by Beth Hersant
The scailes had finaly fallen from eyes. And so when a woman colapsed nearby in the street i saw it for what it was — nothing. The people who scrambled to hold her still while she convulsed on the pavment would soon forgit about her The world would forgit about her because her life amounted to nuthing. Lives never do. you struggle and suffer and die and are forgotin. what does it matter? And then the ambulenc arrived with a blaring siren and that mattered very much. I felt like a swarm of bees were in my ears stinging and stinging. and a man brushed passed me, knocking me on the arm and my skin prickled and hurt at that and he didn’t even stop and say sorry and I followed that man. i wanted to tell him sumthing. He turned into a quiet street and realized finaly that I was there because turned around and said What? And i … i couldn’t find words. My hands fluttered in meaningless gestyures and suddenly he wasn’t a hole person, just skin smooth skin a browned golden shade. my stomach growled.
What? he asked again.
I found a word and it was a good word, the only one that really mattered. Hungry
The man sighed. “I don’t have much change, but you canhavewhat I’ve got.” he began to dig in his poc-kets.
Then everything went red.
I’m back at Travis’s now sitting at his desk wearing his close. my ones were two bloody after the thing that happened. i’ll hav to get rid of them sumhow.
It is the New Rabies i have all of the symptoms — the violance, the aggreshon. blood pressure is 170/96, pulse 167 bpm, respirtion hindered by spasmz in the muscles of th throat and larinx.
I should be horrified but honestly I don’t have the enirgy that is one of the mercies of being sick you reach a point whare you are too sick to care. I feel so
5:32 a. .
i woke up on the floor [something unintelligible followed, and then] think a seizure.
I feel a little better now. I can breathe easier I am fully lucid. that Is a bad, bad thing. Because with lucidity comes knowledge and with knowledge comes guilt.
Yesterday I killed a man. I don’t know why. it just felt like being on fire and their’s a lake, rite in front of you, and all you have to do to stop the pane is jump in. I had to do it. i needed to. And so I jumpd on him and bit. I must have fastend on his karotid becaus he bled out so fast. Blood spirted from the wound onto my face and I should have been horrified but Godhelpme, I was at piece. The sense of release when I bit down on him ekstasy i crave that release agin.
I am not the only one. I’ve been looking through the newpapers and there have been atacks here on the iland — peple biting peeple. u could find a plawsible explanashun for each attak. But I no better. With rabies infections you woulld get maybe 25% of your patience actualy biting another person. I think — no, I kno that 100% of those who get the new rabies will bite some body else. And they will do it becaus the dizease takes away who you R.
Think you are a nice persun? A good persun? Think that u would never stoop to acts of barbearity or cruwelty? think agin. because once this infectshun is in u it seems to croud everythin else out. I am an absolute prick i am a failure as fathur an a husbund and I have dun terible things for my work but I am NOT a fucking murderer i don’t rip peoples throats out and revil in the act. I wanted to save lives But im disapearing n going quik. in a little while, there will be nothing of Aron Pikeman left. this demonvirus will ware me like a soot and I’ll hurt more peple and thayll hurt more peple and on and on and i didn’t just kill some man I met on the street I think I mite have killed the world.
and so it is 4 u Travis to set things rite Take this put it into the rite hands and stop it here while u still can.
And no that i am so so sorry.
Your frend, Aron.
Travis hastily grabbed a tissue from the bedside table and dabbed the page to keep his tears from smudging the ink. While that was Pickman’s goodbye, it was not quite the end of the journal. On the subsequent pages, Aaron had pasted a couple of articles he’d printed off the internet. The sheets of paper were ragged and torn (the Doc had had trouble with the scissors) and he’d taped them into the book with all the skill of a kindergartener. The first article, entitled “Bill Gates: Pandemic Disease Threat Could Kill 30 Million People in Just 6 Months,” had run in Newsweek. Pickman had highlighted the following passage with an unsteady hand: “Gates compared the risk of a pandemic disease outbreak to the challenges of preparing for a massive war and argued that we’ve fallen behind in readying our public health system for an epidemic.”
Travis flipped to the next article. This one, from Time Magazine, bore the title: “Why America Could Become Vulnerable to the Next Major Pandemic.” The article highlighted our current state of “global hyper-connectedness” in which “a deadly germ can travel from West Africa to North Texas before we even realize the threat exists.” We learned this lesson from Ebola and since its first appearance, the U.S. had become a global leader in finding, monitoring and treating diseases before they became pandemics. Now however, with the CDC facing budget cuts of up to 80%, our capacity to carry out this vital work is hamstrung. We are no longer prepared to spot and stop new diseases before they land on our doorsteps. According to journalist Liz Schrayer, “the sneeze on the other side of the world” just got “much more dangerous.”
As Travis frantically stabbed at the red call button to summon the nurse, he had the old nursery rhyme running maniacally through his head…
Ring-a-ring o’ roses,
A pocket full of posies,
A-tishoo! A-tishoo!
We all fall down.
Dr. Emmanuel Malavé nodded as Travis ranted on about viruses and secret labs and a coming pandemic. He glanced again at the man’s chart — cardiac arrest resulting from prolonged cocaine addiction. He looked at Montgomery: yes, that fit. The bloodshot eyes, the hyperactivity and agitation, the emaciation — all signs of an addict. Travis had stopped talking and was staring at him.
“So will you take a look at it?”
“What?”
“The journal! It’s all here. You need to know what you’re dealing with!”
Malavé could see the words “playing with your dicks” on the journal’s front cover. He’d had enough of this. “Look, you need to get some rest and I need to get back to work…”
“This is your work! Because you are going to see more and more people admitted with this virus!”
“Ok.” The physician addressed his next comment to the nurse. “Lorazepam — 2.5 milligrams.”
“No! You have to listen to me! Talk to Sheriff Manolito. He knows. He knew that something was wrong at the lab! Fuck OFF!” He batted the needle out of the nurse’s hand. “I don’t need a shot! I need you to listen to me!”
But then it was a chaos of orderlies and restraining hands and a needle in his arm. As he writhed, Travis began to cry and this made it really hard to speak. He had to tell them, he had to …
There was pain. It was as if a bony fist had just punched him in the chest. He couldn’t catch his breath. The beep of his heart monitor sped up and was swiftly followed by an alarm.
“He’s arresting…”
There was a flurry of movement around him and in the chaos, the journal slid to the floor.
Part Two
`Round the World with J. Fred Muggs
Chapter One
New Orleans
“By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.”
William Shakespeare, Macbeth
“There is a dark foreboding … that augurs a new downfall.”
Hartley Coleridge, Prometheus
Tammany Lanuit got home just as the paperboy was delivering The Times-Picayune. It had been a hell of a night. The arthritis in her knees had reminded her of roman candles that shot spark after spark of pain through her joints. By morning, she knew, they’d be swollen and warm to the touch. It was just one of the many d
elights of getting old. Her bladder leaked whenever she laughed or sneezed, and gravity was getting to be a problem — honestly, if her boobs sagged any more she’d soon be tucking them into her socks. And so yes, growing old was a bitch. But it was also a privilege denied to many.
She was doing that whole ‘count your blessings instead of sheep’ thing when the phone rang at three a.m. A voice choked with sobs asked, “Mambo, can you come?”
It was her friend, Nola Hudson. She was a sensible woman and wouldn’t call at this hour over a trifle. And so within half-an-hour, Tammany was seated at Nola’s kitchen table, trying to make sense of what the woman had to say. It all came out in a jumbled rush. Otis (Nola’s husband) was missing. But there was also some hurried mention of work and Ragu and cigarettes. The mambo rubbed her temples. It was three-thirty in the freaking morning and this woman was ranting about spaghetti sauce.
“Honey,” Tammany interrupted. “I’m not firing on all cylinders yet. Please … take a breath.” Then, with the practiced calm of years as a voodoo healer and the quiet interjection of a few questions, Tammany managed to piece together the details.
Otis Hudson had left for work (he was an overnight stocker at Whole Foods Market) at nine-thirty Tuesday night. He’d made it to work ok, but his boss said that Hudson had been off kilter the whole evening. He’d put Pampers on the Wonder Bread shelf and knocked over a display of Ragu Traditional. He was clearly still suffering from the flu that had knocked him down over Christmas. And so his boss, surveying the red scene of carnage in aisle eleven, had ordered him to take a break. If he didn’t feel any better after that, he should go home to bed. Otis stepped out for a smoke; he never came back in. That was at one o’clock Wednesday morning. It was now four a.m. Thursday and Otis was seven hours overdue for his insulin injection.
Nola was calmer now and making sense. “The doctor has him on a basal injection that would have covered him for twenty-four hours.”
“What happens when he goes more than a day without his insulin?”
“Well, by now he’s probably hyperglycemic and getting quite ill. Within the next day or two DKA will set in.”
“DKA is …”
“Uh, I can never say it right.” Nola closed her eyes, her fingers gripping the bridge of her nose as she concentrated on the term. “Diabetic Ketoacidosis. It’s the downward slide. Tam,” she clutched the old woman’s hand, “if he doesn’t get his meds, he’ll die.”
“Right,” Tammany was rummaging in the huge red purse she carried everywhere. “How much time does he have?”
“A few days. A week at most.”
“And the police?”
“Are looking for him.”
Tammany had extracted an old, battered deck of Waddington playing cards and was shuffling them. “How was he before he left? I mean, other than the bug. Did you guys have a fight? Was he upset about something?”
Nola sighed wearily. “He’s low … ever since Pascal Construction went under and he had to take the stock boy job. And he hates the late hours at Whole Foods. But he has an interview tomorrow.”
“For what?”
“Foreman. With Landis Construction.” Nola paused watching Tammany shuffle the cards. “The loa will know where he is, right?”
“Let’s see what they’ll tell us.” She waved her hands at her friend. “Now shoo for a few minutes so I can concentrate.”
Without a word, Nola rose and left the room.
Tammany sat quietly for a moment and breathed steadily. As a mambo, she was a servant of the loa, the spirits. These are like the saints who can be called upon in times of trouble and she called on them now. She prayed to Papa Legba, who helps us find what is lost and asked Azagon Loko, the one who sees far, to give her clarity of sight. And as she continued to shuffle the cards, she asked again and again: where is he?
The cards, once dealt, would form three columns — one for the past, one for the present and one for the future. Each column would contain three cards, all clues about the problem at hand. She turned over the first: the King of Hearts indicating a good-natured, affectionate man. That was a fair description of Otis and a good sign that the loa were directing the cards to answer her question. Next, she laid down the Jack of Diamonds. This confused her because it added another person to the equation, probably a young man or teenager, and a bringer of bad news.
“Nola, who’s the young man?” she called.
Nola appeared at the doorway. “What young man?”
Tammany gestured to the cards that lay face up on the table. “I don’t know. Someone who’s had a negative impact?”
Nola was shaking her head, then her eyes went wide. “The fight.”
“What fight?”
Five days before his disappearance, Otis Hudson had stood on the loading dock at the back of Whole Foods Market, surveying the inventory sheet on his clipboard. They were supposed to have received an order of paper towels. Where were they? He looked wearily at the boxes stacked around him. Tissues, diapers, baby wipes … no paper towels.
“Why am I here?” he muttered. Try as he might, he just could not care about paper towels and whether they were displayed attractively on a shelf. He stood there in the silence and told himself yet again that this was temporary, just to keep the money coming in. There was an opening at Landis Construction and he could do that job with his eyes closed. He just had to nail the interview…
The small, tinny sound of an empty soda can rolling across concrete interrupted these thoughts. He walked to the edge of the loading platform and peered out into the back lot. At first he saw nothing and then, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he made out the dark shape of a man — just standing there, swaying on his feet.
“Hello?” Otis called.
The man’s head jerked up.
“Listen, pal,” Otis began, “a lot of trucks will be in and outta here tonight. It’s not really safe for you to be here.”
A shudder went through the stranger and Otis could hear him breathe — a ragged panting like an overheated dog.
He’s drunk … or high, Otis thought. Great. “Come on, I’ll show you the way out. Maybe call you a cab?” he said as he hopped down and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder to guide him.
And that is when the stranger lunged. Hudson tried to push him away but the guy’s scrabbling fingers closed on the strap of his Whole Foods apron and held on.
“What the —” Otis gasped as his attacker’s head darted forward, teeth snapping shut close to Hudson’s throat.
Otis was a big guy, powerfully built and, although he was in his early forties, he had not yet gone to seed. One punch from him would likely put most men on the ground. And indeed the man’s knees buckled when Hudson’s fist connected with his jaw. But he would not relinquish his grip on the apron strap which was proving to be the sturdiest piece of cheap fabric Otis had ever seen. In a tangle of flailing arms and legs, the stranger knocked Otis off balance and both men went down. Then the man was on top of him and was actually trying to bite at his face. Again Hudson’s strength held him in good stead and those teeth never met flesh; but for the first time he was really afraid. It was like trying to fend off a frenzied animal — a wolf or a shark. Panicking now, Otis lashed out with his fists, his feet, with his own teeth to get this lunatic off him and make him stop.
He only just managed it. As the stranger lay in a crumpled heap, Otis pulled himself up onto the platform and hit the switch to bring down the big loading bay door. He stood there in the bright fluorescent light, trembling. There was blood all down the front of his shirt and it took him a moment to ascertain that it was not his own. That’s right, he thought, I bit him. His stomach lurched and his mouth began to water as if he was going to throw up. He had to wash that blood off him and get the coppery taste of it out of his mouth.
It was then that his eyes fell upon a box marked “Bounty — the Qu
icker Picker Upper.” Laughing somewhat hysterically, he ripped opened the box, grabbed a roll of paper towels and hurried to the washroom.
By the time the police arrived the stranger was gone and, due to the unprecedented excitement, all work at Whole Foods had ground to a halt. As his coworkers looked on, Otis tried to communicate just how disturbing the encounter had been. However, the only wound he could find on himself was a brush burn on his elbow from where he hit the macadam.
“Please don’t underestimate this. I had real trouble fighting him off.” He drew himself up to his full height to illustrate that he was a head taller than the cop who was taking his statement. “The guy was crazy and if it had been somebody else — someone old or frail or some poor woman walking home from the bus stop, you wouldn’t be dealing with a skinned elbow right now.”
Tammany listened to this account trying to figure out how it was connected to Otis’s disappearance. Did the attacker come back?
“Thanks, Nola,” she mumbled as she went back to the cards.
Nola left her to it.
The third and last card in column one was the Nine of Spades. That suggested bad luck or illness. Tammany frowned. It wasn’t enough information. Otis was definitely ill because he’d missed his last insulin injection, but what about his attacker? His behavior didn’t exactly suggest good mental health. Why the hell was he trying to bite Otis? Mug him? Sure. Pull a knife or a gun? Yep. But bite his face? What on earth was that all about?
She dealt the first card of column two to clarify the present state of things. The King of Spades — a dark man, not to be trusted. Did this suggest the addition of yet another negative figure? No, she thought, I don’t think so. She looked for a long time at the two kings that lay side by side in front of her and could not shake the idea that the second king corresponded to the first not only in position (they were each the first card in their respective columns), but also in meaning. The King of Hearts in column one clearly represented Otis. What did it mean that the King had now gone dark? The two were polar opposites: one red as lifeblood, one black as ash; one looking left, the other right; one with empty hands, the other grasping a sword. If both kings represented Otis, past and present, then what did it mean? A change in the man? A fall from light into darkness?
