Plague: A gripping suspense thriller about an incurable outbreak in Miami

by Graham Masterton

  ‘I need to be lucky, if Firenza won’t close the beaches.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Anton. I did try. He’s still telling the press that it’s containable and localized, and that we’re all going to wake up in the morning and discover it was nothing more than a nasty dream.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘I’m going after Prickles now,’ Dr. Petrie said. ‘I don’t know where Margaret’s taken her, but maybe if she’s sick she’s gone home. It shouldn’t take long.’

  ‘Will you come back here, just as soon as you can? I need every bit of help I can get. Joe Mamiya is making some tests on the bacillus, but it’s going to take him a long time to come up with anything positive.’

  ‘Anton – I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  Dr. Petrie put the phone back in its cradle, and went back to his car. On the far sidewalk, he saw a man shuffling and staggering along, leaning against parked cars for support. The man suddenly stopped, and his head jerked back. Then he dropped to his knees, and fell face first on to the concrete. He lay there muttering and twitching, his cheeks bruised and pale, his right leg nervously shuddering.

  Dr. Petrie walked across the road and knelt down beside him.

  ‘I’m a doctor,’ he said. ‘Do you feel bad?’

  The man turned his bloodshot eyes upwards to look at him. ‘I’m dying,’ he muttered hoarsely. ‘I got that disease, and I’m dying.’

  ‘Do you want anything? A drink maybe?’

  The man closed his eyes.

  Dr. Petrie stayed beside him for a few minutes, then the man opened his eyes again.

  ‘It hurts so bad,’ he whispered. ‘It hurts me in my guts. In my balls. It’s like someone’s eating me up alive.’

  ‘Don’t worry. The pain will soon be over.’

  ‘I’m dying, doc.’

  ‘Leonard, my name’s Leonard.’

  The man, his face pressed against the rough sidewalk, tried to smile. There was a cold wreath of sweat around his forehead, and his face was now a ghastly white.

  ‘Leonard…’ he whispered.

  Dr. Petrie took out his handkerchief and wiped the man’s forehead. He turned him over, and tried to make him as comfortable as he could. He checked the pulse, and the rate of respiration, and it was quite obvious there was nothing he could do. The man would be dead in a matter of minutes.

  The man opened his eyes one last time. He looked up at the night sky as if it was something he had never seen before, and then he turned his gaze back to Dr. Petrie. He stared at him for a long time, and then, in a small, quiet voice, he said, ‘Leonard?’

  Dr. Petrie said gently, ‘Don’t try to talk. Just lie still.’

  ‘Thank you, Leonard.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing to thank me for. Now, stay still. It won’t hurt so bad if you’re still.’

  The man reached out with cold sweaty fingers and took Dr. Petrie’s hand in his. He attempted a squeeze of friendship.

  ‘Thanks for – thanks for—’

  Dr. Petrie was going to answer, but it was too late. The man was dead. He released his hand, and stood up. He thought about going back to Firenza’s house, and telling the police that the body was lying here, but then he considered that the police had enough bodies to pick up, and that they’d spot this one soon enough. Maybe it was better for his freshly-dead acquaintance to spend a last night in the open, under the night sky, then be shoveled straight away into the back of a garbage truck.

  He went back to the Lincoln, climbed in and slammed the door. He felt physically and morally drained. For a moment, he held up his hands in front of him, and imagined they were teeming with infected bacilli. The enemy was invisible and endlessly malevolent, and so far there was no way of fighting back.

  Dr. Petrie released the brake, and turned the car east. There was no future in thinking things like that. Right now, it was Prickles he wanted. A safe, healthy, and happy Prickles.

  He joined the North-South Expressway and drove up towards North Miami Beach at nearly seventy miles an hour. The ocean was turning pale misty blue on his right, and the sky was growing lighter. The clock in the car reminded him that it was nearly dawn, and that he hadn’t slept all night. There was hardly any other traffic at all, and several times he had to pull out to overtake abandoned cars.

  It was almost light by the time he pulled up outside the white ranch-style house with the stunted palms. He shut the car door with a bang and strode across the lawn. There were no lights in the house, but Margaret’s cream-colored Cutlass was parked in the car port. He went up to the frosted-glass front door and rang the bell.

  There was no answer. He rang again and again, and shouted, ‘Margaret! Margaret -are you in there? Margaret, it’s Len!’

  He tried to peer in through the sitting-room window, but it was too dark to make anything out. He went around the side of the house and tried the side door, but it was locked and bolted. He banged on it a couple of times and shouted his wife’s name, but again there was no reply.

  Dr. Petrie was just walking back across the lawn towards his car when he turned and saw a bedroom curtain move upstairs. The window opened and Prickles leaned out.

  ‘Daddy,’ she called, with a serious frown.

  ‘Prickles! Listen, give me a couple of minutes and I’ll get you out of there.’

  ‘I didn’t want to go but Mommy said I had to. Daddy, I’m frightened. Mommy says she’s sick. Daddy, I’m real frightened.’

  Dr. Petrie was still standing there when the front door opened. It was Margaret. She was very pale, and she was wearing a red flowery wrap. It gave him an odd sensation to see her there, because she was at once so familiar and so hostile. There was the same bird’s-wing sweep of dark hair; the same wide-apart eyes; the same tight mouth; the same long angular nose. But there was something else as well – a blank stare of bitter resentment and dislike.

  ‘Margaret?’ said Dr. Petrie, walking back across the lawn towards her. ‘Are you all right? Prickles said you were sick.’

  Margaret attempted a smile.

  ‘I have been unwell, Leonard. If that interests you.’

  Dr. Petrie pointed up to the bedroom window. ‘Why did you take her back? I thought you were going to Fort Lauderdale to see your mother.’

  Margaret was holding the door so tight that her knuckles were white.

  ‘So you care about her when it suits you,’ she said slurrily.

  ‘Look Margaret – are you sick, or what? What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘I’m fine, now. I was a little under the weather, but I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t look fine. You look terrible.’

  Margaret laughed, humorlessly. ‘You don’t look so good yourself. Now, why don’t you just get out of here and leave us alone.’

  Dr. Petrie went right up to the door. But before he could push his way in, Margaret closed it, and latched the security chain. She peered at him through the four-inch gap that was left, like a suspicious animal in its darkened den.

  He tried to force the door, but it wouldn’t budge.

  ‘Margaret,’ he warned. ‘Open this door.’

  ‘You’re not coming in, Leonard. I won’t let you. Just go away and leave us alone.’

  ‘Margaret, you’re sick. You don’t know what you’re saying. You could have the plague. There are people dying in the streets. I’ve seen them.’

  ‘Go away, Leonard! We can manage without you!’

  Dr. Petrie slammed his shoulder against the door. The security chain was wrenched in its screws, but it stayed firm.

  ‘Margaret – you’re sick! For Christ’s sake, think of Prickles! If you’re sick, then she’s going to get sick, and that could mean that both of you die!’

  Margaret tried to close the door completely, but Dr. Petrie kept his foot jammed in it, and wouldn’t let her.

  He was so busy trying to wrench the door open that he didn’t hear the car stop in the road, or see the two men walking slowly across the lawn towards him. It was on
ly when Margaret looked up, and the cop said, ‘Okay, Superman, what’s going on here?’ that he realized what was happening.

  The policemen looked tired and hard-faced. One of them was standing a little way back, with his hand on the butt of his gun. The other was right up behind him, with his arms akimbo. They both wore sunglasses, and they both had knotted handkerchiefs around their necks, ready to pull over their nose and mouth in case of plague duty.

  Dr. Petrie pushed back his hair from his forehead. He knew how disreputable he must look after a whole night without sleep. He said weakly, ‘This is my house. I mean, this was my house.’

  ‘This was your house?’ said the cop. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘This was my house and this lady was my wife. We were having a slight argument. That’s all.’

  The cop strained his eyes to see Margaret standing in the shadows of the hall.

  ‘Is this true, ma’am?’

  Margaret sounded so different that Dr. Petrie could hardly believe it was the same person. Instead of speaking harshly and bitterly, she was like a pathetic little girl, all weak and heartbroken and begging for sympathy.

  ‘I was only trying to reason with him, officer. He went crazy. Look, he broke the door. He went absolutely crazy. He said he was going to beat me up, and take my little girl away.’

  Dr. Petrie stared in amazement. ‘But – this is preposterous – I was—’

  The cop reached down, and calmly attached a handcuff to Dr. Petrie’s wrist. ‘I have to advise you of your rights,’ he said. ‘You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to—’

  ‘I didn’t do anything!’ snapped Dr. Petrie. ‘My wife came around to my place and took my little girl without my permission. Now she’s sick with the plague and she won’t let me take my daughter back. For God’s sake, look at her! She’s sick with the plague! If you take me away, my daughter’s going to catch it and die! Don’t you understand that?’

  The second cop was opening the police car doors.

  The first cop said, ‘Listen, sir, we’ve all had a very trying time recently with this epidemic. You know what I mean? I picked up a guy for breaking in a TV store just half-an-hour ago. He said his old granny was dying of sickness, and he wanted to make her last hours happy by letting her watch TV. It’s an emergency situation. Lots of people are trying to take advantage of it. Now, let’s go, huh?’

  Dr. Petrie said, ‘I don’t suppose it would make any difference if I told you I was a doctor?’

  The cop pushed him into the car and sat down beside him. The second cop settled himself down behind the steering wheel, and pulled away from the kerb, siren whooping and lights ablaze.

  ‘You’re a doctor, huh?’ answered the cop, after a while. ‘Well, maybe you ought to be out there healing some of these sick people, instead of bothering your ex-wife.’

  Dr. Petrie said nothing. The police car squealed on to the North-South Expressway, and sped downtown.

  They took his money, his keys and his necktie, and locked him in an open-barred cell with two black looters and a drunk. He was exhausted, and he lay on the rough gray blanket of his bed, and slept without dreams for four hours.

  It was eleven o’clock when he woke up, feeling cramped and sore but slightly more human. The drunk had gone, and the two negroes were left by themselves, murmuring quietly to each other.

  He sat up, and rubbed his face. There was a small basin in the corner of the cell, and he splashed cold water over himself, and wiped himself dry with his handkerchief.

  He went to the bars and looked out, but there was no sign of anyone. Nothing but a gray-painted corridor, and a smell of body odor and carbolic soap. He turned around to the blacks.

  ‘What do you have to do to get some service around here?’

  The blacks stared at him briefly, and then went back to their conversation.

  ‘I’m a doctor,’ Petrie insisted, ‘and I want to get out of here.’

  The blacks started at him again. One of them grinned, and shook his head.

  ‘They don’t let nobody out today, man. It’s emergency regulations. Anyway, if things don’t get much better out there on the streets, maybe you safer where you at.’

  Dr. Petrie nodded. ‘You’re probably right. But what do I have to do to get some attention?’

  The other black said, ‘This ain’t the Doral-on-the-Ocean, man. This is the Slammer-in-the-City.’

  They both laughed, then resumed their talk.

  Dr. Petrie went to the bars and shouted, ‘Guard!’

  The blacks stopped talking again and watched him.

  He waited for a while, and then shouted, ‘Guard! Guard! Let me out of here!’

  A few more minutes passed, and then a young policeman with rimless spectacles came down the corridor jangling a bunch of keys.

  ‘You Dr. Petrie?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right. I want to see my lawyer.’

  ‘You don’t have to. You’re free to leave.’

  The guard unlocked the cell, and Dr. Petrie stepped out. One of the blacks said, ‘So long, honky, have a nice day,’ and the other laughed.

  Dr. Petrie was ushered back to the police station desk, where the two arresting officers had brought him that morning. Adelaide was there, with dark rings under her eyes. She was still wearing the buttermilk-colored dress in which he had picked her up last night.

  ‘Leonard – are you all right? Oh God, I was so worried.’

  She came up and held him close, and he was so relieved to feel her and see her that he felt tears prickling in his eyes.

  The desk sergeant said, ‘When you’ve quite finished the love tableau, would you mind signing for these personal possessions?’

  Dr. Petrie signed. ‘Listen,’ he told Adelaide, as he tied his necktie, ‘I have to get back to the hospital. I promised Dr. Selmer.’

  ‘It was Dr. Selmer who told me you were missing,’ Adelaide said. He called at the house to see if you were there. When I said you weren’t, he called the police, and they found out that you were here. I came straight over.’

  ‘Have they closed the beaches yet?’ he asked her, as they walked out of the tinted glass doors of the police station into the brilliant mid-morning sunlight.

  ‘Not yet. The news says that it’s serious, this plague, but that people mustn’t get too worried. But it doesn’t make sense. What the newspapers are saying, and the TV, it doesn’t seem to tie up at all. I’ve seen people sick in the streets, and yet they keep saying there’s nothing wrong.’

  Dr. Petrie looked around. The sky was its usual imperturbable blue, flecked with shadowy white clouds. But the city was quiet. There were only a few cars, and they seemed to be rolling around the city streets in a strange dream. Some of them were piled high with possessions – chairs, tables and mattresses – and it was obvious that the few people who had realized what was going on were getting out as quick as they could.

  The sidewalks – usually crowded with shoppers and tourists – were almost empty. People who needed to go for food or drink were hurrying back to their cars and avoiding strangers like—

  Like the plague, thought Dr. Petrie bitterly.

  ‘Have you seen any bodies?’ he asked Adelaide.

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve heard though,’ she said quietly. ‘I caught a taxi, and the taxi-driver said he’d seen people lying on the ground, dead.’

  ‘I saw a whole family last night,’ Dr. Petrie said. ‘It was awful. They were just lying on the sidewalk. I can’t understand how Donald Firenza has kept this under wraps for so long.’

  ‘Are you going back to the hospital?’ Adelaide asked.

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s too risky. The hospital is full of infection. I don’t know why on earth I haven’t caught the plague yet but Dr. Selmer reckons that a few people could be immune. Maybe I’m one of them.’

  Adelaide held his arm. ‘Maybe? Leona
rd – what if you go to the hospital and – well, what if I never see you again?’ She looked away.

  ‘Adelaide, I’m a doctor. This city is dying around us. Look at it. Have you ever seen downtown Miami as quiet as this on a Tuesday lunchtime? I have to find out what’s going on, and I have to help.’

  ‘Leonard, I’m not leaving you. Not again. I’ve just spent the most frightening night of my life, waiting for you to come back, and I’m not going to let it happen again.’

  A cab was parked at the corner. The driver, a squat middle-aged man in a straw hat, was calmly smoking a cigar and sunning himself as he leaned against the trunk.

  Dr. Petrie walked over, holding Adelaide’s hand, and said, ‘Will you take me to the hospital?’

  The taxi driver looked him up and down. ‘You sick?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’m a doctor.’

  The man reached behind him and opened the door. ‘That’ll be forty bucks,’ he said, without taking the cigar out of his mouth.

  ‘Forty bucks? What are you talking about? That’s a two-dollar ride at the most.’

  The taxi driver slammed the door shut again. ‘That’s the price. Forty bucks or no trip.’

  Dr. Petrie said firmly, ‘Come on, Adelaide. We’ll find ourselves a cab driver with some goddamned morality.’

  The taxi driver was unfazed. ‘Mister,’ he said, ‘you can search all day. All the moral cab drivers have taken their taxis and headed north. So has anyone else who’s realized what the hell’s going on in this town.’

  Dr. Petrie reached for his wallet and peeled off three ten-dollar bills. ‘Here’s thirty. Take me down to the hospital, and you’ll get the other ten. But don’t think for one moment that I enjoy paying money to a flake like you.’

  The taxi driver tucked the cash in his shirt pocket, and opened the car door. They climbed in, and the driver performed a wide U-turn, and drove them downtown to the hospital.

  ‘I seen fifty, sixty people dead in the streets,’ said the driver conversationally, puffing on his cigar. ‘I came out for my roster this morning, and I couldn’t believe it. You know what they said on the radio? It’s a kind of an influenza, and that it’s all going to be over by the end of the week. Nothing to get excited about. You think fifty or sixty stiffs is nothing to get excited about?’