Calamity

by Gail McCormick

  “I’m sorry to have to say that Senators Brackett, Brown and Dorfman as well as Peter McDougal and Fred Sanford didn’t make it,” he said. “Unfortunately, the death count here in D.C. has risen to 208. So far, the mortality rate is 92%. And now Supreme Court Justice Charles Grantham has been stricken. He’s here in the ICU. The other Judges have been quarantined too, as well as his family. Ralph Meecher is still hanging on. But his daughter, Nancy has also been afflicted.” He sighed. Camellia knew that he had a daughter too. “We still haven’t been able to identify the disease and don’t have a cure. But the vaccine used for shingles has been found to prevent it. That’s a blessing. Massive doses are being manufactured on an emergency basis.”

  “Can you address the way the disease is transmitted?” Camellia asked. “Some people seem to think it can be caught just by standing near a victim.”

  “No, definitely not. It requires quite close physical contact. At the very least you would have to hug or touch someone.”

  “Thank you. That should be reassuring.”

  “I hope so.” He walked slowly back into the hospital. From behind, his sagging shoulders were evident.

  “There have been riots in towns here and abroad where drug stores have run out of paper masks,” she said. “Hopefully it will help to have had Dr. Varick explain that it takes close physical contact to catch the disease. If you feel you have to protect yourself, disposable gloves would make more sense. We don’t want a run on those either, and really, if you haven’t had contact with any of the victims, you should be fine. You can see I’m not wearing gloves.”

  Owen zoomed in on her hands which were still beautifully manicured apart from a small chip in her nail polish.

  “The runs on window air conditioners have also created fights inside big box stores but now most of the stores have run out, so that should ease up.” She wiped her forehead. “Hopefully there will be enough of the shingles vaccine to cover everyone needing it. NIP employees have already been vaccinated.” She pointed to a spot on her upper arm. “It doesn’t hurt,” she said even though her arm was sore.

  Owen smiled at her from the sidelines. His arm was sore too.

  “The families have been informed of the latest deaths. Funeral arrangements will be announced as soon as they’re available. Their bodies will be returned to their home States for burial. It seems that Supreme Court Judge Grantham met with Senator Trotford right after the fundraiser. Presumably they hugged since they were good friends. We don’t know how many people have been quarantined or how other governments are handling that, but we’ve heard there are serious problems. Stay tuned for more updates.” She prepared to remove her mic. “Back to NIP in New York.”

  “Are we going to cover the President and Speaker’s funerals?” Owen asked as they packed up.

  “No. That’ll be handled by other anchors, thank goodness. We might have to cover Peter McDougal and Fred Sanford’s funerals in Manhattan, but I hope not. I’m so worried about Frank that I don’t want to be reminded about what might happen to him by attending funerals. And I’m concerned about Sujin and Bobby under quarantine. She’s always hated being cooped up, and the baby is due soon.”

  “Have they been vaccinated?” Owen asked.

  “Yes. They just can’t catch it! They simply can’t.”

  Her words were drowned out by the shrill siren screaming from the ambulance bringing another Mystery Fever casualty to the hospital.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  LATER SAME NIGHT

  CAMELLIA’S TOWNHOUSE

  OUTSIDE

  A FOUR-FOOT SKULL AND CROSSBONES CARVED OUT OF A LARGE PIECE OF CARDBOARD was tied to the stair railing at the end of the steps in the same place that Camellia found the rag doll. YOU was scrawled across the top of the skull in the usual red ink. The brass urn next to it was knocked over, and the flowers were crushed. It was almost midnight when Camellia got home to face this new offense.

  “Damn!” she said. “Not again. I’m going to need to carry scissors with me.” She looked around but didn’t see anyone and yet she had the uneasy feeling there was someone nearby. “Very strange,” she said to herself. “Or maybe pepper spray,” she added out loud as she set the urn back up. “Back off, low life!” she shouted.

  It took her a few minutes to detach the cardboard since the twine securing it was knotted in several places. That accomplished, she put it on the ground, bent it in half and stomped on it repeatedly to flatten it out, then stuffed it in the recycle bin. It was still too big, so it stuck out from under the lid.

  “Now this is getting really old,” Camellia announced to the cat who peeked out from under the stairs. She went over to him and held out her hand. He scooted back but didn’t bolt, and she was able to reach in far enough to pet him. “At least you and I are making progress, Fuzzball,” Camellia said. “And somehow I manage to be patient with you, if not with humans.” She picked up his empty dish along with the extra water bowl she had added, and went up the stairs. This time she checked twice to make absolutely certain she had bolted the door, and made sure her alarm system was on.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING

  BEDROOM

  CAMELLIA’S TOWNHOUSE

  THE PHONE RANG, AND CAMELLIA ROLLED OVER IN BED TO GRAB IT. The clock on the bedside table said 3:00 a.m. “I might just replace you,” she told it. She was tempted to throw it across the room, but she picked the phone up instead. I’m not going to throw things any more, she reminded herself. She was going to keep her temper in check. Well maybe.

  “I’ve got a scoop for you,” Kyle said. “The other networks haven’t arrived yet.”

  “Damned well better be good if you don’t want me to cream your corn.”

  “Someone broke into the pricey bodega down the street from me. I’m there now along with half of Manhattan’s police force. The store also carries drugs. Their antibiotics are missing.”

  “So, you think the rumor that penicillin will cure the disease is the reason?” she asked as she slipped out of bed and started to pull some clothes on.

  “That would be my guess. Want to get hold of Owen and come over?”

  “Yes. Give me the address. I’ll call him now.” She dressed so fast that she didn’t have time to deal with the top two buttons on the back of her blouse.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  EARLY THE SAME MORNING

  MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

  THE STORE’S HUGE PLATE GLASS WINDOW WAS SMASHED. Glass littered the sidewalk below it. When Camellia joined Kyle in front of ALBERTO’S SPECIALTIES fifteen minutes after she hung up, Alberto was talking to the police. He was a visibly shaken very frail old man, probably well into his 90’s.

  Owen arrived a couple of minutes later. “Good thing I kept my old rattle trap. I broke every speed limit getting here.” He pulled his camera out and handed Camellia a mic. “Parked it by a fire hydrant. Hopefully they won’t tow it. Wish I didn’t need it for the gigs the station sends us out on.”

  They went over to Alberto, carefully avoiding broken glass. “Can you tell us what happened?” Camellia asked gently.

  “I was asleep upstairs when I heard the noise,” he said.

  “And then what happened?” she prompted.

  “I dialed 911 and waited.”

  “That was wise.”

  “They took all my drugs, all my antibiotics.” He looked like he was about to cry. Camellia reached out and touched his hand.

  “Thank you for talking to us. I hope your insurance will cover everything. It might be a good idea for you to sit down.” Kyle took his arm and led him over to a nearby bench.

  Camellia turned to an officer who was making notes. “What can you tell us?” she asked while Owen filmed.

  “Doesn’t look like the usual search for drugs,” he said.” It’s the third one of these break-ins over the past two days in midtown alone. The only thing taken has been antibiotics.”

  �
��Thanks.” She faced the camera and said, “More later. Stay tuned.” As she spoke several other reporters arrived and started asking questions.

  “How about some coffee at my place?” Kyle suggested. “Probably too late to get back to sleep.”

  “Thanks, but I need to retrieve my car before it’s too late,” Owen said. “I’ll leave you two to your own devices.” He winked at Kyle. It was a good thing Camellia didn’t catch that.

  “I make the best coffee in town,” Kyle said as he took Camellia’s arm and encouraged her to head east with him.

  “I should go home,” she objected. But she was curious about his condo, so it was a feeble objection, and he knew it.

  The condo was at the end of the street. It was a four-story building constructed in the early 1930’s with art deco features including low-relief decorative panels around the windows and entrance. “What a great building!” Camellia exclaimed.

  “Glad it meets with your approval. I’m on the top floor. Stairs or elevator?”

  “Stairs. I don’t deal well with elevators. In fact, I can’t deal with them at all. I got locked by myself in a miniscule elevator in Sicily for over two hours a few years ago, and I didn’t even like tight spaces before that. Anyhow, stairs are good exercise.” She didn’t mention having been cooped up in a dark basement so many years ago.

  The living room had opaque glass blocks from floor to ceiling on one wall. Another wall was covered in mirrors. The fixtures were chrome. Kyle’s furniture had simple lines that fit well with the room’s art deco decor. There was a floor to ceiling bookcase with books squeezed sideways on top of the ones aligned vertically. A few more books lay on the coffee table with a paper airplane on top of them. The condo was arranged railroad style with the dining room behind the living room and the kitchen behind that. There were two bedrooms and two baths on the other side of the entry hall.

  They headed into the kitchen. ‘You look beat,” Kyle said as he made some coffee.

  She dropped onto a chair. “Gee, Thanks.”

  “Beautiful but beat. How about taking a nap after we have coffee and a Danish. My bed is only a queen, but you’re welcome to it.”

  She tilted her head. “I’m not going to take that as a proposition.” Am I? she wondered. No, this was clearly not a man she would be able to toss aside the way she had many others. And her preference was to do just that. She would continue to keep her distance. Somehow. If she could.

  “You certainly can if you’d like, but I really do think you need some rest.” He couldn’t think of anything he’d like more than to get her into his bed and join her there. Considering her look of indecision he thought he was probably making progress in that direction. “Is there some reason why you’re so tired apart from me waking you up at an ungodly hour?”

  She wasn’t going to tell him about the skull and crossbones. It had caused a nightmare that woke her up at 2:00 and made it hard for her to get back to sleep. “Just all this Mystery Fever stuff. It’s so hard to keep the public from panicking. Now I need to tell people the rumor that antibiotics will cure it is a real case of fake news.”

  He came over and put a cup of coffee on the table in front of her and added a Danish. “I’m not going to have to force feed you, am I?”

  “You’re forgetting my special skill set. My trainer told me I’m so good I could take down pretty much anyone.” She picked up the Danish and took such a huge bite that she nearly choked.

  “I see you’ve missed the buttons again,” he said. Before she could move away, he reached behind her and quickly dealt with the top two.

  Hah, she thought to herself. Too tired to react.

  “You really must be tired,” he said.

  So, he has me figured out, she decided. She took a last bite of Danish, finished her coffee and stood up. “I’m out of here. Got to go home and decide what I’m going to say tonight if I survive that long.”

  “I’ll call a cab,” he said reluctantly. “Take a nap,” he added. “By yourself. This time.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  LATER THE SAME DAY

  KYLE’S OFFICE

  COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

  THERE WAS A LOUD RAP ON THE DOOR FRAME, and Anatoly Volkov barged into Kyle’s office. He wore boots, jeans and a bright yellow button-down shirt. Putting down a wooden rocking horse, he rushed over to Kyle who barely had time to stand up before he was crushed in a fervent bear hug. “Good to see you, my friend,” Anatoly said.

  Kyle looked at the toy and smiled. He knew he couldn’t turn it down, so he said, “Thanks. Nice of you to remember. Sit down and tell me all about your collaboration with Princeton.”

  Anatoly looked at the two chairs across from Kyle’s desk. “I say you need bigger chairs for Russians.”

  Kyle laughed. “You mean gigantic Russians.”

  “You also will laugh here,” Anatoly said. “With Princeton we brought two 42,000 year old roundworms back to life.”

  “Wow!”

  “Da. Dug them up from permafrost. We put samples in petri dish, stored below freezing, then raised temperature to 20 degrees Celsius for several weeks. Lady worms started to move, started to eat.”

  “That’s fascinating,” Kyle said. “Not that we’d want a lot of roundworms coming back to life. Those parasites can cause all kinds of health problems. Sure makes you wonder what else will come to life with more thawing.”

  “We leave worms here, right?” Anatoly said. “You Americans take care of them.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Something else. Some people now think there is possibility the boy killed by anthrax came from defrosted human bodies in Nenets local cemetery. Well, to me, I still think come from dead reindeer.”

  “Either way we know the unprecedented heat wave could increase permafrost thawing in cemeteries and elsewhere, and release anthrax spores into the air and ground with death the result,” Kyle observed.

  “How go it with lovely lady?” he asked. “I think you maybe like her.”

  “You Russians are too smart,” Kyle answered.

  “If you change mind can give her to me. I treat her like queen. Maybe I give her some of the three dozen 30,000 year old white tundra flowers recovered from 125 feet deep permafrost. We sprout seedlings in nutrient rich test tubes. They grow into fruit-bearing flowers. Good, yes?”

  “Interesting,” Kyle said. “You could give me the flowers for her. Just don’t revive poison ivy. It’s already growing larger and stronger with more CO2 in the air. The oil is supercharged now.”

  “Just make joke about your Camellia,” Anatoly said. “Maybe she has sister?”

  “With three kids,” Kyle informed him.

  Anatoly laughed then turned serious. “There is still something more. I’m hearing rumors about some American government person going around.”

  “Rumors?”

  “Da. I hear he’s connected with new oil and gas company I mentioned in Moscow. Don’t know more than that.”

  “Thanks. Not sure what, if anything, I can do with that. How about lunch?”

  Anatoly was enthusiastic. “Always hungry. You know big body to feed. Let’s go. On me. I owe you for getting me out of hole and saving me. You not let me pay at Piccolino.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  SAME DAY

  AFTERNOON

  DOROTHY HARDIN’S CONDO

  THIS TIME CAMELLIA WAS MORE CURIOUS THAN CONCERNED ABOUT SEEING KYLE’S MOTHER. She was tired from lack of sleep and bruised from the attack but wasn’t about to let that slow her down. Dorothy opened the door and Camellia entered, holding a bag of cherry tomatoes. “From my garden,” she said. “Thanks for inviting me back.”

  “These look wonderful. Thank you. I’m glad you could make it,” Dorothy replied. “Let’s go into the kitchen. It’s less formal.”

  She led the way into a room decorated as a farm style kitchen with appliances that looked like they had been in use back around 1
900 but were in fact expensive copies. Massive beams the ceiling, brought in from an abandoned farm. The kitchen table was an early 20th century pine slab. Tall windows at the back of the room overlooked the river.

  Dorothy set the table with handmade stoneware plates holding sandwiches made of organic whole wheat bread and imported Swiss cheese. She put the tomatoes in a dish and placed it next to the rest of the food.

  “Iced tea, lemonade, water or perhaps a glass of wine?” she asked as Camellia sat down in a chair that offered a view of the river.

  “Iced tea would be fine,” she replied. “With caffeine please. I had to get up too early.”

  Dorothy picked up a pitcher of tea, poured some in a glass, added ice from a silver bucket and handed it to Camellia. “I wanted to talk to you about setting up a non-profit to focus primarily on pollinator loss but also on what’s happening to endangered birds,” she said.

  Camellia nodded. “I’ve been thinking about it. “If you have contacts that can work out the details, I’m willing to put seven million into it.”

  Dorothy sat down. She was surprised. “That much? It’s really generous of you.”

  “No problem. NIP keeps raising my salary. As long as I make their male viewers happy that will probably remain the case.” Camellia picked up a sandwich and put it on her plate. “I gather some women watch to be able to tweet about how slutty I look.” She shrugged. “Then again, some email me to ask where they can buy clothes like mine. I have a hunch they belong to the world’s oldest profession. It’s a crazy world. But I guess maybe I do go a little too far. At least your son thinks so.”

  “He doesn’t want other men getting the wrong idea,” Dorothy said.

  “Well, anyhow, I donate whatever I don’t need that isn’t slutty to an organization that provides clothing for abused women who are looking for a job.”