by Beth Hersant
The seventh tourist on his list hailed from Nairobi and they were currently trying to locate him. The last two travelers (a young couple) had returned home to New Orleans. The woman was dead (an apparent suicide involving a Mack truck) and Caldwell was waiting on the autopsy report to confirm whether or not she had been infected. Her boyfriend, Nicholas Durand, was missing and probably spreading the disease.
Every boat that had left Cáscara had been tracked and found to be clear of infection, save one. The Maria Celestina had failed to arrive at its scheduled destination of Trinidad and Tobago. Instead, it ran aground on a beach in Parnaíba, Brazil. One man was found on board, the victim of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. He was covered in bite marks — rat bites. The rest of the crew had gone AWOL. One witness swears she saw figures wading ashore on the night of the wreck. Edwin did a quick google search for Parnaíba. It boasted a population of 170,000.
He closed his laptop and rubbed his tired eyes. He had sent teams to every site with orders to identify and isolate any cases that emerge; but he felt sure this would not be enough. They still did not have a cure. And, since the standard rabies vaccine provided absolutely no protection against New Rabies, they had no viable way to protect the uninfected. The situation had all the hallmarks of a burgeoning pandemic. The question was: how many people would they lose before they got it under control?
Chapter Seven
New Orleans
“One eye-witness weighs more than ten hearsay — seeing is believing all the world over.”
Titus Maccius Plautus, Truculentus
“Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.”
Carl Sagan, Encyclopedia Galactica
“I need to get you to the hospital.” Tammany was trying to coax Geraldine to her feet.
“There’s no point. They can’t help.”
“How do you know that?”
“Agata Roche, you know, my friend from high school … she’s an RN at the University Medical Center … she told me. They’ve been swamped today by cases just like this. The CDC is setting up isolation wards, but can’t keep up with demand. I’m on a list.”
“There’s a waiting list for quarantine?”
“It’s hit so fast, they just don’t have the beds yet.”
“What has hit so fast? What the hell is it?”
Geraldine massaged her temples. “Don’t know.”
A little battle raged within the old mambo at that moment. She was so tired and frustrated and scared that she really thought she might lose it. Truly she wanted nothing more than to launch into a good, profanity-laden rant about the absurdity of all this bullshit. With long-practiced restraint, she held her tongue.
“Fine,” she said quietly. “If they can’t help right now, then let’s see what we can do here.”
And hence began the mammoth effort you see when a mambo pulls out all the stops. First she had recourse to John George Hohman’s Pow-Wows or Long Lost Friend, a nineteenth century Pennsylvania Dutch text that combines ardent Christianity with mysticism. It had originally been brought to New Orleans by traveling merchants. Vodouisants — with their appetite for different ideas — had assimilated it. Hence, Tammany carried a copy of Hohman’s little book in that huge purse of hers. She used its prayers in an attempt to banish Geraldine’s fever. Likewise she gave her friend a mix of dittany, St. John’s Wort and whiskey to combat her headaches; she tried oil of cloves in a tablespoon of white wine for the nausea. But she was only fire-fighting — just treating the symptoms. And so she tried to hit upon a Geri Tout, a cure-all to treat the illness. She tried Gypsy Water and Four Thieves Vinegar. Nothing gave the suffering woman any relief.
In fact she was getting worse. The vomiting was so violent that Gerry wet herself during the uncontrollable retching. She cried out in pain and despair and Tammany wept at the sound and pleaded with the 911 operator to send an ambulance. Her friend needed morphine and she needed it now. But all of the ambulances were tied up and it could be “some time.” Meanwhile Geraldine slipped in and out of a fevered delirium and all Tammany could do was rub her down with lukewarm water to try and lower her temperature. Finally, at about four a.m., the stricken woman slept and the old mambo, sitting in a chair by her friend’s bed, felt her eyelids growing heavy. She sat up with a jerk, a lightning bolt of anxiety shooting through her.
“To sleep, perchance to dream,” she muttered. She didn’t want another cryptic nightmare filled with omens and foreboding and there were things she could do to prevent it. However, she didn’t dare. Any information from the loa could be vital to Geraldine. And so she settled down to sleep and prayed for the answers she needed.
She is at home and Grandma Eula is there, sitting in her living room. Tammany wants to rush to her and wrap her arms around her, but she dare not. She has spotted a small yellow canary sitting placidly in the woman’s cupped hand. This is not Eulalia Trudeau, her beloved grandmother; this is Gran Ibo, a loa so old that her origins are said to be “beyond memory.” She is a kindly spirit, patient and wise. She knows the help that can be derived from her “little sisters” — the healing plants of the forests and swamps where she makes her home.
“Pull up a chair, child.”
Tammany disappears into the kitchen long enough to grab a chair and positions it next to the loa who is seated in the recliner.
“I took a look at Geraldine today,” Ibo says. “Did you notice her complexion? Her skin has gone very gray.”
“I know,” the mambo says quietly.
“I was thinking about cowboy movies — how the outlaw always wears a black hat and the hero wears a white one. You know, of course, that in our world the meanings are reversed. White is the color of the dead and black is the color of the living.”
“I know.”
“And yet Geraldine is so grey. That, child, is because the carriers of this disease fall in between; they are neither completely dead, nor wholly alive. And the cause of it … I know that question has been driving you crazy … comes from a clean, white room, fashioned by men in white coats.”
“A lab?”
“Yep.”
“Is there a cure? Can the little sisters help?”
Gran Ibo shakes her head sadly. “No. All you can do right now is get out of its way.”
“How?”
The ancient loa shrugs. “Take as many as you can and run.”
“But where is safe?”
“Lots of people today talk about ‘finding themselves,’ but in this case you really should.”
Tammany is on her feet now, rummaging through her purse until she finds it — her Rand McNally Easy to Read Map of Louisiana. She spreads it open on the floor and kneels down to examine it — too excited to mind the pain in her knees.
“Find yourself,” she mutters. “Myself. It can’t be my home address because it’s time to run. So where?”
Looking at the whole state is too much to focus on and so she flips the sheet over and studies the detailed maps on the back.
“New Orleans and Vicinity. Where is safe? It would have to be remote, yet within striking distance.” She glances up at Gran Ibo and the loa smiles encouragingly.
Then the mambo sees it and laughs out loud: St. Tammany Parish. And there, accessed by the Pearl River, is Honey Island Swamp.
Tammany folds up the map and begins to list on the blank red spaces of its cover the names of everyone she must call. She writes in tiny letters so that she can fit as many names on the map as possible.
“That’s a lot of people.”
When the mambo looks up, Gran Ibo is gone and sitting in her place is her son Dempsey. This of course is not Dempsey, but the only clue to the identity of this loa is his right arm. It ends in a healed stump just below the elbow.
“St. Marron?” she asks.
“Give the lady a kewpie doll.”
&
nbsp; St. Marron is a legend in New Orleans. An escaped slave, he fled to the swamps where he led a community of other fugitives. He is the archetypal freedom fighter whose rebellion cost him his arm and eventually his life.
“It is a bad thing, this,” he says. “The closest thing to pure slavery I’ve seen since the old times. Those are all the people you wish to take with you?” He nods toward the map.
“And more, if I can.”
“That will take time. Wouldn’t it be safer just to grab your family and run?”
“I suppose.”
Marron leans forward in his chair and looks Tammany in the eye. “Consider your options carefully, mambo. You can take Dempsey and the kids and run. Or you can send them on ahead and stay behind to help the others. But it is a big thing that you ask: to save so many.”
“I know.”
He holds up his stump. “Do you understand, woman, that freedom costs?”
Tammany’s first call was to her son Dempsey. His mother had been upset lately and not making a whole hell of a lot of sense and so he answered with a wary, “Hello?”
“Right,” Tam’s voice was different. She didn’t sound agitated anymore, but firm and decisive. “I’ve got to the heart of it now.”
“Mom, what are you talking about?”
“The illness that’s here.”
“The flu that’s been going around?”
“It’s not flu. It only looks like that at the beginning.”
“Ok…”
“You need to see what it becomes.”
“Why?”
“Because you have to see it to understand it. And if you don’t understand it, how can you protect your children from it?”
“Mom, this is sounding crazy.”
“I don’t give a fuck how it sounds. Now I need you to come over to Geraldine’s right now!”
“I’m not a little boy anymore. You can’t just order me around.”
“She’s dying,” Tammany croaked.
“What?”
“If you have anything you want to say to her, you’d better say it now, because in a couple of hours she isn’t gonna know who the hell you are.”
“Mom, if she’s sick call an ambulance!”
“They’re busy.”
“What?”
“Too many people are sick.”
“Shit.”
“That accurately sums up the situation, yes.”
There was a long pause. “We’ll be right there.”
“Just you and Catarina. Don’t bring the kids.”
“I’ll ask Mrs. Astier in 3B if she can look after them for a while.”
“For God’s sake, Dempsey, tell her to keep them inside.”
The next call she placed was to Amos Burel, a long-time client.
“Tammany! How are you?”
“Well, not so good to be honest. I have a huge favor to ask.”
“Hey, you helped get my boy sober, you ask for whatever you want.”
“Are you still living out on Pearl River, near the swamp?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I need you and Della to meet with me. There’s something you need to see.”
Her phone calls made, she continued her vigil over Geraldine. When the woman finally stirred, Tammany rose to check her temperature, groaning as her back and knees protested.
Gerry smiled at her wanly. “You should make a voodoo doll of yourself and give it a back rub.” Her laugh was so weak and pitiful.
The mambo plastered a smile onto her face. “At this point, I think I’d just soak it in rum.”
“Ah, a pickled mambo — that would be effective.” Geraldine’s attempt to look bravely chipper dissolved as a stabbing pain arced through her skull. “I used to bitch about getting old,” she panted. “It doesn’t seem so bad now.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll have you back to complaining in no time.”
“No you won’t. I’m right about that, aren’t I?”
Tammany’s eyes filled with tears. She nodded and cleared her throat. “I can’t stop what’s happening to you, honey. But I can keep it from happening to other people.”
“I know that look. You’re planning something.”
“Yeah. But I need your help.”
Dempsey and his wife Catarina arrived, both looking harried.
“The mood is getting ugly out there!” Cat said as she embraced her mother-in-law.
“Are more people taking ill?” Tammany asked.
“No. Haven’t you been watching the news?” Dempsey asked.
“What news?”
He handed her his phone and she quickly scrolled through the News Feed. The headline read, “Unarmed man shot by police!” followed by a sketchy article on how Nicholas Durand was shot and killed during an apparent mugging in downtown New Orleans.
“That’s the second black man to die in police custody in the last twenty-four hours,” Dempsey explained. “There’s protests … the riot cops are out…”
A knock on the door interrupted him; Amos and Della had arrived. Tammany poked her head into Geraldine’s bedroom. They heard her murmur, “Are you up for this, honey?” but didn’t hear the reply. Tammany turned and looked at them.
“You all know Geraldine Navarro, the mambo I trained. Well, she’s got something to tell you.”
Gerry lay in bed, trying to focus what was left of her dying mind on this, her last and most important work as a mambo. This could save a lot of lives, but first they needed to be convinced of the danger. Well, she was going to convince them all right. She nodded to them as they shuffled into her room.
Her story began simply with a recap of how little Jacob Dias took ill and then bit her and his mother. She listed her symptoms. She told them what Agata Roche said about the hospital being swamped and the CDC being involved and the fact that they had no cure for this new illness that was spreading through the city. The facts were disturbing. But this was the internet age — people were bombarded with disturbing facts every day. What they needed, she knew, was a punch-in-the-stomach-kick-you-in-the-crotch dose of what those facts really meant.
“It huuurts.” And her voice was almost that of a small child. Tears welled up in her eyes. “I feel like someone is at my head with a hammer and chisel and every time the hammer falls, another part of my mind crumbles away. I want my mother … but I can’t … I can’t remember her name! And I’m afraid. I don’t want to lose who I am but it is all slipping away. And I don’t want to hurt anyone. But I do! I’ve never been so angry.” She raised her hands and feet just a little off the bed to show them the restraints that bound her. “I asked for these because I was afraid I’d hurt Tammany. You’ll see. It won’t be long now and you’ll see …”
Her prediction was correct. Within half-an-hour she turned and it was as if a bomb went off in that bedroom. She shrieked incoherently at them through foam-covered lips and tugged at her restraints with such violence that the flimsy bed bucked and creaked with her thrashing. As the ropes bit into her flesh, her wrists began to bleed and yet she did not notice. They tried to speak to her, but that only made her worse.
Wiping the tears from her eyes, Tammany stepped up to the bed. She held her wrist just out of range and Geraldine snarled and snapped at it like a rabid dog. “Does anybody have any questions?”
“It’s like a mother-fucking zombie virus,” Amos said.
The mambo nodded and ushered them out of the room. The five of them stood near to each other in Gerry’s small living room. Dempsey and Catarina were in tears, Amos was shaken and Della looked like she might be sick.
Amos looked at Tammany. “Have you spoken to the loa about this?”
“Yes, they led me to Honey Island Swamp.”
“Would it be safe there?” Catarina asked.
“It would make a go
od refuge,” Della said. “We’ve got quite a bit of space at ours.”
The mambo nodded. “And your boy rents those houseboats out to tourists. They would give us even more room.”
“Our neighbors would take people in, I know they would,” Amos said.
“And there’s the Cajun village that you can only get to by boat. Yeah,” Della was nodding her head, “we can make it work and just let all this blow over.”
“Yep,” Tammany said. Although, personally, she didn’t think it would.
“But if it does drag on, what are we going to do for food?” Catarina asked.
“I can fish,” Dempsey said.
“And we hunt,” Amos wrapped an arm around Della and she leaned into him. “There are alligators, wild boar, waterfowl, deer.”
“Good,” Tammany said. “In the next twenty-four hours, we’ve got a lot to do. Catarina, stay inside with the kids and start calling folks and telling them where to meet us and what to bring. Pack up everything you’ll need for the twins for a good long stay. Amos and Della — call your neighbors and ask your son about the boats.”
“I wanna pick up some more ammo and some extra fishing gear too,” Amos cut in.
“That’s good. Dempsey and I will stock up on the essentials and …”
“I have a question,” Della interrupted and nodded toward the bedroom door. Geraldine had gone quiet and that was almost worse than her yelling. It made the hair stand up on the back of your neck.
“They don’t have a cure,” Amos said quietly.
“No,” Tammany agreed, “but they might find one. We’ll give her a chance.”
Tammany phoned the police and told them about Geraldine’s condition, that she was infected and dangerous and needed to be transferred to CDC quarantine.
