Darwin's Radio d-1

by Greg Bear

  He had hoped to make love to Kaye in the house for the last time. Kaye returned and pulled up the footstool.

  “You sit here,” Mitch said, starting to get out of the chair. “More comfortable.”

  “I’m fine. I want to sit up straight.”

  Mitch paused half out of the chair, woozy.

  “Something wrong?”

  He saw the first jag of light. He closed his eyes and fell back into the chair. “It’s coming,” he said.

  “What?”

  He pointed at his temple, and said, softly, “Bang.” He had had bodily distortions occur before and during his headaches when he had been a boy. He remembered hating them, and now he was almost beside himself with resentment and foreboding.

  “I’ve got some Naproze in my purse,” Kaye said. He listened to her walking around the room. With his eyes closed, he saw ghostly lightning and his feet felt as big as an elephant’s. The pain was like a round of cannon fire advancing across a wide valley.

  Kaye pressed two tablets into his hand and a tumbler full of water. He swallowed the tablets, drank the water, not at all confident they would do any good. Perhaps if he had had any decent warning, taken them earlier in the day…

  “Let’s get you into bed,” Kaye said.

  “What?” Mitch asked.

  “Bed.”

  “I want to go away,” he said.

  “Right. Sleep.”

  That was the only way he might even hope to escape. Even then, he might have horrid and painful dreams. He remembered those, as well; dreams of being crushed beneath mountains.

  He lay down in the cool of the bare bedroom, on the linens they had left here for their last night, beneath a comforter. He pulled the comforter up over his head, leaving a small space to breathe through.

  He barely heard Kaye tell him she loved him.

  Kaye pulled back the comforter. Mitch’s forehead felt clammy, cold as ice. She was concerned, guilty that she could not share his pain; then, could not help rationalizing that Mitch would not share the pain of bringing their baby into the world.

  She sat on the bed beside him. His breath came in shallow pants. She reflexively felt her tummy beneath the cardigan, lifted up the sweater, rubbed her skin, stretched so smooth it was almost shiny. The baby had been subdued for several hours after a bout of kicking this afternoon.

  Kaye had never felt her kidneys being pummeled from the inside; she didn’t relish the experience. Nor did she enjoy going to the bathroom every hour on the hour, or the continuous rounds of heartburn. At night, lying in bed, she could even feel the rhythmic motion of her intestines.

  All of it made her apprehensive; it also made her feel intensely alive and aware.

  But she was pulling away from thinking about Mitch, about his pain. She settled down beside him and he suddenly rolled over, tugging the comforter and turning away.

  “Mitch?”

  He didn’t answer. She lay on her back for a moment, but that was uncomfortable, so she shifted on her side, facing away from Mitch, and backed into him slowly, gently, for his warmth. He did not move or protest. She stared at the gray-lit and empty wall. She thought she might get up and try to work on the book for a few minutes, but the laptop computer and her notebooks were all packed away. The impulse passed.

  The silence in the house bothered her. She listened for any sound, heard only Mitch’s breathing and her own. The air was so still outside. She couldn’t even hear the traffic on Highway 2, less than a mile away. No birds. No settling beams or creaking floors.

  After half an hour, she made sure that Mitch was asleep, then sat up, pushed herself to the edge of the bed, stood, and went into the kitchen to heat a kettle of water for tea. She stared out the kitchen window at the last of the twilight. The water in the kettle slowly came to a whistling boil and she poured it over a bag of chamomile in one of the two mugs they had left out on the white tile counter. As the tea steeped, she felt the smooth tiles with her finger, wondering what their next home would be like, probably within hailing distance of the Five Tribes’ huge Wild Eagle casino. Sue had still been making the arrangements this morning and promised only that eventually there would be a house, a nice one. “Maybe a trailer at first,” she had added over the phone.

  Kaye felt a small throb of helpless anger. She wanted to stay here. She felt comfortable here. “This is so strange,” she said to the window. As if in response, the baby kicked once.

  She picked up the mug and dropped the tea bag in the sink. As she took her first sip, she heard the sound of engines and tires on the gravel driveway.

  She walked into the living room and stood, watching headlights flash outside. They were expecting no one; Wendell was in Seattle, the truck would not be available at the rental agency until tomorrow morning, Merton was in Beresford, New York; she had heard that Sue and Jack were in eastern Washington.

  She thought of waking Mitch, wondered if she could wake him in his condition.

  “Maybe it’s Maria or somebody else.”

  But she would not approach the door. The living room lights were off, the porch lights off, the kitchen lights on. A flash played through the front window against the south wall. She had left the drapes open; they had no near neighbors, nobody to peer in.

  A sharp rap rattled the front door. Kaye looked at her watch, pushed the little button to turn on its blue-green light. Seven o’clock.

  The rap sounded again, followed by an unfamiliar voice. “Kaye Lang? Mitchell Rafelson? County Sheriff’s Department, Judicial Services.”

  Kaye’s breath caught. What could this be? Surely nothing involving her! She walked to the front door and twirled the single dead bolt, opened the door. Four men stood on the porch, two in uniform, two in civilian clothes, slacks and light jackets. The flashlight beam crossed her face as she switched on the porch light. She blinked at them. “I’m Kaye Lang.”

  One of the civilians, a tall, stout man with close-cut brown hair on a long oval face stepped forward. “Miz Lang, we have—”

  “Mrs. Lang,” Kaye said.

  “All right. My name is Wallace Jurgenson. This is Dr. Kevin Clark of the Snohomish Health District. I’m a Commissioned Corps public health service representative for the Emergency Action Taskforce in the state of Washington. Mrs. Lang, we have a federal Emergency Action Taskforce order verified by the Olympia Taskforce office, state of Washington. We’re contacting women known to be possibly infectious, bearing a second-stage—”

  “That’s bull,” Kaye said.

  The man stopped, faintly exasperated, then resumed. “A second-stage SHEVA fetus. Do you know what this means, ma’am?”

  “Yes,” Kaye said, “but it’s all wrong.”

  “I’m here to inform you that in the judgment of the federal Emergency Action Taskforce Office and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention—”

  “I used to work for them,” Kaye said.

  “I know that,” Jurgenson said. Clark smiled and nodded, as if pleased to meet her. The deputies stood back beyond the porch, arms folded. “Miz Lang, it’s been determined that you may present a public health threat. You and other women in this area are being contacted and informed of their choices.”

  “I choose to stay where I am,” Kaye said, her voice shaky. She stared from face to face. Pleasant-looking men, clean shaven, earnest, almost as nervous as she was, and not happy.

  “We have orders to take you and your husband to a county Emergency Action shelter in Lynnwood, where you will be sequestered and provided medical care until it can be determined whether or not you present a public health risk—”

  “No,” Kaye said, feeling her face heat up. “This is absolute bullshit. My husband is ill. He can’t travel.”

  Jurgenson’s face was stern. He was preparing to do something he did not like. He glanced at Clark. The deputies stepped forward, and one nearly stumbled on a rock. After swallowing, Jurgenson continued. “Dr. Clark can give your husband a brief examination before we move you.” His br
eath showed on the night air.

  “He has a headache? Kaye said. “A migraine. He gets them sometimes.” On the gravel drive waited a sheriff’s department car and a small ambulance. Beyond the vehicles, the scrubby wide lawn of the house stretched to a fence. She could smell the damp green and the country soil on the cold night air.

  “We have no choice, Miz Lang.”

  There was not much she could do. If Kaye resisted, they would simply come back with more men.

  “I’ll come. My husband shouldn’t be moved.”

  “You may both be carriers, ma’am. We need to take both of you.”

  “I can examine your husband and see whether his condition might respond to medical treatment,” Clark said.

  Kaye hated the first sensation of tears coming. Frustration, helplessness, aloneness. She saw Clark and Jurgenson look over her shoulder, heard someone moving, whirled as if she might be taken by ambush.

  It was Mitch. He walked with a distinct jerk, eyes half-closed, hands extended, like Frankenstein’s monster. “Kaye, what is it?” he asked, his voice thick. Simply talking made his face wrinkle with pain.

  Clark and Jurgenson moved back now, and the nearest deputy unlatched his holster. Kaye turned and glared at them. “It’s a migraine! He has a migraine]”

  “Who are they?” Mitch asked. He nearly fell over. Kaye went to him, helped him remain standing. “I can’t see very well,” he murmured.

  Clark and Jurgenson conferred in whispers. “Please bring him out on the porch, Miz Lang,” Jurgenson said, his voice strained. Kaye saw a gun in the deputy’s hand.

  “What is this?”

  “They’re from the Taskforce,” Kaye said. “They want us to come with them.”

  “Why?”

  “Something about being infectious.”

  “No,” Mitch said, struggling in her grasp.

  “That’s what I told them. But Mitch, there isn’t anything we can do.”

  “No!” Mitch shouted, waving one arm. “Come back when I can see you, when I can talk! Leave my wife alone, for God’s sake.”

  “Please come out on the porch, ma’am,” the deputy said. Kaye knew the situation was getting dangerous. Mitch was in no condition to be rational. She did not know what he might do to protect her. The men outside were afraid. These were awful times and awful things could happen and nobody would be punished; they might be shot and the house burned to the ground, as if they had plague.

  “My wife is pregnant,” Mitch said. “Please leave her alone.” He tried to move toward the front door. Kaye stood beside him, guiding him.

  The deputy kept his gun pointed toward the porch, but held it with both hands, arms straight. Jurgenson told him to put the gun away. He shook his head. “I don’t want them doing something stupid,” he said in a low voice.

  “We’re coming out,” Kaye said. “Don’t be idiots. We’re not sick and we’re not infectious.”

  Jurgenson told them to walk through the door and step down off the porch. “We have an ambulance. We’ll take you both to where they can look after your husband.”

  Kaye helped Mitch outside and down the porch steps. He was sweating profusely and his hands were damp and cold. “I still can’t see very well,” he said into Kaye’s ear. “Tell me what they’re doing.”

  “They want to take us away.” They stood in the yard now. Jurgenson motioned to Clark and he opened the back of the ambulance. Kaye saw there was a young woman behind the wheel of the ambulance. The driver stared owlishly through the rolled-up window. “Don’t do anything silly,” Kaye said to Mitch. “Just walk steadily. Did the pills help?”

  Mitch shook his head. “It’s bad. I feel so stupid…leaving you alone. Vulnerable.” His words were thick and his eyes almost closed. He could not stand the glare of the headlights. The deputies turned on their flashlights and aimed them at Kaye and Mitch. Mitch hid his eyes with one hand and tried to turn away.

  “Do not move!” the deputy with the gun ordered. “Keep your hands in the open!”

  Kaye heard more engines. The second deputy turned. “Cars coming,” he said. “Trucks. Lots of them.”

  She counted four pairs of headlights moving down the road to the house. Three pickup trucks and a car pulled into the yard, kicking up gravel, brakes squealing. The trucks carried men in the back — men with black hair and checkered shirts, leather jackets, windbreakers, men with ponytails, and then she saw Jack, Sue’s husband.

  Jack opened the driver’s-side door of his truck and stepped down, frowning. He held up his hand and the men stayed in the backs of the pickups.

  “Good evening,” Jack said, his frown vanishing, his face suddenly neutral. “Hello, Kaye, Mitch. Your phones aren’t working.”

  The deputies stared at Jurgenson and Clark for guidance. The gun remained pointed down at the gravel drive. Wendell Packer and Maria Konig got out of the car and approached Mitch and Kaye. “It’s all right,” Packer told the four men, now forming an open square, defensive. He held up his hands, showing they were empty. “We brought some friends to help them move. Okay?”

  “Mitch has a migraine,” Kaye called. Mitch tried to shrug her off, stand on his own, but his legs were too wobbly.

  “Poor baby,” Maria said, walking in a half circle around the deputies. “It’s all right,” she told them. “We’re from the University of Washington.”

  “We’re from the Five Tribes,” Jack said. “These are our friends. We’re helping them move.” The men in the pickups kept their hands in the open but smiled like wolves, like bandits.

  Clark tapped Jurgenson on the shoulder. “Let’s not make any headlines,” he said. Jurgenson agreed with a nod. Clark got into the ambulance and Jurgenson joined the deputies in the Caprice. Without another word, the two vehicles backed up, turned, and grumbled down the long gravel drive into the twilight.

  Jack stepped forward with his hands in his jeans pockets and a big, energized smile. “That was fun,” he said.

  Wendell and Kaye helped Mitch squat on the ground. “I’ll be fine,” Mitch said, head in hands. “I couldn’t do anything. Jesus, I couldn’t do anything.”

  “It’s all right,” Maria said.

  Kaye knelt beside him, touching her cheek to his forehead. “Let’s get you inside.” She and Maria helped him to his feet and half carried him toward the house.

  “We heard from Oliver in New York,” Wendell said. “Christopher Dicken called him and said something ugly was coming down fast. He said you weren’t answering your phones.”

  “That was late this afternoon,” Maria said.

  “Maria called Sue,” Wendell said. “Sue called Jack. Jack was visiting Seattle. Nobody had heard from you.”

  “I was out here taking a meeting at the Lummi Casino,” Jack said. He waved at the men in the trucks. “We were talking about new games and machines. They volunteered to come along. Good thing, I suppose. I think we should go to Kumash now.”

  “I’m ready,” Mitch said. He walked up the steps on his own power, turned, and held out his hands, staring at them. “I can do this. I’ll be fine.”

  “They can’t touch you there,” Jack said. He stared down the drive, eyes glittering. “They’re going to make Indians out of everybody. Godamn bastards.”

  84

  Kumash County, Eastern Washington

  MAY

  Mitch stood on the crest of a low chalky mound overlooking the Wild Eagle Casino and Resort. He tilted his head back and squinted at the bright sun. At nine in the morning, the air was still and already hot. In normal times the casino, a gaudy bunch of red and gold and white in the bleached earth tones of southeastern Washington, employed four hundred people, three hundred from the Five Tribes.

  The reservation was under quarantine for not cooperating with Mark Augustine. Three Kumash County Sheriff’s Patrol pickups had been parked on the main road from the highway. They were providing backup for federal marshals enforcing an Emergency Action Taskforce health threat advisory that applied to t
he entire Five Tribes reservation.

  There had been no business at the casino for over three weeks. The parking lot was almost empty and the lights on the signs had been turned off.

  Mitch scuffed the hard-packed dirt with his boot. He had left the air-conditioned single-wide trailer and come up to the hill to be by himself and think for a while, and so, when he saw Jack walking slowly along the same trail, he felt a little sting of resentment. But he did not leave.

  Neither Mitch nor Jack knew whether they were destined to like each other. Every time they met, Jack asked certain questions, by way of challenge, and Mitch gave certain answers that never quite satisfied.

  Mitch squatted and picked up a round rock crusted with dry mud. Jack climbed the last few yards to the top of the hill.

  “Hello,” he said.

  Mitch nodded.

  “I see you have it, too.” Jack rubbed his cheek with a ringer. The skin on his face was forming a Lone Ranger-like mask, peeling at the edges, but thickening near the eyes. Both men looked as if they were peering through thin mud packs. “It won’t come off without drawing blood.”

  “Shouldn’t pick at it,” Mitch said.

  “When did yours start?”

  “Three nights ago.”

  Jack squatted beside Jack. “I feel angry sometimes. I feel maybe Sue could have planned this better.”

  Mitch smiled. “What, getting pregnant?”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “The casino is empty. We’re running out of money. I’ve let most of our people go, and the others can’t come to work from outside. I’m not too happy with myself, either.” He touched the mask again, then looked at his finger. “One of our young fathers tried to sand it off. He’s in the clinic now. I told him that was stupid.”

  “None of this is easy,” Mitch said.