He’d begun to make a little progress in treating the condition, mostly by trial and error. Administering intravenous fluids as early as possible was the critical factor. That, and the severity of the wound. Bites were a lot more dangerous than scratches, as far as he could tell.
The patients that survived the critical stage and regained consciousness seemed to make a partial recovery, but he wouldn’t say they were completely cured. In the end he had no choice but to discharge them in order to free up beds for new arrivals. The whole situation was just one step away from blowing up.
It had been hard to spot a pattern in the cases at first, because of the high degree of variability of the symptoms. The case reports had confused him too. Rats, humans. Sometimes bites, other times just scratches. It was hard to make sense of the information, and he still didn’t really know what he was dealing with. He’d had blood samples from his patients tested for viral, parasitic and fungal infections but nothing had shown up. Bacterial infection didn’t seem to be a factor either, or at least none of the antibiotics he’d tried had done much to combat the primary infection.
The patients’ immune systems were clearly battling against a pathogen of some type, but the doctors and laboratory technicians couldn’t identify it. The new condition had the hallmarks of something completely new to medicine.
He recalled reading something in the news a year or so prior. Some mad Negro doctor in Chicago—Dr. Williams, he remembered—had predicted a rat apocalypse, or at least that was how some of the newspapers had reported it. He’d read the original articles, but they were more fevered speculation than journalistic fact. He hadn’t been able to locate any actual medical papers. But he’d discovered something else in his correspondences with hospitals around the country that had piqued his interest—similar reports of cases from other hospitals. He’d even unearthed a few cases overseas, dating back nearly a year, close to the time of the newspaper stories. It was starting to look like Dr. Daniel Hale Williams’ predictions contained a grain of truth.
He was examining the progress of one of the bite patients when the screaming started.
They were a man’s screams, and not just the usual cry for help you heard on a hospital ward, but something more primal, more desperate. He extricated himself from his task and ran to the source of the cries on the nearby ward.
It was Mr. DuPont, the elderly patient Susie had told him about.
The other patient, Albert Bernette, was leaning over him, lunging at his throat like a maniac. He was still attached to an IV drip by his arm. His skin was deathly pale, his eyes covered with the now familiar yellow film, much like a cataract, that was one of the clearest visible symptoms of the condition.
The old man, Mr. DuPont, was fending Albert off with weak arms, but didn’t look like he would last much longer. A nurse was trying to help, but was unable to hold the patient back. The younger patient had some mad strength about him, even though he had been close to death just a week earlier.
Doctor Laveau ran to him and tried to pull him off. “Mr. Bernette, stop that!”
The patient turned to him, a crazed look on his face, his eyes burning yellow. He didn’t speak, just screeched like a rat and pushed the doctor to the floor with unnatural strength.
Doctor Laveau shouted for help, but the nurses close by seemed too scared to intervene.
The man turned back to Mr. DuPont, slapping his face and clawing at him, growling as he rained down blows on his victim. The old man writhed in his bed, desperately trying to fend off the attack.
Doctor Laveau struggled back to his feet. “Mr. Bernette!”
The man had Mr. DuPont in a tight grip now, sinking his nails into the age-mottled skin of the old man’s arms. Pinning him to the bed, he thrust his mouth to his victim’s neck and bit. Mr. DuPont shrieked, thrashing from side to side as his own blood spattered across his face.
Doctor Laveau had no time to think. No one was coming to help. He kicked at the younger man’s leg, striking him just behind the knee.
The man’s leg crumpled and he collapsed to the floor in a howl of rage and pain. The IV crashed down next to him, the needle still in his arm.
Doctor Laveau looked on, appalled. He was a medic, here to care for his patients. And yet…
The patient pushed himself up from the floor, his yellow eyes now fixed on Doctor Laveau.
“Help!” the doctor shouted. “Some help in here, please!”
The old man, Mr. DuPont, was already going into anaphylactic shock.
Susie arrived, bringing a hospital orderly with her. The new arrival grappled with the patient, while Susie struggled to administer an injection, presumably a sedative to calm him down.
As Doctor Laveau watched, Mr. Bernette threw out an arm and knocked the syringe out of Susie’s hands. With an inhuman shriek, he broke his other arm free from the orderly’s grip and lashed out, raking the man’s face with his sharp, long fingernails.
The orderly cried out and staggered backward, a red slash drawn from his chin to his ear. His right ear flapped loosely where it was partially severed.
Susie searched for the dropped syringe, but it had vanished from view. “I’ll get more help,” she cried.
“Mr. Bernette, please calm down,” Doctor Laveau told the patient. “You’re safe here. No one is trying to hurt you. You’re in the hospital But you are very ill. You must calm down.”
The man seemed not to understand the words. He turned his gaze on Doctor Laveau, fixing him with a yellow stare that was more animal than human. A deep hiss emerged from his mouth.
Doctor Laveau backed away from the man, trying to draw him away from the other patients on the ward. The man followed him.
The doctor scanned the floor, searching for the syringe that Susie had dropped. It lay about ten feet to his left. He edged slowly toward it, circling the man until the syringe was just a foot away from him. The man continued to hiss and screech.
The doctor stepped left again and crouched down warily, watching for any sudden movement. The patient clawed the air between them with his bloody fingers, but did not come closer.
Doctor Laveau reached for the syringe and grasped it with his right hand. He rose steadily to his full height. “Okay, calm down, now,” the doctor said in measured tones. “Stay calm and everything will be all right.” He held the syringe tightly, waiting for his chance.
Susie returned with three more orderlies in her wake and Mr. Bernette turned to face them.
Doctor Laveau rushed forward and grabbed the man’s arm. He managed to get the needle into his arm and pushed the plunger down hard, watching as the clear liquid disappeared down the barrel of the syringe and into the man’s bloodstream.
He stepped back from the patient, waiting for the sedative to take effect, but as he did so the man seemed to find a final surge of strength. He crossed the few feet that separated them and lunged at the doctor, clawing him with his deadly fingernails. The doctor felt pain as the nails ripped into his right arm, drawing out a fountain of blood.
The man came on relentlessly, punching and kicking like a cornered beast. But it was the doctor who was cornered. He pressed himself up against the nearest bed, fending off blows from the madman before him. The sedative should surely have calmed him by now, but the punches and kicks seemed to be getting faster and more furious.
The orderlies rushed forward to grab him, but as they did so, Mr. Bernette lunged forward one last time and sank his teeth deep into the doctor’s neck.
The pain was intense, but it lasted just briefly. The man withdrew his jaws, taking a chunk of flesh in his bloody teeth.
Dr. Laveau watched in a dreamlike state as blood splashed from the open wound, soaking the patient’s clothes in crimson stains. A smile spread across the young man’s face as he chewed the flesh. All the fight had gone out of him now and he seemed satisfied at last. He didn’t struggle when the orderlies dragged him to the floor and Susie administered more sedative.
Doctor Laveau didn�
�t struggle either as his legs gave way beneath him. A feeling of tranquility had descended over him like a shroud. The rapid blood loss from the severed carotid artery was like a drug, numbing the pain, quenching any fear. He allowed gravity to do its work, sliding him to the floor. At least he had done his duty to the last, giving himself to his patients. No one would ever be able to take that from him. A smile came to his face then, his last one.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Tremé, full moon.
The leader of the Templeton Brothers went by the name of Andrew, the Axeman, although he was born Lizzie Borden. His parents would have described him as a girl at birth and as a woman now, but he always knew, deep down, that he was a man. Hell, they must have known, too, which is why they gave him the middle name Andrew.
After killing his father and stepmother, Lizzie had moved far away from Fall River, Massachusetts and taken on her new identity as Andrew Templeton, the Axeman of New Orleans.
He’d always been obsessed with rats and the rat-kin, so the possibility of becoming one was beyond his wildest dreams. Trouble was, it was proving to be harder than he’d expected.
First you had to catch yourself a real live rat-kin. Then you had to make it bite you without letting the bastard kill you. Neither step was easy. Kidnapping those animals from the animal clinic had been a dummy run. Pretty dumb idea, now that he considered it. What use was it getting a goddamn dog or cat to bite you? All you got was a nasty flesh wound and a risk of catching rabies. He had stayed hidden, observing the mission from the shadows, letting his second-in-command take credit—and blame, if things went sideways—for leading it. They’d had to get rid of the dogs in the end.
So now they were trying to catch themselves an actual rat-kin, which was turning out to be difficult. He suspected that half of the Brothers didn’t even believe in the creatures. Perhaps more than half. Maybe most of them. But that didn’t matter. The Axeman was their leader and they would do what he said. The biggest problem was that the moon was full only one goddamn day a month. How could you work with that? But the Axeman was no quitter. The Pack depended on him. He had come up with a plan that seemed workable.
You want to catch a fish, you need bait, he thought. Same thing with a rat-kin.
Bait.
The trouble was, who? Most of the Pack looked pretty unappetizing to the Axeman. Too much facial hair, not enough baths. He wouldn’t fancy sinking his teeth into any of them unless he’d downed a good few pints to warm himself up. No self-respecting rat-kin would want to gobble one of the Templeton Brothers in a hurry. They needed a more attractive morsel. So, that’s what they were right then, trying to find one.
With hindsight, the girl who had been looking after the animals would have been just perfect for the job. A cute Creole Negro, barely sixteen by the Axeman’s reckoning. He’d happily have nibbled her himself but the chance was gone. Hindsight was a good thing for sure, but not as helpful as foresight. They’d just have to locate another suitable girl.
In fact, the Axeman couldn’t believe his luck. One was coming their way right then.
They’d stationed themselves up in Congo Square in the hope of picking up a tasty late-night walker. The Tremé was a good place to hang out, big enough to hide in, popular enough to find some innocent passerby to accost. And it had been where the Beast had first been spotted, exactly one month previously. A Ripper murder had taken place there recently, too. Half a naked torso discovered next to a muddy track. The constables were still searching for the other half. Good luck with that.
The sky had been clear earlier, but a cold drizzly rain had begun to fall as they left their velocipedes by the roadside and set out across the park adjacent to Place Congo, the mud sucking noisily at their boots. The Axeman worried about the Pack’s morale. The moon was full, but thick clouds covered the New Orleans sky and completely hid it from view. He hoped that wouldn’t be a problem.
Anyway, they’d been there less than half an hour and the perfect bait had already made her appearance. Tall and slim with thick black hair tied up in a bun. The woman wore a short skirt—not fitting for a respectable lady, but she doesn’t seem to be a whore, the Axeman thought—and an oxblood leather corset, with no shirt. She came running right toward them, her long legs stretching and flexing as she ran. Droplets of rain sparkled on her hair and face like jewels, but the woman seemed not to care about the cold or the rain.
The Pack watched intently, almost hypnotized by the woman’s graceful movements.
Frog whistled loudly. “Now that is serious rat bait,” he said appreciatively, stroking his bald head.
Toad shook his head. “Too good to waste on a goddamn rat, I say.”
The Axeman said nothing, just rubbed his hairless chin and watched. He narrowed his eyes as the girl ran right up to the Pack and stopped in front of them. His eyes flicked between her pink skirt and her pretty face. “Hey,” he said, trying to keep his cool. This woman is beautiful.
The woman looked him up and down, her face expressionless. He shifted uncomfortably under her brown eyes, making his leather jacket squeak. He rubbed the smooth skin of his chin more firmly the longer she looked. He relaxed as she shifted her attention to each of the other men in turn. They shuffled their feet or cleared their throats nervously as she made her round of the Pack.
After she’d checked them all out, her full lips broke into a wide smile, although her eyes stayed cold. “Hello boys and… whatever,” she said, shooting a glance at the Axeman. “Looking for trouble?”
“No,” the Axeman said. “We’re looking for you.”
The woman laughed. “So you found me. Now what?”
“Now we have some fun.”
“I like fun.”
The woman’s manner made the Axeman nervous. Either she’s one dumb-ass Negro, or else she knows something I don’t. She didn’t look dumb to him. He rubbed his chin harder than ever.
Frog had something he wanted to say. “Boss, this woman is beautiful. Why don’t we… you know… before we… you know—” He trailed off under the Axeman’s stern gaze.
“No,” the Axeman said firmly. If anyone around here was a dumb-ass, it was Frog. “Tonight’s our best chance. This woman’s a gift. We stay on plan.”
The woman walked right up to him and ran her fingers down his arm, rubbing the red leather of his jacket. “I like tough peckerwoods. Is that a tattoo on your neck?”
The Axeman showed it to her. “It’s a rat. A dire rat, in fact. Know what a dire rat is?”
The woman shook her head innocently, her blonde ponytail swaying.
“Dire rats come from Europe,” he told her. “They are bigger, tougher, meaner versions of European rats. Some even have the power of speech.”
Toad stepped forward and showed her a similar tattoo on his own neck. “The dire rats will one day rule the whole world,” he said. “That’s why the bible says that “one day, the squeak shall inherit the earth.”
The woman didn’t laugh.
The Axeman glared at Toad.
“So the stories say, anyway” Toad croaked.
The woman approached him, touching the tattoo on his neck. “The End of Days,” she mused, almost to herself. “I like rats too,” she said. “Do you know why?”
“No,” Toad said. He tried to draw away, but the woman shot out her hand and grasped his scrawny neck, squeezing it hard and pulling him closer. She seemed surprisingly strong for a woman. Toad whimpered quietly.
“Some of my best friends are rats,” she whispered to him. “In fact, do you want to hear a secret?”
Toad nodded nervously. The girl parted her lips and drew his head down so that she could whisper in his ear. “I am a rat-kin,” she said. Then she bit him hard, sinking her teeth deep into the side of his neck, severing the carotid artery in a single bite. She released her grip and stepped back to watch.
A fountain of blood gushed from Toad’s neck, spraying fine red drops over the entire Pack. He screamed and clutched at the wou
nd, his eyes turning wildly in search of help. Nobody moved. The blood rushed out in waves, each one less powerful than the preceding one, until finally just a dribble flowed. Toad shrieked again then fell to the muddy ground. He thrashed his legs and arms for half a minute before settling down to a gentle twitching. Still, nobody had moved.
The woman licked her reddened lips. “My, that was enjoyable. Would anyone else like to play?”
Frog stepped forward over Toad’s body, pulling a dagger from his jacket. “Bitch. You’ll die for that.”
The Axeman hauled him backward. “You fool. She’s a goddamn rat-kin.”
“I know that,” Frog said. “She just killed Toad.”
“Never mind that now,” the Axeman said. “Don’t you get it? We don’t need to use her as bait to catch a rat-kin because she is one.”
Comprehension dawned on Frog. “How can we trust her, though? Look at what she did.”
“Yes, sure,” the Axeman said, glancing at the dead man at his feet. Toad’s body lay still now, and he was glad of that. “But that’s because she had surprise on her side. She can’t take us all, can she?” He glanced around at the Pack for reassurance. He didn’t get much.
The Axeman sighed. It was time for him to demonstrate, once again, why he was Leader of the Pack.
He risked a look up at the night sky. The rain had stopped. Thin clouds scudded quickly above Place Congo, driven by the winter wind. The moon glowed faintly now behind a thin haze, but it was still covered. If the woman transformed into rat form under full moonlight, judging from her performance thus far, they would all end up as rat food. But if he could persuade her to help them, then they still stood a chance.
He would play it carefully, though. If he wanted to walk away from there in one piece, he would need to use cunning.
He spoke to the woman. “You’ve been a joy, but we’re tired of this game. I’ve got a better idea.”
The woman smiled. “Go on.”
“I’m going to offer you a choice. Either we can cut your throat,”—he nodded at Frog, who obliged by brandishing his dagger—”or you can bite each one of us on the arm and turn us into rat-kin, too.”
Gunsmoke Blues Page 16
