by Mara, Wil
There was a large corkboard attached to the wall by the kitchen doorway, and they had been pinned to it with plastic toothpicks. They were arranged in neat rows, four columns of five for a total of twenty. Each one had a yellow Post-it Note underneath, with identifications in Milligan’s enraged scribble—
Cardinal Tetra
Paracheirodon axelrodi
Tiger Barb
Puntius tetrazona
Common Angelfish
Pterophyllum scalare
Dugan moved in close and inspected the collection. “What the hell is this all about?”
Teague hung back and diverted his eyes to other parts of the room. There were more smears everywhere, plus the oddly unsettling sight of a pizza—whole, not even one slice missing—facedown on the carpet in front of the coffee table. It looked as though it had been stamped down, as if Milligan (or whoever) tried to drive it through the floor. The empty box was still on the table, and Teague recognized the name on the lid—Kinchley’s, right here in town. Best pizza he ever had, although he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to take another bite without thinking of Katie Milligan.
“The smell is getting worse,” Teague said. What he meant was We’re getting closer to … whatever. Two other sentiments in his voice included I think I’m about to see my first dead body and I’m not sure if I’m ready for this.
“I know,” Dugan replied without the slightest note of empathy. “Something’s not quite—Oh God!”
He had ventured into the kitchen, and now, only seconds after he fired the overhead light, he stumbled backwards and almost fell through the open doorway.
“Oh my God! OH MY GOD!”
Teague never heard him scared before. Now the fear in his voice was as clear as the peal of a church bell.
He rushed over to help steady him. Then, over Dugan’s shoulder, he saw it.…
“Is that—?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh Lord…”
Through the clear glass of the blender, which was sitting on the counter and still plugged in, was the unmistakable form of a human foot. It had been hacked off just above the ankle, and the two jagged bones of the narrow tibia and wider fibula were preventing the lid from sitting flush. A huge puddle of dried blood—with very little of the yellow mystery sauce this time—was spread out on the floor, and a serrated bread knife lay nearby. Bloody tracks—one a normal footprint, the other a dark dribble-trail occasionally broken by roughly circular punctuation—led away from site, past the two of them, then curled left in a hairpin turn down a second hallway they had yet to explore.
They moved in no particular hurry toward the blender. The dismembered foot was unquestionably that of a woman, and neither had any doubt it was once the property of Katie Milligan. It was beginning to turn black from the bloodless rot, making it look as though it’d been hanging in a smokehouse. The most remarkable feature, however, was the blistering—it was so widespread that there were no clear areas. Most of the bubbles had been broken open, as evidenced by the deep scratch-lines. But a few remained. It made Teague think of a wicked case of sumac poisoning he’d had as a child. Ten times worse than ivy, with an itch that drove him insane for three solid weeks. This looks like it was ten times worse than that, he thought. At the base of the blender jar, about an inch of the golden mystery sauce had accumulated and congealed.
Dugan, mesmerized by all of it, reached up and pulled his tie loose. Sweat was pouring down his face and neck, and his breathing was becoming audible.
“What now?” Teague said softly.
Dugan’s first attempt at a reply was squelched by whatever had built up in his throat. He cleared it, then said in a feeble croak, “Let’s check the rest of the place.”
“Sure,” Teague said. It came out just slightly sarcastic. Gee, can we? Under normal circumstances, he would’ve suffered the Wrath of Dugan for that indiscretion. But his boss didn’t even seem to notice.
They followed the blood trail to the second hallway. There were two doors—one at the far end, the other immediately to the right. The latter was half open. After taking a deep breath, Dugan pushed it all the way back and hit the light switch. Milligan’s bathroom was, literally, a bloody mess. Towels lay piled on the floor, stained in scarlet and amber. The bowl hadn’t been flushed in a while and badly needed to be. Both men couldn’t help but give the contents a cursory glance. Neither was certain what he saw, nor did he wish to be. There was also a puzzling stack of ice-cube trays on the toilet tank.
The tub was filled within an inch of the rim, and drifting placidly on the surface of the blood-clouded water was what appeared to be sizable sections of scratched-off (or peeled-off) skin. They drifted with the silent grace of lily pads, which somehow made them all the more grotesque.
Dugan lingered, and Teague realized it wasn’t because he was in any kind of trance this time—he just didn’t want to go into the last room. The feeling was mutual, quite frankly, but they couldn’t leave until they did. And there was no greater truth in the universe than the fact that Bill Teague wanted to get the hell out of this apartment.
“One more to go,” Teague said, “and then we’re done.”
“Yeah,” Dugan replied. “Okay.”
As they went down the hallway together, side by side like groom and bride, they realized two things. First, the room at the other end was, without a doubt, the primary source of the smell in the apartment. It seemed to be seeping right through the door and growing exponentially. And second, there were machines of some kind running inside—they could hear several different mechanized hums and rhythms, as if Milligan were secretly managing a small production facility.
They paused when they got there, both wishing they were anywhere else on Earth while their hearts boomed like war drums. Dugan took something from his back pocket—a small, cylindrical container that looked like lip balm. Largely unknown to the general public, it was indispensable to medical examiners worldwide—a quick stroke under each nostril made you all but impervious to the wretched stench of decaying flesh.
He applied it quickly, then handed it to Teague. “You’ll want this.”
“Thanks.” Teague’s fingers were shaking. When he was finished, he replaced the cap and handed it back.
“Good?”
“I hope so.”
“Okay.” Dugan licked his lips. “Here goes.”
He surprised Teague by grabbing the knob and pushing the door back in one quick motion. Teague realized he was working from the Band-Aid theory—yank it off fast and maybe it won’t hurt as much.
Even in the blackness, they could see her, or at least what was left. She had hanged herself from the ceiling fan while it was running—and, gruesomely, still was. The overworked motor groaned unevenly as the paddles turned at a lazy, diminished speed. The darkness obscured all fine details, but the spare light from the hallway revealed the silhouette of Milligan’s body, clad in a long nightgown, each time it cycled by.
“Holy hell…,” Dugan said hoarsely.
“Turn it off,” Teague told him, the slightest touch of hysteria in his voice. “Turn it off!”
“What?”
“The fan! Turn off the fan!”
“Oh…”
He reached in and felt for the switch. There was a round fader knob just inside the doorway, but he pulled back with a girlish squeal when he realized it was encrusted with some kind of dried substance.
He swore copiously as he wiped his fingers on his shirt. Then he reached into his front pocket and retrieved a handkerchief. Covering his hand as if preparing to do a magic trick, he tried again.
He meant only to turn the knob until it clicked and shut the fan off. In his heavily distracted state, however, he inadvertently depressed it, powering the fan’s three-globed lights. Now every detail was in plain view.
A part of them didn’t want to look—but of course they did. Teague was paralyzed while the circuitry in his brain sparked and sputtered in an attempt to comprehend the sight before
him. Dugan’s reaction wasn’t quite so succinct—his face went from the flustered ham-pink to a deathly pale. His eyes widened like those of a surprised child. Then he opened his mouth to speak, but instead he fell to his knees and vomited explosively. He tried to stem the flow with his hand, but the force was such that it merely squirted between his fingers.
Milligan’s skin—visible only on her face, arms, and the tip of the remaining foot that peeked out below the hemline of her gown—had swollen to such a degree that she looked like an overinflated toy. The arms were almost comical in their Popeye-esque exaggeration, the foot like a child’s “monster foot” bedtime slipper. And her bloated face seemed as though one poke with a needle would blow it to pieces.
The balloonlike blistering was ubiquitous, many of the larger examples lying as flat and flaccid as downed parachutes. Others dangled from her body like little price tags. The calico coloring ranged from black to purple to lavender. Neither Dugan nor Teague had any way of knowing the lavender was the result of Milligan’s blood vessels literally melting under her skin, a late-stage symptom of the disease that was already taking up residence through their own systems.
As the initial shock wore away, they began noting other details. First, the room was freezing—at some point Milligan put an air conditioner in each of the two windows and cranked them up. Then there was the puzzling “crimson ring”—a spattery line of dark red coloring that ran, unbroken, in a roughly circular pattern around the room. Teague figured it out first and nearly lost his own lunch as a result—bodily fluids of one kind or another flying off Milligan’s rotating corpse for God only knew how long. But the most horrific feature, by far, was Milligan’s neck—wrapped in a woolen scarf and tied in a knot that had grown increasingly tighter, it now shared roughly the same circumference as an ordinary garden hose. This, the two men realized, was the reason Milligan’s head hung down at such a sharp angle. A few more hours and it would’ve detached and zoomed off somewhere.
Dugan got to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He took one more look at everything, then could look no more. He reached in and closed the door, then said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
ONE
“Okay, this is one I’m sure you’ll like,” Beck said confidently, advancing through the songs via the button on the steering wheel. “This was one of my favorites when I was a kid.”
“Back in the late Pliocene?” his passenger asked.
“I was born in the early Holocene. Now, listen.”
As Beck cruised north on Connecticut’s I-91 with the rented convertible’s top down, his ID badge flipped and bounced against his chest. It read MICHAEL BECK, EPIDEMIOLOGIST, and right under that, CENTERS FOR DISEASE CONTROL, ATLANTA GA.
The song began quietly, a simple drumbeat accompanied by silvery high notes in a playful intro. Then a call-and-answer segment featuring bass, sitar, and piano. Finally, Robbie Dupree’s eternally soulful voice delivering the first line.
“It’s called ‘Steal Away.’ It was a huge hit when I was a kid; the DJs loved it. It gets airplay even now and is included in movie soundtracks once in awhile. Not so bad, right?”
He glanced over in time to see her roll her eyes, which made him smile. She’s heard me prattle on about this before—“The Lost Age of Melody,” I call it, back when songwriters ruled the music business and hits had hooks you couldn’t get out of your head.
“Yeah, it’s great. I’m totally blown out of my seat.”
“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.” He sang along with the chorus in a voice that was good enough for private use but would surely earn the wrath of the American Idol judges. “And this guy’s new album is terrific. I’ve played it a few times for you.”
“Well, it’s certainly better than that other stuff you like … what do you call it? Exotica?”
“Like lying on the beach in Hawaii with a mai tai in your hand. Pure bliss. Martin Denny, Les Baxter, Arthur Lyman…”
“Yawn.”
“Lyman was the best.”
“But it’s all so lightweight,” she said.
“That’s what’s great about it. The music you listen to … my God, it makes you want to grab a machine gun and start thinning out the neighborhood.”
She turned to him with a smirk. “That’s what’s great about it.”
“Ahh, right.”
She went back to her trademark I’m-so-damn-bored posture—chin in hand, lips tight, and the tiniest trace of resentment in the eyes. He smiled again and decided to let her be. Maybe the song would seep through her defenses, act as a kind of antidote. Music had the power to bring warmth and joy and relief to a troubled soul, he knew, and Cara Porter was certainly burdened with a troubled soul. One look at her gave that away—the goth makeup and jewelry, the perpetual scowl, the hunched shoulders. Beck had taken a huge chance on her. When she ended up on his doorstep with a freshly minted master’s degree in one hand and a résumé in the other, he thought someone down the line had made a mistake. Then he caught a sense of the real person behind the armor and thought he detected much more. In time, he came to realize he had been correct. When she was working, an alternative persona—the one, Beck thought, represented the true individual—emerged. The professional Cara Porter was inspired, intuitive, and boundlessly compassionate. Their exchanges were more substantial and mature. And her sensitivity, usually kept so carefully guarded, was remarkable. From human patients to laboratory animals, she treated all living things with uncommon kindness and respect. This one, Beck often thought, has the seeds of greatness. Now, if we can just get them growing.… He came to think of her as a surrogate daughter, although he never told her this for reasons of his own.
“I’m not saying everything you listen to is bad,” he said. “For example, that Guns N’ Roses album, Chinese Democracy, is pretty good.”
“It’s excellent.”
“I agree. I do play it when you’re not around, you know. I’m not a total dork.”
“Just mostly.”
He nodded. “Yes, just mos—”
An iPhone trilled.
“Is that yours or mine?” she asked.
Beck waited until it called out again. The ringtone was the first few bars of “On and On” by Stephen Bishop. “It’s a good melody—must be mine.”
She shot him a look as he grinned and drew the slender device from his front pocket. He also thumbed down the volume via the button on the steering wheel, and his beloved “lightweight”’70s music disappeared.
“It’s the boss,” he said, looking at the caller ID. Then he put it on speaker. “Hello, there.”
“Michael?”
“Yes?”
“I can barely hear you.”
“We’re in the rental car right now with the top down. Hang on a second.”
He pulled to the shoulder and engaged the roof. It came up like a giant hand in a monster movie. Once it was in place, he set the phone on the dashboard.
“Better?”
“Yes. Listen, where are the two of you?”
“On I-91, heading back from the conference.”
He could sense she was stressed even beyond what was customary for her. After working together for eleven years—the first nine when she was drifting up through the CDC’s ranks, and the last two after she was elevated to the top role—there wasn’t much he didn’t know about her. Sheila Abbott was the type who lived for stress, ate it in handfuls. The kind, it seemed to Beck, who followed the motto, ‘There’s something wrong if there’s nothing wrong.’
“What’s up?”
“I need you in northern New Jersey as quickly as possible.”
Beck checked his rearview mirror, then eased onto the road again to search for the first available U-turn.
“Something’s happening, I assume?”
“Seven deaths, all in the town of Ramsey. Two of the dead are police officers, so the news media already has it and is running with it.”
Beck shivered. Could a pr
oblem exist that wasn’t made forty times worse because of the media’s love for scaring the hell out of everyone?
“Well, that should help keep things under control.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What do we know so far?”
“The victims were covered with large pustules from head to toe and exhibited symptoms of extreme delirium. It also appears they had extensive subcutaneous bleeding.”
“Pustules and subcutaneous bleeding?”
“That’s right. The first autopsy report says there was dissolution of everything from the mucous membranes to the GI tract, with heavy bleeding into the lungs, out the mouth, everywhere. It was as if the organs melted like ice cream.”
“My God.”
Beck found an exit ramp and changed sides, heading south now.
Abbott said, “It almost sounds … smallpox-esque, doesn’t it?”
Beck nodded. “That’s what I first thought when you mentioned the pustules, but … do we even know if the agent is viral and not bacterial?”
“It’s viral. That’s been confirmed from samples.”
“Okay.”
“Aren’t the pustules and the subcutaneous bleeding symptoms of two different forms of smallpox?” Porter asked.
“Yes. The pustules are symptomatic of the common form, and the internal bleeding is an indicator of … what?”
“The hemorrhagic form. The nasty one.”
“Correct. Very good.”
Hemorrhagic smallpox was one of the most horrific diseases imaginable. Unlike the more common form of smallpox, the hemorrhagic variety featured minimal manifestations on the outside of the body, such as dark papules. Instead, most of the damage is subcutaneous. Internal bleeding will occur first in the mucous membranes and gastrointestinal tract, but can also affect the spleen, kidneys, liver, bladder, and reproductive organs. Sometimes the whites of the eyes also turn a deep red. Hemorrhagic smallpox mostly affects adults and is nearly always fatal.
