by Rob Horner
He stalled for a second, surprised she hadn’t agreed with him, which would only have fed his current argument or complaint, whatever it was. “They’re reporting it as separate incidences, but only a fool would believe they’re not related. On one hand, you got an explosion at a factory outside of Atlanta, and on the other there’s some rash of sickness wrapping all around the city and spreading out in every direction, east more than any other.”
“So, this way?”
He nodded. “Doctors are calling it like a nasty stomach bug, except those don’t kill people.”
“Is the news reporting the deaths?”
He shook his head. “Not like you would think. That’s what’s strange and why I think we can’t trust the media. Not just about the president,” he hastened to add. “They’ve got witnesses testifying about how family members are going into the hospitals and not coming out, or how their local emergency room is overcrowded with sick people, but they’re only using witnesses with Southern accents deeper than flies on a honeycomb, Laird ha’mercy.”
Tina giggled.
“So of course, their reports are looked at with about the same credibility as the toothless wonder who proclaims dem ali-ans took him up inna da sky.”
“And no one’s putting the pieces together?” she asked.
“Not a one.”
“What about Fox?”
Bill waved his hand. “You know how it goes; they won’t say ‘Criss’ until the other outlets all say ‘Cross.’” Fox is good for playing spoiler to whatever narrative the rest are trying to spin, but not for anything original. Right now, they’re playing in line with everyone else. ‘This is a sudden illness. Widespread contagion. Like a bad stomach flu. Stay indoors and wash your hands.’”
“It’s a lot worse than a bad stomach bug,” Tina said. Bill started to ask something, but Tina continued, “Make us some coffee and I’ll tell you about it.”
* * * * *
When Dr. Adam Crews climbed out of the minivan, he’d given a deep sigh of relief. It was good to be home. Running a hand through his short hair, a holdover from his military days he’d never been able to outgrow, he hurried up the sidewalk to the front door. His left forearm ached miserably from where Rose slammed it against a counter in Med-Surg moments before their escape.
Might just be a deep contusion, he thought. Of course, it might also be a cracked radius or ulna. The ache increased when he flexed the fingers of his left hand, but not unbearably. No tendon damage, at least.
The possibility the infection had spread outside the hospital never occurred to him. Certainly, they hadn’t seen any evidence of it in the short drive from the hospital to the EMS building, then to his house. No, whatever it was had to be a fluke. Once the sun was up and the police did their thing, there’d be an “all clear,” followed by a “please return to work.” He could be in real trouble for leaving the hospital like he did, regardless of the circumstances. He had patients in his care, and he’d bailed on them, caught up in the fear and urgency of a mob mentality.
Adam shrugged away the explanation. He knew what he’d seen, and mob mentality didn’t close to describing the insanity and chaos of the emergency room. But he had to think like a lawyer, because that’s who’d be coming after him if they were going to go after anyone. He was a doctor, and he was on-shift. What could have made him abandon his patients?
Funny how no one talked about a doctor’s responsibility to his patients or the hospital in a situation like this. Mass casualties and natural disasters occurred all the time. With the rapid deterioration of societal norms and the propensity for crazy people to want to showcase their madness on social media, it happened more often now than at any time in history. It should at least be a lecture topic in Medical School rather than left to each doctor to figure out when their world turned inside out.
Shaking his head, Dr. Crews unlocked the door and stepped into the house. Long years of habit made him turn to the right to disarm the blinking security system.
“Oh, you’re home early,” a soft voice said from behind.
Adam turned to see Libby, bleary-eyed and fuzzy-haired but as beautiful to him as the day they met.
He pulled her to him, relishing the feel of her head nestling against his chest.
“Okay,” she said, “you’re being too sweet. What did you do?”
The question was a joke, but there was worry behind it.
“Where are the twins?” he asked.
She sighed against him, drawing in a deep breath. “Well, you know—” she began. It was going to be one of her patented fabricated responses, designed to show off her creativity and get a laugh out of him. He needed to stop her. They didn’t have time to waste. Or maybe, since she was home and safe, there was nothing to worry about. “—since you were going to be out all night, I just let them have a pot and booze bender in their bedroom.”
“Libby,” he said, chuckling, “they’re only seven.”
“Oh, is that all?” she replied, looking up at him.
Smiling, he lowered his face to hers, indulging in a lingering kiss.
“See,” she said, “it’s not that hard to do this once in a while. Maybe we can add a third—”
Adam wanted to let her finish the thought. He wanted to let her hands roam and give her the same attention.
But she hadn’t answered his question. And though she might be acting forward now, it wasn’t in her nature to be so aggressive, not in a public space, not when one or both of the boys might come down at any time and catch them.
“Where are they?”
“They’re safe. They’re fine,” she replied, kissing his neck. “They won’t interrupt us.”
A dread crept through Adam’s body, beginning in his heart and spreading like a freezing mist, cooling his rising ardor. He placed his hands on her shoulders, gripping firmly enough so she’d know he wasn’t in the mood for any more games.
“Lib, I’m sorry, but I have to know. Something really bad happened tonight, and I just…I need to know they’re okay.”
She sighed. “Okay, but you’re going to owe me a big rain check for turning me down like this. It’s not that often we get the house to ourselves—” Libby looked up at him, really looked, and saw the fear in his eyes. “You know the homeschool co-op moms have been talking about a sleepover rotation, right? We talked about it. You said you were okay with it.”
“Where?”
“The Carpenters. Jody’s hosting. There are six or seven kids hanging out in their finished basement. I even arranged for us to not to have to pick Chris and Carlton up until after breakfast. Figured I’d get a good night’s sleep then we could…you know…when you got home.”
She tried again to be seductive, soft fingers running over his neck and down his chest.
“Call them,” he said, capturing her hands in his. “Call them, please. Make sure everyone’s all right.”
“I…it’s so late. Are you sure?”
“Please. Just make sure. Then…maybe we can—”
“You drive a hard bargain, mister,” Libby said, but her heart wasn’t in the admonishment. She loved her husband and wanted nothing more than to spend some time with him without the incessant chatter of two over-active and intelligent boys. If it took making a phone call and possibly ticking off her fellow homeschool mom to make him feel better, she’d gladly do it.
There was no answer on the first try, just five rings then the familiar tones of voicemail.
Libby left a brief message, then immediately tried the call again.
The second result was the same as the first, except there were seven rings as the voicemail system reset.
Libby rummaged for the notepad she kept on the counter, locating Paul Carpenter’s number. Every mom hosting a sleepover had to give their husband’s cell number as well as their own, for safety reasons. Libby never expected to be the mom to need them first.
Paul’s phone rang and rang, but then it, too, went to voicemail.
; “That’s funny,” Libby said. “Neither of them is answering.”
Dr. Crews turned left, moving through the kitchen to the attached garage. He grabbed a set of car keys from the small pegboard set just inside the kitchen.
“Wait,” Libby said. “Let me throw something on. I’m coming with you.” She noticed he kept his left arm close to his body. “Maybe you can tell me what happened to your arm on the way.”
Chapter 10
Caitlin’s smartphone vibrated in the pocket of her scrubs as she followed Buck into the small EMS station. She itched to check it, to see if her dad had left any new information after his first, cryptic text a few hours before.
Drop what you’re doing. Come to DC.
Even his text messages sounded like direct orders.
She may have been living as far out from under the thumb of General Boyles as she could get for the past five years, but that didn’t change anything. She’d built her life around a core of discipline and honesty, and a huge part of that was her love of family and respect for her father. Even if she didn’t want to live a military life, she’d been raised in one.
The first text came during the harrowing flight through the hospital. It couldn’t be coincidence.
Following Buck, they entered the station. The text message could wait.
The EMS station wasn’t much, just a small, square building with a large garage, a room with a couple of cots, a break room, locker room with his and hers showers, a supply closet, and the radio room.
They came in through a small portal beside the rolled down garage door. After the last few hours in the dark hospital, she expected more of the same, but the garage was well-lit and spacious.
“All the trucks are out,” Buck observed. His deep voice sounded resigned, maybe a little defeated. Of course, he was hoping his fellow EMTs were somewhere safe.
“They could be locked down at another hospital,” she offered, then regretted it. Being locked down didn’t mean safe or out of danger. They had their own recent nightmare as proof.
He sighed, rolling his massive shoulders. “Let’s get to the radio room. Maybe I can contact someone.”
The garage opened onto the supply closet, a narrow, walk-through room with floor to ceiling shelves on each side.
“You could just about stock our ER from here,” she said.
“Pretty much,” Buck agreed. “The only thing we’re missing is clean sheets. You guys get the laundry service. We just restock from you.”
“Don’t I know it?”
The shelves were filled with plastic bins of all sizes which held an assortment of prepackaged items from IV start kits to debrillator pads, disposable syringes, needle tips in every gauge, bags of saline and Lactated Ringer’s solution, even pediatric pulse-oxygenation adhesive strips. There were bunches of vacuum blood tubes rubber-banded together in “rainbow” groupings sitting beside the separate hubs and adapters necessary to use an IV catheter to draw blood before connecting a fluid line. The only thing missing were the routine medications stocked on EMS trucks, antiemetics and aspirin, epinephrine and other cardiac resuscitation drugs.
“Those are kept in a locked cabinet in the break room,” Buck said when Caitlin asked. “Have to document when you use them and replace only what’s needed.”
“What about your narcs?”
“Also under lock and key. Those require us to call ahead for permission to administer them, and we have to get a doc to sign off once we deliver the patient to the hospital.”
Caitlin nodded. She’d heard the calls on the radio and had taken the form to the doctors a dozen times in the past week alone.
Past the supply closet was the collection of round tables and plastic chairs which made up the break room and constituted the center of the small building. Other doors opened off to the cramped sleeping area, the locker rooms, and the radio room.
Just like the garage, all the lights were on, but it didn’t seem as though anyone was home.
“It’s weird,” Buck said. “Even with all the trucks out, there should be more cars in the lot outside, and Jerry should definitely be here.”
“Jerry?”
“He’s the dispatcher this evening.”
The break room was clean, with no signs of a disturbance. The chairs stood upright; the tables were uncluttered; there was no blood, vomit, or any other body fluid visible on floor or walls.
“It’s like everyone just left,” Buck said.
A thump and a low moan accompanied his last statement, as though someone heard him and wanted to prove him wrong.
Caitlin pivoted toward a door at the far end of the break room, .380 in hand and coming up in a shooter’s grip.
Buck pulled the pistol he’d picked up when Dr. Crews dropped it, then remembered it was empty. Grinning sheepishly, he stuffed the gun back into the cargo pocket on the side of his pants leg. “Guess I’ll have to use these again,” he said, removing the brass knuckles from a different pocket.
“Eew,” Caitlin said. “You could at least wipe the blood off, first.”
Buck stifled a laugh.
The thump didn’t repeat, but the low moan did.
“It’s sounds like—” Caitlin began.
“Words,” Buck finished. “Cover me.”
He stepped forward, a tall slab of muscle barely constrained by the tight-fitting paramedic shirt. His right hand fisted in the brass knuckles as his left reached for the door.
The door opened into a narrow room—little more than a closet, really—which held a counter and a single stool. A computer and radio equipment dominated the counter space, but what caught their attention was what lay on the floor—a bloody mess of a man with his outer shirt ripped and torn and his knees drawn up in a defensive posture.
“Jerry!” Buck said, throwing the door wide and hurrying in, caution forgotten in the instinctive drive to help a friend.
The man responded, cutting off another low moan. His head turned to the sound of Buck’s voice and Caitlin gasped. His face was…missing. Well, almost. There was a lot of blood obscuring his features, but what she could see looked as though large swathes of skin had been ripped away. Strange furrows in the underlying flesh drew images of teeth scraping from forehead to chin. Worse were the glistening, pulsing ropes of blackness wringing the man’s neck as though strangling him.
“Buck—” she said softly.
“I know. I see them,” he whispered back at her.
The big man twisted in the small room, turning sideways to the door. It might be taken as trying to give himself better access to the downed radio operator, but Caitlin saw it differently. He was turning to give her a clear shot, if she needed it. His right leg spread back toward the doorway, a good fulcrum if he needed to move fast.
“Jerry? It’s me. It’s Buck. What happened to you?”
Caitlin nodded. This was good. Get the story. Don’t try to help him. Those ropes meant he was already infected with…whatever it was. He was as good as dead.
She hated thinking this way about an injured man, but she’d already seen too many of her friends go crazy. They all had the lines, too.
Her smartphone buzzed again, a minute vibration against her thigh. She ignored it.
“Buck?” he asked. His head wasn’t pointed straight at the large paramedic, but instead turned a bit, like he was focusing more with his ears than his eyes. “I thought I was going to die in here,” he wailed.
“What happened?”
“It was awful…just…awful. Bobby and Dallas came back from a run. Bobby was…upset…or something. Mad as hell about some old lady scratching him and needing to go to the hospital for blood work. Bobby hates needles, you know. Dallas went out on another call. Said he’d come back for Bobby afterward but…he never did. Least I haven’t seen him.”
The head turned, bloody face seeking. “Why can’t I see, Buck? My eyes hurt so I know they’re still there. Is it all the blood?”
Caitlin’s heart shriveled at the piteous questio
n. Hurry up, Buck, so we can put him out of his misery.
“There’s a lot of blood, Jerry,” Buck said.
“It was Bobby, o’ course. He just got madder and madder, stomping around out there. I thought…maybe I could distract him a little, bring him in here. It worked for a little while. I couldn’t raise you or Danny on the horn, and there were more and more calls comin’ in and fewer and fewer people answering. Spartanburg Regional called a deferment, and so did Mary Black. Gaffney was in lockdown, according to the police.”
“I was there,” Buck said.
“Yeah, well, then Tanner and Joe came in, but without their truck. Joe was limping and cussing just like Bobby, only he said a kid bit him on the leg. Can you believe it?”
Buck nodded. Then he remembered Jerry couldn’t see him. “Yeah, I believe it.”
“Not me, you know. Bobby, he…he changed, Buck. Right in front of me. He rushed out at Tanner and completely ignored Joe. And the weird thing is, Joe goes all ape-shit as well, only he comes tearing in here at me. I heard a car starting, but that’s it. Then Joe was all over me, hitting. I think…Buck, I think he bit my face. But that doesn’t make any sense, right? Aside from Mike Tyson, who goes biting someone else’s face?”
Buck didn’t have an answer, and Caitlin didn’t want to say anything.
“S’ok, though,” Jerry added. “Eyes don’t even hurt so much, anymore. Like maybe talking it out made things better.”
His head lolled forward against his chest.
“Buck!” Caitlin hissed.
He began backing away, which might have been a funny sight under other circumstances, a huge six-foot five guy crouched down and duckwalking backward to get out of a tight space.
He wasn’t fast enough.
Jerry’s face came up and he lunged forward, arms out to grab, mouth open wide to bite.
Buck yelled as he fell over backward.
And Jerry kept coming.
He wasn’t trying to bite Buck, just pawing and pulling like the big man was a speed bump on the road, something to get over and get past.