The Gemini Virus

by Mara, Wil

  She locked the door of her apartment just after eight thirty that morning, stuffy and light-headed. The drive would take about two and a half hours, the great bulk of which would be spent on the Garden State Parkway. She brought along two different meds from the bathroom cabinet, plus a box of tissues for the passenger seat of her faithful ’06 Toyota Corolla. She listened to Elvis and Everly Brothers CDs on the first half of the journey, singing along in her soft, passable alto. When the fever, chills, and sweating started, however, she got on the cell phone with her sister, Rita, in western Pennsylvania and cursed every breath that kept Bob Easton alive. She had no way of knowing he was already dead.

  By the time she pulled into the valet area, the aches had set in. They weren’t so bad in her knees or neck, but the one in her lower back was torturous. She received a jolt every time she moved, like a poke from an electric prod. When she finally got out of the car, she had to muster all her strength to keep from crying out. She was more than happy to let someone else carry her suitcase to her room this time—it was worth every penny of the two-buck tip.

  She tried unsuccessfully to unpack, took two Sudafed tablets, then went down to the casino floor. She found one of her favorite video poker machines—Ultimate 4 of a Kind Bonus Poker—and sat down reverently before it. She lit a cigarette, inserted her comp card, and asked a waitress for a gin and tonic. A few of those, she figured, and the cold would disappear. She didn’t see Susie or Alex or Lynn, but one of them would show up eventually. She made the maximum bet on her first spin, won double in return, and immediately felt better. She was in business.

  The coughing and sneezing started about a half hour later. The cough wasn’t unusual; most of the people in the aisle had a nasty hack from years of smoking and boozing. But the sneezing made her stand out. By late afternoon they were coming every few minutes. One rose so quickly that she sprayed the machine glass with it. She still had some tissues from the car, but they didn’t last long. The waitress brought a pile of napkins, then another. Everyone within earshot identified her as the sick lady who should’ve stayed home. She received two scoldings for being so inconsiderate, as if Atlantic City were a bastion of class and civility.

  Six o’clock was supposed to be dinnertime: her much-anticipated visit to the Reserve. But she didn’t feel up to it now—all she wanted to do was take more Sudafed and lie down. The pain in her back had grown roots, forcing her to take baby steps to the elevator. Alexandra was sitting at a blackjack table, but Doris pretended not to see her.

  She ordered room service—hamburger and fries—but ate very little. She forced down a few bites because she figured her body needed some kind of nutrition. Then she lay on the bed and closed her eyes. The curtains were open, the last shreds of daylight fading fast. The clock on the nightstand read 7:32, and she was soon asleep.

  She was jarred awake three hours later by a rumbling in her stomach, followed by a hot rising in her throat. She rolled quickly and vomited over the edge. It came out in two gushes, and the wet slapping sound made her guts tighten. Residual particles felt like cigarette embers on her tongue. She tried spitting them out, then raked them off with her fingernails.

  She fell back on the pillows and collected her thoughts. I’m in Atlantic City, at Bally’s … Room 1733.… I’ve been looking forward to this trip for weeks. She saw her cell phone on the small circular table by the window and wondered if she should call her sister. Maybe … She put a hand to her forehead—it was filmy with perspiration and burning hot.

  The odor from the vomit began drifting up. She covered her nose and turned away. Her breathing was heavy now, heart pounding. I need to take more Sudafed.

  As she got to her feet, the first cramp struck her lower abdomen like the head of a sledgehammer. She yelped and went down, her knees on the floor while her upper body slumped across the second bed. Another blow followed, more vicious than the first, and she spilled onto the floor. Tears began flowing as she pressed hard against her stomach to dampen the pain. She curled into a fetal position and rolled onto her back. A guttural scream came to the surface with such force and clarity that it surprised her. Then a series of stuttering moans as the pain finally began to fade.

  She turned over and got onto all fours. Sweat collected in the center of her forehead and fell away in large drops, making pat sounds when they hit the carpet. She got to her feet and went to the bathroom, where the Sudafed box stood on the vanity. She ripped out another pill and sloppily filled a glass with water, knocking it back with an alcoholic’s greediness.

  Even in the dim glow of the night-light, the image in the mirror halted her. Her face was bright red and slightly swollen; it almost looked like someone else. The glass fell from her hand and clattered on the marble, miraculously remaining unbroken, as she covered her mouth and began sobbing.

  She fled back to the bedroom and called her sister on the cell phone. The conversation was brief and hysterical. Doris, whose memory was mythic among her friends and family, reported every detail. Rita listened patiently, then told her to stay calm; she was getting dressed and driving out to get her. Meanwhile, Rita suggested, she should try to get some more sleep. Doris followed this advice after pulling the curtains shut, covering the vomit with a white towel, and turning on the air conditioner—the latter because she was suddenly feeling unusually warm. Then she stripped down to her bra and panties, crawled into the second bed, and cried until she slipped away.

  She woke again at exactly 4:22. It was the itching that did it this time, first on her arms and legs, then her cheeks. It worsened as her senses defrosted—became maddening, really. She scratched the back of her left calf with the big toenail of her right foot. Then along her right forearm with her left hand. And then the right hand went to her right cheek. It became a bizarre, almost comical symphony of choreographed movements. Soon it was everywhere—behind her neck, along her sides, and around her still-sore abdomen. While each scratch temporarily reduced the itch, it also increased the heat under her skin, like she was triggering little fires everywhere. When she realized how far the temperature had dropped in the room, she threw the covers off. She generally disliked the cold, but now she was grateful for it.

  The odor filled her nostrils again, which was puzzling. How could it still be that bad? When she realized her fingers were wet and sticky, the answer to the mystery zoomed into her head like a missile—

  Oh no …

  She groped for the light and looked down. What she saw was so surreal it made her light-headed. They weren’t just blisters rising from her body; they were tiny balloons. Many were deflated, broken by her fingernails, and leaking a wheat-colored pus with wispy streams of scarlet.

  Oh my God.

  She got to her feet, trembling uncontrollably, and went into the bathroom. She was about to turn on the overhead light, then decided against it. The night-light would be enough. I don’t want to see it that well. As a fresh round of tears began rolling down her cheeks, she stepped in front of the mirror.

  Then she screamed again. And again. And again …

  The blister-balloons were everywhere—stomach, arms, thighs, neck, and particularly her face. Her eyes had become sheltered slits. The nostrils were two large dots. And the mouth was reduced to a tiny orifice barely able to open and close within the tight confines of the swollen, bubbled surface. Each time she stretched the skin to let out another howl, more swellings exploded, the viscous fluid jumping out in grisly squirts.

  Feeling her sanity slipping away, she filled the basin with cold water and soaked a washcloth. Then she pressed it against her cheeks. Her skin was boiling now and itching relentlessly. Since the washcloth did provide some relief, she turned and began filling the bathtub. She was concerned, however, that it wouldn’t stay cold, so she went back into the bedroom and called room service. When the first champagne bucket arrived, she dumped out all the ice, stripped naked, and stepped in.

  There was no way she could have prepared for the shock—like thousands of needle
s being fired into her body in a matter of seconds. Her teeth began chattering, and her lips made the slow transition from pink to purple. Numbness settled into every muscle and tendon. She was unable to slow her breathing but did manage to move her limbs in slow, waving motions. At least the itching and burning began to quiet down.

  The ice jingled along the sides with an almost musical cheerfulness. After it melted, she got out and called for the second bucket. She took no notice of the slurring in her voice, nor did she find it strange that she called the woman who answered the phone “Colleen”—an old elementary school friend.

  The frigid water didn’t seem so bad this time, she thought. Cool and brisk. Maybe she could do this every once in a while at home. She’d tell the other girls at the supermarket about it, too. Maybe they’d like to join her; that’d be fun.

  Three hours later the itching-burning returned with a vengeance. Shortly thereafter, the elderly man in the room next to hers was awakened by what he thought was the sound of shattering glass. A call was placed to the front desk, and a manager was sent up. He knocked on Whittenhauer’s door, first politely, then less so. He used his magnetic master key—a plastic plate that resembled a credit card—and stepped cautiously inside. A veteran of Operation Desert Storm who had killed at least a dozen enemy soldiers, he knew something was up as soon as the smell hit him.

  He found her ravaged body curled in the bathroom in a puddle of blood that was still spreading. The jagged piece of mirror she’d used to take her own life was jutting out the side of her neck.

  Eleven more Bally’s customers would discover they had become infected the next morning. The morning after that, thirty-six.

  DAY 5

  “She hasn’t come out of there in about a week, I’d guess” the super told the two officers. “Something like that.” He was a mousy little man with wild gray hair and sandpaper cheeks, well past his prime and thoroughly defeated by life. His corduroys were worn smooth at the knees, and there were flecks of dandruff along the shoulder straps of his vest. “That’s what Mr. Fent said,” he went on, motioning toward Fent’s door down the hallway.

  He’d been the super in Katie Milligan’s building for over twenty years, and he found her to be a very strange woman—never smiling, never saying hello, scurrying in and out of her tiny corner apartment and quickly locking the door. In the six years since she arrived, he’d been inside just once: to replace a pressure valve on one of the radiators. Milligan kept the place neat to the subatomic level, which was nice enough. But she followed him around the whole time, watched his every move. No friendly chitchat, no offer for a glass of ice water—just those paranoid sapphire eyes pressing down upon him.

  “When did Mr. Fent call you?” the older officer asked. The super already thought of him as the Bully. Big gut, thick mustache, broken blood vessels around his nose from years of drinking and God knew what else.

  “This morning.”

  Officer Jim Dugan, aka the Bully, looked at his watch. “It’s twelve twenty now. What took you so long to contact us?”

  He stuttered for a moment; guys like Dugan always stifled him. “I tried calling her first, and when I didn’t get any answer, I called the landlord.”

  “That would be Mr. Arnold?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s he?”

  “In Florida.”

  “Why?”

  “He lives down there all year, he and Mrs. Arnold. They never come up, ever.”

  Dugan nodded to his partner, the young man the super had classified as the Kid, and said, “You should be writing this down.”

  In truth, Dugan, as senior officer present, should be doing it. But Bill Teague had learned not to argue with the full-tilt bastard they’d assigned to be his lord and master during his rookie year. He took out his notepad and miniature-golf pencil and began scribbling.

  “And what did Mr. Arnold say to do?” Dugan asked, continuing the interrogation.

  “Call you.”

  “Is it unusual for Ms. Milligan to stay in her apartment for long periods?” Dugan knew who she was since, technically, they were both town employees. He’d seen her around, thought she was a whackjob.

  “Not really.”

  “Then why the call from her neighbor?”

  The super looked to Teague first, then back to Dugan. “The smell,” he said, lowering his voice.

  “The smell?”

  “Mr. Fent said it was coming through the baseboard vents. I went in and checked, and he was right—it was terrible. Like rotting food.”

  Dugan turned to the door. It would’ve been customary—not to mention polite—to start with a gentle, ordinary knock. But he’d apparently missed this lesson in law-enforcement etiquette and went straight to hammering with his fist.

  “Ms. Milligan? This is the Ramsey police. Could you please come out here for a moment?”

  No answer.

  “Ms. Milligan?”

  More banging. Then he rang the bell.

  Still no answer.

  “You’ve got the key, right?”

  “I do, but—”

  “No ‘but,’ just open the door.”

  The little man paused only briefly—Mr. Arnold had told him not to let the police in without calling him first—but it was enough to cause Dugan’s thermometer to rise. The redness first appeared high on his chest, then spread rapidly up his neck and kept going until his face took on the color of a boiled ham. Teague had seen the progression many times and braced himself.

  “Open this damn thing or I’ll cite you for obstruction.”

  The jangling key chain was out in a flash. “Okay.”

  As the door drifted back, Dugan’s first thought was that the weather stripping around it was superb because the difference in air quality inside and outside the apartment was unbelievable. It reeks in there.

  And Dugan had a feeling he knew why. “Stay back,” he told his new friend.

  “But Mr. Arnold said I should—”

  “Absolutely not. You stay out here. Bill, let’s go.”

  He ordered Teague to close the door behind them—the super stood in the hallway with a helpless look as he disappeared from view. Dugan was sure he’d call the landlord on his cell phone within seconds, the little worm.

  They were in a short hallway and surrounded by darkness even though it was early afternoon.

  “Look for a switch,” Dugan said. Teague found one by the door and flicked it. Then he gasped.

  Dugan didn’t doubt for a minute that the numerous smears on the cream-colored walls and the hardwood flooring were blood—mostly. Between his early days in Paterson and what he hoped would be his final years here in Ramsey, he’d been to enough homicide scenes to identify a bloodstain a mile away.

  But there was something else—a crusty, golden yellow substance that was reminiscent of earwax. It was mixed with the blood as if blended in some kind of macabre cocktail. Shaken, not stirred, he thought crazily.

  “What’s this yellowy stuff?” Teague asked, leaning down to get a closer look.

  “I have no idea,” Dugan replied. “But don’t touch it. We’ll have Frawley’s guys come and collect samples.”

  Teague did as he was told. On a mildly rebellious impulse, however, he moved in close enough to sniff a particularly crusty area. In that instant, he realized the mystery substance was the source of the ungodly smell (and that there must be plenty more of it around). In that same instant—although there was no way he could’ve known it—he had issued his own death warrant.

  They went from the hallway to a small dining room. Dim rectangles of light glowed around a pair of blackout shades. Teague drew them up, revealing more of the blood-crust smears. They looked as though they’d been randomly applied with a paintbrush.

  Then another peculiarity—in the china cabinet, everything from the Audubon plates Milligan had painstakingly collected over the last twenty years to the priceless Hummel figurines her beloved grandmother left to her had been shattered. Eq
ually strange was that the glass on the cabinet doors was intact. It was as if each item had been removed and smashed, and then the pieces put back inside. There wasn’t even any debris on the walnut table or the Persian rug.

  “What the hell … they were replaced in their original spots?!” Teague said, almost whispering.

  Dugan only nodded in response, then started into the adjoining living room. After the first step, however, he stopped—the carpeting under his foot made a wet, squishy sound.

  “Oh man,” he said, reaching for his flashlight.

  It wasn’t blood, it was water—water and what appeared to be thousands of little white flecks. Getting to his knees, Dugan saw that the flecks were actually tiny stones. They were about the same size as the copper BBs he used to shoot squirrels and birds outside his bedroom window as a kid.

  “Jim, c’mere.…”

  Teague also fired up his flashlight, and the beam found a fish tank in the darkness, lying on its side. The spilled-out contents included a heavier shoal of tiny stones, plus a bubble filter, a can of flake food, and a ceramic model of Cinderella’s Disney castle. The latter had obviously served as a home to Milligan’s finned friends.

  But where are they? Teague wondered. Why aren’t there any dead fish on the floor?

  His curiosity was satiated a moment later when Dugan found the light switch. They were standing at one end of a long room that looked as though it’d been attacked by a gang of drunken apes. Every piece of the sofa set had been overturned, the three framed paintings (all real, by the look of them) were slashed with large X’s, and the small-but-functional fireplace was stuffed to the top with antique books; the kind that most people like to smell rather than read. But it was the fish—and what happened to them—that made Teague’s stomach roll. He was an animal lover at heart.