by JL Bryan
Sometimes you could see Mr. Grosvenor walking the dog, Loki, around town, or driving his big black Cadillac with the dog growling at pedestrians from the back seat. Mr. Grosvenor usually wore a white hat and white suit, with sunglasses, and sometimes carried a gold-handled cane. Everyone was afraid of him. Eventually, Adelia understood people feared him because he was the biggest landlord in town, and most people were behind on their rents. When she was little, though—three or four years old—she thought Mr. Grosvenor really was the Devil.
When this young man grabbed her hands, Adelia immediately saw his true nature. He was like Mr. Grosvenor, the boogeyman of her childhood. In her mind, she could sense the big white dog circling her house, waiting to leap in her window. She could almost hear its heavy footsteps and its snarls through the thin walls.
“I need a couple of things,” the Devil said.
“You can’t have my soul,” Adelia said. “That belongs to Jesus Almighty, Praise His Name.”
“I want the keys to that Chrysler out front,” the Devil said. “And I want that sweet potato pie. I don’t give a damn about your soul. People don’t have souls.”
“The Devil is deceptive,” Adelia said. “He knows his time upon this Earth is short, that the powers vested in him are temporary, and the New Coming of Almighty Jesus will cleanse us of the Devil’s foul works—”
“Shut up!” the Devil yelled. For a moment, Adelia could almost see the great craggy horns sprout from his forehead and the scaly red skin of his true face. “Don’t you talk Bible to me, or I’ll leave you dead instead of just robbed. You hear me?”
Adelia closed her mouth and nodded her head. The fear was taking over, filling her veins like cold water. She had always been a bold, outspoken woman, but now she was as quiet as a mouse in a tiger cage.
His face appeared normal now, no horns or scales waiting to burst out, but Adelia understood his diabolical nature.
He opened her kitchen drawers until he found a fork. Then he began shoveling the sweet potato pie into his mouth, not even bothering to cut it into slices. “This is really good,” he said through a mushy orange mouthful. “Really amazing.”
Adelia said nothing. Flattery was one of the Devil’s tools, she knew. She couldn’t stop shaking, and she felt like she might wet herself. In her mind, she prayed to Almighty Jesus to surround her with a protective ring of angel fire. She kept her eyes on her shoes, occasionally glancing up at him as he wolfed down the pie.
When he’d eaten nearly the entire thing, he dropped it on the floor, along with the fork.
“The car keys,” he said.
She pointed to her purse, sitting in one of the kitchen table chairs. The Devil picked it up and dug through it. He took out her car keys and cash.
“You only have twelve dollars?” he asked.
She nodded.
“That’s pathetic.” He threw the money down on the table. “Keep it.”
“Thank you,” Adelia said, then immediately chastised herself inside her mind. She should never show gratitude to Satan. The Lord wouldn’t care for that.
He walked out her front door. She heard the old brown Chrysler chug to life and wheeze its way out of her gravel driveway, and then it drove off into the night.
Adelia sat down at the kitchen table, folded her hands, and began praying out loud to the Almighty.
Chapter Eight
The Lowcountry Inn in Hampton, South Carolina became the unofficial operations center for the Fallen Oak investigation, since the Department of Homeland security leased the entire one-story, two-strip building, and provided some of the rooms to CDC investigators.
In her room, Heather dropped her suitcase on the floor and sprawled out on the double bed, soaking up the air conditioning. Heaven. She’d been sweating all night in tents down in Haiti.
She closed her eyes and dozed off, but the shrill telephone on her end table woke her an hour later. It was a few minutes past midnight, she noticed on the room’s alarm clock.
“Huh?” Heather whispered into the phone.
“Dr. Reynard.” It was Schwartzman. “Room 117. Immediately.”
“What’s happening?” Heather yawned.
“Meeting. Urgent.” He hung up.
Heather sat on the edge of her bed and stretched. She was groggy as hell, and her sandy hair was tousled from lying on the pillow. At least she was still dressed. She badly wanted to load up the room’s coffee maker, but it didn’t sound like there was time.
She’d meant to call home before falling asleep. Too late now—she would send a text to Liam’s cell phone after the meeting.
Room 117 turned out to be a “corner suite,” which was just two rooms with a connecting door propped open. Nobody seemed to be sleeping here—young men and women in suits, each wearing some form of federal ID card around their necks, sat at desks, end tables, and dressers, punching furiously at laptops.
Schwartzman was at a table with two other men, and he rose to meet her.
“Dr. Reynard,” he said. “This is Keaton Lansing, an assistant director of Homeland Security.” A wiry man with glasses and a pinched-looking face nodded, and Heather shook his hand.
“And this,” Schwartzman indicated the other man, who was silver-haired, with a dark Brooks Brothers suit and smooth manicured nails, “is Nelson Artleby, Special Advisor to the President.”
Artleby smiled graciously as he took her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am,” Artleby said, and there was a hint of Texas twang somewhere at the back of his voice. After their handshake, he wiped his hand on the side of his pants.
Heather sat down with them.
“Here’s our situation,” Artleby began. “First, the White House has declared this whole sorry situation a matter of national security. We’re keeping this thing more classified than the aliens at Roswell.” Artleby chuckled, but nobody joined him. “On a serious note, nobody says anything to anybody about Fallen Oak. Not your friends, your family, and sure as hell not the media.”
“We need to tell the public something,” Heather said. “Lots of people are dead. They’ll have families…” Heather trailed off. Schwartzman was cutting her a shut the fuck up look.
“Absolutely, little lady,” Artleby said. “And we have a whole team of experts to sort out the best approach to that. So don’t scramble up that sweet little face with any more worry lines.”
Heather scowled.
“Pressing on, if we may…” Artleby raised his eyebrows at Heather, as if asking permission.
“Go ahead,” Heather said.
Schwartzman removed his glasses, pinched his nose and squinted. That meant he was developing a migraine.
“Not one word about anything you see or do,” Artleby said. “Official messages will be put out through official channels.” Artleby looked at Heather expectantly, with an amused curl to his lip. She stared back at him, trying to look cold.
“Dr. Reynard will adhere to the President’s orders,” Dr. Schwartzman said. “Like the rest of us. Correct, Dr. Reynard?”
“Of course,” Heather said. “Sorry, I was asleep. I’m just trying to catch up.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Artleby said. “Why, this must be a whole blizzard of information coming at you all at once. Would someone get the lady doctor a coffee?”
A twenty-something Homeland Security officer in a blue uniform hurried to fetch it.
“That’s really not…” Heather began, though she was secretly relieved to have coffee on the way. Maybe she could fling it in Artleby’s face, if she got bored.
“Mr. Lansing here has flown with me from Washington,” Artleby said. “He’s in charge of this situation. And he’s my eyes and ears for the duration. You need anything, you hit any rough patches, you just come to him.”
The pinch-faced man gave a small nod and waved his hand a little, as if everyone might have forgotten that the word “Lansing” referred to him.
“Now,” Artleby said, “What is our first priority?”
/> “Identify the pathogen,” Heather said. “I’ll need to pull the medical claims histories of all the victims. And we’re still looking for any hint of a source.”
“No,” Artleby said. “Lansing?”
“Contain the situation,” Lansing said.
“Correct. You’ve collected all the bodies, is that right?” Artleby asked Dr. Schwartzman. “They’re not laying around exposed to the public somewhere, are they?”
“They’re in refrigerated transports,” Schwartzman said. “Parked in an empty warehouse in Fallen Oak, until we find a facility. We’ve started our initial laboratory testing, but—”
“Good,” Artleby said. “Now, priority two. Who else has the disease?”
“We haven’t identified any suspected cases, yet,” Schwartzman said.
“Test everyone in town,” Artleby said.
“Test them for what?” Heather asked. Intuitively, she suspected a highly mutated, even genetically engineered, strain of bacteria, but there was no evidence for anything yet. “We don’t even know what we’re looking for.”
“But we could perform a general screening,” Schwartzman hurried to add. He cut Heather another sharp look. “The population is only a few thousand. We could survey for symptoms matching the known cases, or anything out of the ordinary.”
“Could, should and will,” Artleby said. “Make sure nobody gets overlooked. Get blood and hair samples from every yokel in that town. We won’t break the quarantine until then.”
Lansing nodded along, looking from Schwartzman to Heather.
“If you want to test every person in town, we’ll have to set up a testing center in Fallen Oak,” Heather said. “And communicate that to the public. And then door-to-door outreach to everyone who doesn’t come voluntarily.”
“And funding for that, and security for that,” Schwartzman added, with a glance at Lansing. “I don’t want my people getting shot as trespassers. You’ll run across a few who don’t really care for the ‘feddle guvment’ poking around.”
Heather frowned. She hadn’t thought of that.
“Sharp girl you got there, Schwartzman.” Artleby winked at Heather. “Sounds like you’ve got everything thought out. Just let Lansing here know what you need. His decisions are final, and so is his approval for disbursement of emergency funds.”
Lansing smiled a little at that.
“Not one word escapes this town,” Artleby said. “And, while you’re doing all this, can you please find one goddamn witness who can tell us what happened?”
“We’ll do our best,” Schwartzman said.
“Questions?” Artleby looked at Schwartzman, then at Heather. “Are you following all this, Miss Reynard?”
“Oh, I think I’m keeping up, thank you.” Heather narrowed her eyes just slightly.
“Good.” Artleby rapped his knuckles on the table, as if hammering a gavel to call the meeting closed. He stood up and shook hands all around. “I’m off to chat with the National Guard commander. Then look up who governs this ratty little state. Thank God for Wikipedia, am I right?”
Lansing and Schwartzman faked a little laughter.
Later, Heather tried to text her husband, but her cell phone got no reception.
She tried using her hotel room phone to call him. She couldn’t get an outside line.
Chapter Nine
Jenny found the flyer stuffed in her mailbox the next day. The words were bright red, and the seal of the Department of Homeland Security was printed at the top.
BY U.S. GOVERNMENT ORDER:
All residents and visitors in Fallen Oak must report to the Fallen Oak High School gymnasium within the next 96 hours for emergency medical screening. Participation is mandatory. Screening facility will be open continuously for the next 96 hours.
Due to the quarantine, emergency supplies of canned food, prepackaged meals and water will also be distributed at the school to Fallen Oak residents.
Jenny ran inside. Seth was eating a hot dog topped with baked beans and mustard, a ghoulish invention he called a “bean dog.” They’d raided Seth’s house for food while they were out. Since it was within the quarantine zone, nobody had stopped them, but Jenny was uncomfortable with how many National Guard and other official vehicles were out on the roads, and how few of anybody else. The bigger the situation grew, the smaller she felt.
“We have to do this.” Jenny put the flyer in front of him.
“Are you kidding?”
“We’ll go late at night,” Jenny said. “When there aren’t many people.”
“Why, Jenny?” Seth said. “You know we don’t have anything. We never get sick.”
“I have something,” Jenny said.
“Are you still talking about handing yourself over to them?” Seth asked. “That’s a really, really bad idea. What do you think they’ll find?”
“Maybe they’ll find the Jenny pox,” she said. “And a cure for it. Or an immunization. Or something. If somebody put some real science into understanding it, maybe I could figure out how to control it better.”
“But that’s not what will happen,” Seth said. “I bet they try to make a weapon out of it.”
Jenny had a flash of memory from the time when she was dead, tangled in weeds at the bottom of Ashleigh’s duck pond. She’d glimpsed one of her past lives, riding in a galley, dressed in a hooded cloak against the freezing sea air, on her way to cripple a foreign city with a plague. She was doing it for somebody else, some king or emperor. It was her job.
“Maybe,” she whispered. “But they might help.”
“And didn’t all those pregnant girls see you drown in Ashleigh’s pond?” Seth asked. “As far as anybody knows, you’re dead.”
“You, too,” Jenny said. “Oh, wait. Everybody who saw you die is…gone now.”
“But everyone will flip out when they see you,” Seth said. “I’m sure the girls told everyone you’re dead.”
“While we’ve been holed up here for two days.” Jenny looked out the window, to the hilly woods behind her house. “What will they think?”
“The same thing they’ve thought about us for months,” Seth said. “Ever since I saved your dad in that tractor accident. Witchcraft, Satanism and that book from the Evil Dead movies.”
“The Necronomicon?” Jenny said. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Seth shrugged. “Those are cool movies. We should have grabbed the DVDs at my house.”
“Anyway, Ashleigh and Dr. Goodling aren’t around to whip up that witchcraft bullshit anymore,” Jenny said.
“But it’s what people were saying,” Seth said. “Those girls and their families all went to Fallen Oak Baptist. They’ve been hearing this stuff from Dr. Goodling.”
“You think they’ll tell the government that?” Jenny asked.
“Who knows? This is a batshit crazy town.” Seth chewed his lip. “And that’s something else I’ve been needing to talk to you about.”
“That Fallen Oak is crazy? I figured it out a long time ago, thanks.”
“I mean in the fall,” Seth said. “My dad wants me to go to College of Charleston now, because he donated a bunch of money to some new international business school there. It’s not so far from here, an hour or two. That’s close enough to visit your dad. Or come have Christmas with my parents.”
“Why are you even worrying about college right now?”
“Because I have to move to the city,” Seth said. “And I want you to come with me.”
“Seth, I can’t even go out in public in my own town.”
“But we can start over in Charleston,” Seth said. “Nobody knows us there.”
“That’s not what I meant. It’s a big city, Seth.” Jenny pulled her arms tight around herself, as if walking through a crowded store, trying to avoid touching anyone. “All those people. There must be a million people.”
“A million?” Seth rolled his eyes. “In Charleston? Are you kidding?”
“A lot, anyway.”
>
“Come on, it’ll be great. We can go pick out an apartment this summer. We’ll get a place near the ocean. With a balcony. And your own room just for your pottery stuff. And we can—”
“Stop it,” Jenny said. “I can’t think about it right now. We have real problems, you know?”
“Think about it later.” Seth pulled her close, and she looked up into his blue eyes. They were almost the same color as her own, she thought. “Think about it when you’re thinking about turning yourself in. We could have a life together. We could have a future. And all you have to do is let everybody think you’re dead, until this blows over.”
Seth kissed her. Jenny was tense, but she relaxed after a moment, and kissed him back.
The school gym was transformed into a makeshift clinic, divided into little cubes by dark green curtain walls. Heather worked one of the cubes, taking mouth swabs along with hair and blood samples from those who responded to the flyers. She also carried out basic physicals to look for anything anomalous. She could have excused herself from this part of the work, but it was the easiest way to talk with locals about the event, and she was desperate for any kind of input at this point.
The first several people she tested were extremely tight-lipped, though, and offered no real information. Nobody seemed to know what had happened at the courthouse, or at least they didn’t want to admit knowing anything. Heather also had to structure her questions in a way that didn’t give out information to people, which made things difficult.
Then a chubby teenage girl with mousey hair and thick glasses came into Heather’s cube. She was very full around the middle, under her loose sundress.
“Hi,” Heather said. “I’m Dr. Reynard. What’s your name?”
