, hands in pockets, looked back over the tracks. He whistled. “Well ...” He cleared his throat. “I don’t think we have to worry about who’s getting those rats.”
MAY 29 - 7:15 p.m.
Flight 609, en route to Philadelphia
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. We are making our approach into the greater Philadelphia airport. At this time we would like you to fasten all seat belts, and place your seats in an upright position. I apologize for any delays, and we hope you had a pleasant flight.”
“Sir, sir.” The stewardess leaned in towards Jonathan Quayle, who was sleeping. “Sir!”
Jonathan jumped up, startled. “Huh?!”
“You have to put your seat up.”
“Thank you.” Jonathan placed his seat upright and stared out the window. “Home, thank God.” He wiped the sweat from his eyes. He then focused in on the air sickness bag perched halfway out of the pocket in the seat in front of him. He grabbed it, opened it, and vomited.
May 29th - 7:33 p.m.
Ashtonville, Connecticut
A high piercing whistle preceded the spinning lit cigarette that Ellen tossed. She clapped her hands loudly and whistled one more time. “Yeah, way to go, Josh!” She laughed as she looked at Kelly who stood next to her. “Josh got walked.”
Kelly cringed, still holding her ear. “Where did you learn to whistle like that? Joe?”
Ellen laughed again. Just as she watched Josh doing something he rarely did—get on base—her maternal radar kicked in. Through the corner of her eye, a split second before she saw the concession stand, she saw Taylor fall. She took off running in the direction of her daughter, arriving too late to stop the shrill crying. “Hey.” Ellen softened her voice as she crouched down to her. Reaching for Taylor’s skinned knee, Ellen’s focus caught the sight of a pair of faded jeans, legs that soon crouched down to Taylor as well.
“Hey, Sweetie.” Peter smiled his bright smile to Taylor. “Want Daddy to kiss it and make it better?”
Ellen watched Peter bring his lips to just above the cut. “You know that holds no medicinal value whatsoever.”
“Hello to you too, El.” Peter lifted Taylor and at the same time he and Ellen both rose to their feet.
“I see you took time to go home and change your clothes,” Ellen said. “Jeans, Josh’s game. I know where your priorities lie.”
Peter let out a sarcastic little laugh as he balanced Taylor, who clung to him, on his hip. “You’re the one to be talking about priorities.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ellen folded her arms.
Staring at her, Peter reached behind him to his back pocket and pulled out an envelope. Harshly he shoved it in between Ellen’s folded arms. He stepped to her, leaned close and whispered. “Learn to hide your love letters.”
Ellen swore her heart dropped to her stomach at that second. Slowly she reached to the letter and unwrinkled it, exposing the left hand corner and enough to explain Peter’s comment. Clearly the return address of M.SGT. F. Slagel was seen. Holding the envelope, Ellen raised her eyes. Peter walked off with Taylor.
“Everything all right?” Kelly asked as she approached Ellen from behind.
Instinctively, Ellen’s hand closed folding the letter. As she turned to face Kelly, she reached behind her shoving the letter in her pocket. “Um ...” She blinked several times. “Yeah, everything is fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” Ellen placed on a nervous smile. “Yeah. Let’s uh ... let’s go watch the game.” Over her shoulder she looked at Peter who was all smiles holding Taylor by the bleachers. Then Ellen slowly walked off with Kelly.
May 29th - 8:50 p.m.
John F. Kennedy Airport - New York City, NY
“Pork rind?” Standing in the boarding line, Joe extended the bag of snacks under Brian’s nose.
“Oh, God no. They stink.” Brian quickly pushed them away.
“What’s wrong with you? Never bothered you before.” Joe handed his ticket to the woman and showed her the bag as well. “Pork rind?”
She smiled with a shake of her head and handed Joe his ticket folder.
Munching and walking, Joe stopped mid-corridor when he noticed Brian at a turtle’s pace behind. “Brian, Christ, Come on. You’re moving like you’re going to a funeral.”
“Sorry, Joe.” Brian’s head swayed. “I have a killer headache.”
“Well, it’s the tension, excitement.” Joe waved his hand to Brian to hurry him along.
“I don’t think that it’s tension and excitement, Joe.” Brian finally caught up. “I mean it’s a killer headache. I can barely see.”
“You look a little flushed.” Joe, in a fatherly manner, reached his hand up to Brian’s forehead.
Brian quickly swiped it away and looked to see if anyone saw. “Joe, knock it off.”
“You’re a little warm.”
“Joe.”
“No, and I know fevers. I nursed my four boys alone through many of them.”
“I’ll ... I’ll be fine.” Brian tried to pick up the pace.
“Well, you’d better be fine. Because this day is far from over, pal. As soon as we land it’s back to work and to a stack of papers three inches high. No Tylenol time-outs here.”
“You’re a real humanitarian, Joe.”
“Never bragged compassion was my forte, now did I?” Joe shoved another pork rind in his mouth, and just to be irritating, stuck the bag under Brian’s nose, watched him wince, then Joe, snickering, stepped on to the plane.
May 29th - 9:10 p.m.
Atlanta, Georgia
Her inhalation of the aroma was so deep that Catherine Donovan risked asphyxiation by French fry via the nostril. “I swear I never thought we’d get out of there. I’m starved.” She smiled over the basket of bar food Dr. Jeff Morrows set before her.
“You were always on to dine in the finest of establishments, Catherine.” Jeff, a tall but thin man with balding hair, set his little basket down and joined her at the table of the small local bar. Cigarette smoke lingered, the television played loudly and the patrons, already inebriated, tried to talk over the news.
Reaching for the ketchup, Catherine shoved a fry in her mouth. “We need you talk, you and I.” She squeezed the ketchup on her fries.
“What about?” Jeff retrieved the squeeze bottle.
“Get this.” Catherine leaned into the table. “Carrington was viral.”
A large blurt of ketchup sprayed out onto Jeff’s food as his hand convulsively squeezed the bottle. “How ... how ...”
“How do I know?” Catherine calmly reached for the salt. “I annoyed the he
ll out of Lt. Hayes. Too bad my persistence doesn’t pay off on Agent Slagel. My imagination keeps taking off.”
“I fail to see the connection.” Jeff grabbed a napkin to wipe of his hands.
“How can you not?”
“No. How can you?”
“Jeff.” Catherine took on a matter of fact tone. “If you were a terrorist based country and you wanted to build a strong biological weapon, would you risk doing it in your own country with President ‘I’m a lunatic’ Hadley in office. No. You’d contract it out. Whoever is sending the faxes could have contracted Carrington. Did you think of that? I have.”
Jeff had to laugh. “Catherine, please. That theory is like taking the long way around the block. It’s almost like your mind has these two problems and somehow you just want to find a connection so you only have one thing to worry about.”
“Oh, that’s stupid.”
“So is your theory.” Jeff chuckled at Catherine’s dramatic gasp. “Listen to me. First of all ...”
“... for Disease Control investigation ...” The newsman’s words caught their attention.
Both Catherine and Jeff turned in their seats to view the television when they heard the name.
“ ... has finally come to an end tragically with the destruction of this ninety-six unit apartment building in New York.” On the television, shots of a smoldering building with firefighters and workers were seen. “Authorities believe the explosion originated in the apartment of Barat Ashrad, suspect in the threatening faxes to the ...”
Jeff stopped watching and continued in his eating. “Well. You should be happy. There’s an end to one problem.”
“That still leaves Carrington.” Catherine indulged in her food again. “What if it’s the one?”
Suddenly Jeff stopped eating. He pushed his greasy food basket slightly aside, and folded his hands on the table. His high forehead crinkled with concern. “May I say something without upsetting you?”
“Probably not, but go on.”
“All right. Carrington was viral yes, ... uh-uh-ah.” Jeff held up a finger to silence Catherine when he saw her mouth open. “Listen to me. Viral, yes. But also, you must remember, not only is the incident isolated, so is the location. You’re worrying far too much.”
“May I speak now?” Catherine swiped away Jeff’s finger. “Thank you. It shouldn’t matter how isolated the incident or the location, Jeff, it’s viral. When there’s something that unknown to us, that kills that fast and that viciously then we shouldn’t stop worrying. Because if it could happen on some tiny little island, it could happen anywhere.”
“You aren’t hearing me correctly. Never did I tell you not to worry.”
“Yes, you did.” Catherine argued.
“No, Catherine, I didn’t. I told you that you worry too much. You do. You over-dramatize everything.”
Catherine’s mouth dropped open as it displayed how offended she was. “I do not. I’m a doctor. A scientist. My fears and concerns are always validated.”
“Eighty percent of the time if you don’t dramatize it, which you do. You always have. Since the day we started working together. How long has it been? Seventeen years?” Jeff raised an eyebrow. “There’s always one person and that one is you. You’re the one who has always waited for that big virus to come. The virus that wipes us all out. Well, Miss Morbid, I have news for you.” Jeff spoke assuredly. “Carrington is not it ...”
“Jeff, you seem to ...”
“No.” Jeff reached across the table laying his finger across Catherine’s mouth to quiet her. “Carrington is over. It’s dead.”
May 29th - 9:33 p.m.
Ashtonville, Connecticut
‘Once again, President Hadley is under a barrage of criticism following his comment that the explosion at the ninety-six unit apartment building in New York wasn’t an act of terrorism, but an act of another dead beat alien trying to get out of paying their rent ...’
Chuck, probably Ashtonville’s burliest bartender, shook his head as he retrieved two beers from the cooler. He looked back up to the Cable Network News station that always bored his patrons then set the two bottles on the bar. “Four bucks.”
“You rob me.” Ellen laid the bills on the table. “When do I get a free one?”
“Never.”
Ellen snickered and glanced to the television. “Look at Hadley. You have to love him. He’s so crass.”
“He’s an asshole.”
“Having a good ...” Ellen interrupted her own sentence with a loud, shrill, scream as she pointed at the screen.
“What?” Chuck asked annoyed.
“My father, did you see him. There!” Ellen pointed again to the television. A shot of Joe was briefly seen at the destruction of the apartment building. “Wow. I’ll have to call him.” Ellen grabbed her beers, without tipping, and moved away from the bar to the pool table. She handed one of the beers to Connie, an older woman whom everyone in Ashtonville knew as the woman who would be anyone’s friend for a drink. To the men, Connie was that special friend. To the women, she was that listening ear. To Ellen, Connie was the one person that made her feel like a pool shark.
“I heard you scream,” Connie said as she took the beer Ellen handed her.
“My father was on television.” After setting her beer down, Ellen chalked up her cue stick.
“I thought your father was dead.”
“He is. Joe was on TV.” Ellen bent over the table to examine the shots.
“Thanks for the beer.”
“Thanks for listening and hanging.” Ellen took her shot. The cue stick slid across the felt and she cringed. “I screwed up, can I do that again?”
“Sure.” Connie took a drink of her beer. “So, how long are you keeping me out?”
“Not too long.” Ellen took another shot; this time she actually hit the cue ball and it ricocheted nicely across the ball-filled table without hitting anything but banks. “Just until I get drunk enough or nerve enough to go home and face the music.” Ellen walked from the table and grabbed her beer. “Or until Pete gets tired of waiting and goes to sleep.”
“You didn’t mention. What exactly was in that letter?”
Slowly Ellen brought her bottle to her lips, and raised her eyebrows a few times. “Enough.”
“Oh boy.” Connie set down her beer, getting the feeling that it was going to be a long night. Even though she could put them away with the best of them, she knew her alcohol tolerance level wasn’t high enough to handle putting them away until it was safe for Ellen to go home.
May 29th - 9:45 p.m.
The Bronx, New York
Mabel couldn’t recall it ever happening to her. Was her head pounding that bad? Was she feeling that sick that not only did she fall asleep on the subway going home, but she failed to wake up until the conductor, changing evening shifts, found her in the back.
But even after three hours of sleep Mabel still felt tired. Never had she felt as bad as she did as she struggled along the walk to her apartment she shared with her daughter, Diane, and four-year-old granddaughter, Tara.
She thought she would feel a sense of relief when she hit the red brick building, but instead Mabel felt a sense of loss. She stepped into the foyer and started up the steps as if they were a mountain she had to climb. To her, with the way she was feeling, they were.
One at a time, slowly and leaning against the wall, Mabel took the stairs, gripping for dear life to the railing for fear the dizziness she felt would cause her to tumble backwards. With each raise of a foot to the next step, Mabel’s head pounded more. Her throat burned and she could barely swallow. All the ailments that she felt failed in comparison to the sick knot that formed in her stomach with contents that waited to emerge involuntarily.
“Mom?” Diane, Mabel’s daughter, flung open the door. “Oh, my God. Where have you ...”
Mabel walked by her daughter only holding up a hand. She grunted when her rambunctious granddaughter flew into her legs wrapping her arm
s around her. “No, no sweetie.” Mabel gently and weakly took the little girl’s arms from her. “Grandma’s sick. Don’t want you to catch it.”
“Mom?” Diane shut the door. “What’s wrong? We were worried. Did something happen?”
“I got sick and fell asleep on the subway.” Mabel kept moving toward the hall that led to the bathroom. “I’ll be right out.”
“Are you all right?”
“Fine, baby. Just fine.” Mabel tried to smile as she walked into the bathroom. “Could you ... could you just make me a nice cup of tea.”
“Sure.” Diane blinked in worry as she looked at her mother. “Are you sure you’re ...”
“Fine.” The door closed.
Diane’s hand reached up to knock, but she slowly withdrew it. She turned from the bathroom door and as she walked to the kitchen, she heard a loud ‘thump’. The noise made her heart skip a beat and Diane knew where it had come from. Quickly Diane flew to the bathroom and pounded on the door. “Mom? You ok? Mom?” There wasn’t an answer. “Mom?” Not wanting to wait anymore and feeling a sense of urgency, Diane turned the knob and opened the door. She screamed when she saw her mother on the bathroom floor near the commode. Mabel laid motionless, face down, one arm draped over the toilet with a thick long line of blood smeared from the seat to where a puddle formed and grew at Mabel’s mouth.
MAY 29th - 8:20 p.m.
Philadelphia, PA
Jonathan Quayle awoke on his bed scared and confused. He had no idea how he made it home in one piece or how he even managed to drive home from the airport. He knew he was very ill; he had stopped six times to vomit on the way home, not including the two times he wasn’t able to stop first. Jonathan’s eyes could barely focus through the pain, he needed help, but since his wife was not home, he could only call. Why he didn’t go directly to the hospital, he didn’t know. With every bit of strength his weakened body could muster, he tried to lift himself from the bed. A dampness held him there. He had messed himself while he slept, he thought. Jonathan touched the base of his lamp to turn on the light so he could find the phone. As the light brightened the room, Jonathan’s eye’s focused in horror as he discovered he was lying in a pool of blood—his blood. Weakly, he stretched for the phone, fumbling and knocking it to the floor. Jonathan reached for it, but before he could dial, he, too, fell to the floor. Laying there next to the phone, Jonathon lifted his head in one final attempt for help but died before he could get it.
The Big Ten: The First Ten Books of the Beginnings Series Page 4
