by Mara, Wil
He was just about to respond, when Chelsea came into the room, dripping wet and wrapped in a towel. The cool bath had robbed her of all color, leaving her skin a ghostly white in vibrant contrast to the broad red splotches. The facial swelling in her case had started around the lower jaw, and her bottom lip protruded to the point where it looked as though she were pretending to be an old man.
“Are we going to see Aunt Elaine?” she asked between snivels. In spite of the swollen lip, she was able to enunciate this clearly enough.
“No, sweetheart,” Andi said, stroking her wet hair, “we’re probably just going to go the hospital near here. Aunt Elaine’s hospital is too far, and she’s very busy with all the new cases coming in. She’s been working around the clock.”
“But I want to see Aunt Elaine.”
“I’m sorry, honey, but it’s too—”
Chelsea stomped the floor with her heel. “I want Aunt Elaine!”
“Chelsea, we—”
“Aunt Elaine!”
“Honey…”
“Aunt E—”
Dennis exploded—“GODDAMMIT ENOUGH!”
Chelsea jumped as if poked with an electric prod, then ran from the room bawling.
Andi got to her feet quickly. “It’s not her fault, Dennis!”
“I know it’s not her fault, but when she gets like that, do you have to patronize her?”
“She’s scared!”
“Do you think I’m not?”
The last few words broke apart as tears began streaming down his own face. In the silence that followed, he put his hands on his hips and looked out the window, his chest heaving.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right, I shouldn’t have yelled.”
“It’s okay,” Andi said softly.
“I just … I don’t know what to do. I mean, what is there to do?” He began choking out little breaths and coughing worse than ever.
His wife crawled across the bed and took his hand.
“I’m supposed to be protecting all of you,” he said, his voice rising to a squeal. “That’s why we came up here. It’s my job to protect you.”
“It’s my job, too,” Andi said.
“Yeah, well…” He fell to his knees, striking the dusty boards with a thud. His wife held him against her chest and kissed the top of his head.
“If we go now,” she said, “at least there’s some chance. If we stay—think about what they’re going to go through. Think about it, Dennis.”
He knew all too well, had thought about it a few thousand times already. The excruciating physical agony, the dementia leading to extreme confusion and violence. He had tried to block out the lurid images that came into his mind, but it was becoming more difficult as each moment ticked by—and nightmare moved closer to crossing the border into reality.
With a voice that she could no longer keep steady, she whispered the most chilling thing he ever heard. “At least they can keep Chelsea and Billy sedated.”
They held each other and cried aloud for what felt like an eternity. There was no other communication between them, just a flood of tears and the impotent emptiness of resignation.
Finally, he nodded. “Yeah, all right. Let’s just get going and maybe … I don’t know. Let’s just go.”
“Okay.”
They began throwing a few basic things into a bag—another change of clothes for each of them, some toys for the kids, snacks for the ride. They decidedly ignored the fact that all of this was just stage work and totally unnecessary.
Then Dennis came across his gun. It felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. That meant the magazine was still fully loaded. Only one slug short, in fact—the one that was probably still lodged in Jack McLaughlin’s shoulder.
Still fully loaded …
He and Andi looked at each other, and the idea they shared at that moment was too dreadful to articulate.
But it was there.
FOURTEEN
“Dr. Beck? I’m Mark Hollis.”
Beck reached out to shake hands, both of which were wrapped in pale surgical gloves. “Good to meet you.”
“I’m sorry, but can I see some ID, please? I have to ask.”
“Sure, no problem.”
He seemed like a nice kid, Beck thought. Mid-twenties at the oldest. Dark brown hair, green eyes. Couldn’t tell much else because of the mask. Beck was getting used to seeing them, which was unsettling in its own way. The only other facts he knew about Hollis were that he was a police officer, as told by the uniform, and that he was not happy being one at the moment. Hollis belonged to the same department as the two cops who’d gone to Katie Milligan’s apartment and died shortly thereafter, not to mention nearly a dozen others who’d perished in the line of duty over the past two weeks. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else right now.
Beck took his CDC identification from his wallet and handed it over.
Hollis studied it for a moment before returning it. “All right, Dr. Beck, thank you. Please follow me.”
It was yet another modest home in the middle of a typical suburban grid. This one was a bit nicer than most, with extensive landscaping, a two-car garage, and what appeared to be a freshly laid driveway. Beck also knew there was a large in-ground swimming pool around back. Bob Easton had done well for himself. The report Ben had emailed him said he’d been earning six figures since the late ’90s. He had two children, but they were both grown and gone. And his mortgage was paid off. He and his wife had been living well until Fate pointed its crooked finger in their direction.
Hollis unwrapped the yellow crime-scene tape that blocked the porch and allowed Beck to pass. “I unlocked the door already. You can go in.”
Beck looked at him, saw the pleading in those youthful eyes, and didn’t bother asking if Hollis was coming along. Law enforcement had finally found a way to carry out its duties in connection with the outbreak without risking what had become almost certain death—by exercising only what the police unions came to call “first line of defense only.” In the event of an emergency call, officers would report to the scene as usual. But at the first sign of possible infection, they were then required to withdraw and contact local biohazard units. The bio teams were better equipped, police leadership reasoned, and therefore represented the “second line.” After the death of more than five hundred officers nationwide, no one argued with this approach.
“Call me if you need anything,” Hollis said. But don’t need anything, was the unspoken caveat.
“Sure,” Beck replied. “Thanks.”
He pulled up his own cotton mask and stepped inside. His first impression was that the house had been well kept—there seemed to be a place for everything, and most everything was still in its place. There were no cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, no dust bunnies along the edge of the floor. At the same time, however, there were the unmistakable signs of domestic violence, driven by dementia though it may have been. A large gilded mirror had been smashed and was now facedown on the beige carpet in the hallway. The easy chair in the living room had been heaved into the giant flat-screen television, breaking the latter in half like a cracker. And, of course, there were smears of pus-encrusted blood everywhere: on the walls, counters, tabletops …
He went down the hall, stepping over what remained of the mirror, and opened the bedroom door. This, the report said, was where the wife’s body was found. Other than examine the room and remove the corpse, they left everything untouched. The sheets were surprisingly neat, considering the nature of the crime. They were folded down in a near-perfect angle on her side, and altogether undisturbed on his. She was sleeping when he killed her, Beck realized. She had gone to bed early, and he came in later. He saw the blood-painted pillow and winced. There was a funnel-hole marking the direction of the bullet. The blood had pooled there and coagulated over time. The windows were all shut and locked, he noticed. It was a considerate gesture by the Eastons, as none of their neighbors had become infected. In fact, only
one other individual on the street had caught it—a Mr. Ted Lewis, six doors down on the opposite side. Why him and no one else was puzzling to Beck. It may have had to do with the fact that he and Bob Easton were buddies. That’s what Easton’s oldest daughter had said.
He returned to the hallway and went into the kitchen, digging gingerly through the garbage can and then checking the fridge. It was remarkable how many viral and bacterial infections began with food; he had dealt with dozens of such cases and knew of hundreds more. But he didn’t see anything unusual here. He would order that samples of everything be removed and tested, just in case, but he was doubtful anything would come of it.
He opened one of the sliding-glass doors and went out on the deck. The water in the swimming pool was sparkling. Whether it had been sanitized by the Realtors or the automatic pump, he didn’t know. But this was where they’d found Bob Easton, dead and bloated at the bottom after chaining himself to a statue of the Roman god Neptune that previously stood at the southeast corner of the walkway. According to the police report, Easton tied the chain around his midsection, securing it around back with a padlock, then tipped the statue forward until it tumbled in. The latter was still lying on the pool floor, the broken chain lying around it like an untied bow on a gift box.
He went back inside and found the Eastons’ office, a tiny room with a desk, computer, and two-tired filing cabinet. There was no damage in here: no broken glass, no crusted stains. It was a room they didn’t use much, he figured. For paying bills and doing taxes. It seemed to be somehow detached from everything else, a tiny universe all its own.
When he returned to the main hallway, a feeling of weary frustration crept into him. This visit was turning into another dead end. Over two hundred interviews now, a few zillion megabytes of hard data, and he was nowhere. Just like in that movie—one clue leads to another, but there is no treasure. He was exhausted, discouraged, even depressed. An optimist by nature, he wasn’t comfortable with these emotions. Fighting off the sense of failure was beginning to require some effort. The more he dug, the more confused and dispirited he became. Thousands of people are counting on me. Millions … His education, training, experience, and reputation meant nothing right now. This was strictly a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately profession. Past victories held no value. All that counted was tackling the problem at hand—and in that regard, he simply wasn’t getting it done.
He was yanked violently from this miserable train of thought the moment he opened the basement door. The thick, wretched stench that emanated from the hollows below struck him like a punch to the face. He shuddered briefly and his eyes bulged.
“My God,” he said out loud.
He had been around his share of foul odors. Everything from sliced-open bodies in autopsy rooms to synthesized chemicals designed to produce instant vomiting—and this was easily a candidate for the top ten list—top five, even. It made him feel light-headed, seasickish. What the hell is down there?
At first he thought the obvious—another dead body. But no, he reasoned, the police would’ve found it in their search. An animal, maybe? Possibly. Perhaps a squirrel or a raccoon had come in through one of the windows, couldn’t get back out, and was now lying on its side with its tongue hanging out.
Whatever it was, he was obligated to check.
He flicked on the light and went down. The pungency seemed to increase exponentially with each step. By the time he reached the bottom, he was covering his nose with both hands. But even that plus the mask wasn’t getting it done.
It was a simple cellar, essentially a huge rectangle that covered a little less area than the house above it. The stairs put you down in the middle, and the single bare bulb illuminated almost everything. He looked to the left and saw a furnace and a weight bench. Then he looked right and found a free-standing clothes rack. Shirts and dresses, all neatly pressed. Shoes for both of them were lined up along the bottom. Certainly nothing there that would produce an aroma of such dizzying strength.
Then he saw a partitioned area with a closed door. There was a small, rectangular sign on the door—KEEP OUT. As he moved in that direction, he realized he was drawing closer to the source. His heart began pounding; his throat went dry and tightened up. This is like something out of a Stephen King story, he thought crazily, wondering if a zombie or a vampire was waiting for him in the darkness. He opened the door and pulled the hanging string that fired another bulb. There was a worktable, a variety of tools hanging neatly on Peg-Board, and a stack of woodworking magazines on a shelf. He also spotted a smaller table in one corner—and that’s where he found it. For the first time in a forgotten number of years, he screamed.
When it was brand new, it had been a large Coleman ice chest, royal blue with a white lid. Now it was a home for thousands of chubby maggots, moving about as busily as commuters. They covered the chest completely, with extended populations running along the edge of the sink and up the wall. The smell at this close range was beyond description. Beck felt his stomach lurch and prayed he wouldn’t lose his lunch.
There was a long screwdriver hanging from one of the Peg-Board hooks. He took it down and used it to prop open the lid. A large portion of the maggot population fell away with a grotesque sliding sound. Many of them tumbled into the unlit area behind the table with the unsteady patter of a rainstorm. Clenching his teeth, he took one step forward and retrieved a penlight from his back pocket. He clicked it on and shone it into the compact void.
Oh, man …
There were several large pieces of shriveled meat, cut in formless shapes with ragged edges. Due to the decay and the increased maggot concentration, he couldn’t make out what type it was—beef, pork, lamb, et cetera. But judging by the shallow pool of water at the bottom, Beck concluded that Bob Easton brought them home packed in ice that had long since melted, presumably with the plan of wrapping them up and storing them in the freezer upstairs. But he was already feeling sick by then, and he forgot about it, Beck theorized. This could be it. Maybe, just maybe …
He turned to go back out, his forbearance nearly exhausted. He would order samples be taken and tested immediately. If the virus was there, the store that sold Easton the meat would be shuttered. It’d never reopen, either. Even if the outbreak truly hadn’t been its fault, even if there was no intentional wrongdoing, the general public wouldn’t go near the place. Years of honest business practice couldn’t outweigh one mistake when the public was your jury, Beck knew. He’d seen it enough times.
He was almost to the stairs when the adjusted realization struck. The whole picture, bright and colorful, flashed through his mind. The meat … the other neighbor … the lantern … There had been a large Coleman lantern next to the ice chest, which the maggots had more or less ignored. The shotgun … the one he used to kill his wife …
Beck took off running, bounding up the stairs two at a time. He was shouting for Hollis before he even reached the front door.
FIFTEEN
Cara Porter slipped another grid into the electron microscope and peered into the viewer at the image produced by the electron-dense. Today she would use the microscope’s tiny screen; tomorrow she’d view everything on a larger desktop computer.
She had seen the virus so many times now that she could draw it from memory. Even the fascination of coming face-to-face with the very thing that was causing so much suffering and discord had faded. She and her colleagues—there were twenty others in this lab, divided into teams of seven in three shifts—were trying everything from orthodox to bizarre and getting nowhere; none of the potential medications were having any effect. And the people working on the vaccine weren’t doing any better. It was becoming a long and costly battle, and all they had to show for it was the frustration of being toyed with by a far-superior adversary.
She pulled away from the microscope, closed her eyes, and set her chin in her hands. This lab had become her second home. She had tried endless combinations of drugs, studied thousands of samples, and entered a
zillion bits of data into the online repositories. She had grown used to these tasks, grown used to her colleagues, grown used to the long hours and the headaches. She’d grown used to everything … except the animals.
She looked at them without really wanting to, then just as quickly looked away. Some were suffering so badly, whining and groaning and scratching at their cage doors. How could the others go about their business and barely notice? They ran tests, wrote reports, even talked and laughed with one another, all against the lachrymose cacophony of their torment; it was amazing. For her own part, she brought along her iPod every day and played it nonstop. And she made sure it was charged every night at the hotel before she went to sleep; she didn’t want to have to make the decision of not coming in because it wasn’t ready.
She opened her eyes and saw that it was nearly eleven—time to leave. Everyone else was gone. She would go back to the hotel, put the iPod in its charger, slip a DVD into her laptop, and fall asleep during the first fifteen minutes. Then she’d dream of reaching the end of this crisis and taking a vacation. Maybe Rome or Paris. Perhaps São Paulo. She’d heard Brazil was interesting.
With Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” chugging in her head, she removed her lab coat, grabbed her bag, and headed out. She willed herself not to look directly at the animal room, but then something caught her attention—the ferret in cage 32 was lying on its side, motionless. Porter turned and saw that it was dead. Not surprising, considering the poor thing had been twisting and screeching for the past twenty-four hours.
She couldn’t just let it lie there. The next shift might not bother with it right away. They were the worst. There were some mornings when she came in and found animals who had died during the night but had been ignored. At best, the techs would cut them open, record whatever data they needed, then toss their carcasses into the incinerator. One time she found a severed mouse head stuck to the top of a pencil. It was propped in the animal room with a Post-it Note that read, YOU COULD BE NEXT. Bunch of comedians, those guys.
