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

by Graham Masterton

  Ivor Glantz washed a mouthful of food down with whiskey. ‘To some people,’ he said, ‘this plague is a blessing.’

  Dr. Petrie frowned. ‘What do you mean by that? I mean – who could ever benefit from a disaster like this?’

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised. Our next-door neighbor is Kenneth Garunisch from the Medical Workers’ Union. He’s been pressing for more pay for his members, because of the dangers of treating plague victims. Then there’s Herbert Gaines. You remember Herbert Gaines – the actor? Well, he lives upstairs. He’s gotten himself into politics now, and his main plank is that blacks and immigrants have caused the plague, and we ought to vote a right-wing Republican into the White House to get rid of them. Then, of course, there’s Sergei Forward.’

  Dr. Petrie was puzzled. The way that Ivor Glantz had spoken that name – loudly and vehemently – it had seemed that he was speaking to Esmeralda. But Esmeralda still didn’t look up, and carried on eating in silence.

  Dr. Petrie said, ‘Dr. Murray mentioned him. Isn’t he the guy you’re—’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ivor Glantz. He was still looking at Esmeralda, and not at Dr. Petrie at all. ‘He’s the guy I’m suing for infringement of patent. Or at least, I was suing him for infringement of patent. The plague, among other things, has let him off the hook.’

  ‘You must be pretty galled.’

  Glantz turned to Dr. Petrie at last. ‘Galled?’ he said. ‘You bet your ass I’m galled. It’s a life’s work, right down the river. But that’s not the worst part.’

  Dr. Petrie glanced from Ivor Glantz to Esmeralda. There was some indefinable tension between them. Esmeralda was still holding her knife and fork, but she wasn’t actually eating. Her knuckles were white, and she was staring at her plate as if willing it to disappear into the sixth dimension. Adelaide caught the atmosphere, too, and looked up with a frown.

  ‘The worst part,’ said Ivor Glantz, ‘was losing a life’s loyalty, and a life’s love.’

  There was a long silence. Then Esmeralda stood up, and took her plate out of the sitting-room and into the kitchen. They heard her scraping her supper down the sink-disposal unit.

  ‘Es!’ Ivor Glantz called.

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Es!’ he called again.

  She appeared at the kitchen door. ‘I’m not very hungry,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’

  Ivor Glantz took a deep breath as if he was about to shout something, but then he changed his mind and breathed out again. Esmeralda went off to her bedroom, and, turning to Dr. Petrie, Glantz said, ‘How about one more Scotch, doctor? I’m sure you can justify it on medicinal grounds.’

  Dr. Petrie passed his glass. He watched Ivor Glantz unstopper the crystal decanter, and pour the drink out.

  ‘Listen, Professor Glantz,’ he said gently. ‘I don’t mean to be personal, but…’

  ‘But what, Dr. Petrie?’

  Dr. Petrie shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s none of my business.’

  Glantz handed over his Scotch. ‘Of course it’s your business. You’re a guest here.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to pry. It just seemed that, well—’

  ‘I know what it seemed like. Well, it’s the truth. I’ve decided to withdraw my action against Sergei Forward. The reason I’ve decided to do so is because my stepdaughter is being blackmailed. It appears she was rather indiscreet. That’s if you want to put it mildly.’

  Dr. Petrie sat back. ‘Is that the price? Is that what the blackmailers are asking for? Your withdrawal from the case?’

  Ivor Glantz nodded. ‘Of course. That’s why my stepdaughter was set up in the first place. It was a deliberate ploy by Forward to hit me below the belt. I can tell you something, Dr. Petrie – if ever I lay my hands on that Finnish bastard, so help me I’ll tear his lungs out and use them for water wings.’

  ‘Surely it wasn’t Esmeralda’s fault?’ said Adelaide. ‘If she was set up, how can you blame her?’

  Glantz swigged whiskey. ‘I blame her because she got herself drunk and she let them do what they wanted. Not once did she think about me, and what could happen if she got involved in something like that. She lives under my roof, I pay for everything she wears, eats, and wipes her ass with. I bought her an art gallery and two hundred paintings to stock it with. I’m a step-father in a million, and all she can do is get herself squiffy on two glasses of champagne. Do you know, Dr. Petrie, how much that bacteriological process means to me?’

  ‘What do you mean? Financially?’

  ‘Of course, financially! What do you think this is – the Alexander Fleming Home for needy bacteriologists? Dr. Petrie – over twenty years, that process could have brought me, in royalties and dues and industrial licences, something in the region of thirty million dollars.’

  Adelaide’s eyes widened. ‘I see what you’re talking about. I think I’d be sore, too.’

  Ivor Glantz shook his head. ‘I’m not sore, my dear. I’m out of my goddamned mind with rage.’

  *

  Shark McManus started moaning again. He was lying curled-up on the cold plastic tiles of a travel agency’s second-floor office on Third Avenue, shivering and sweating in the darkness. From where he lay, he could see the legs of a desk, and a waste-paper basket, and a half-open door. He still clutched his .38, but his sight kept blurring, and he was hurting so bad that he didn’t even know if he could pull the trigger or not. Pains like red-hot rakes stabbed into his groin and his stomach, and every now and then a scalding squirt of diarrhoea soaked into his jeans.

  ‘Paston,’ he whispered. ‘You still there?’

  Edgar Paston stood by the window, pale-faced and perspiring. In the street below he could see gangs of black youths running and shouting and smashing windows.

  ‘I’m here,’ he said quietly. He came across the office and bent over McManus with a serious face. ‘How do you feel?’

  McManus winced. ‘Oh, terrific.’

  Edgar said, ‘Shark, I have to find you a doctor.’

  McManus moaned again, and shook his head. ‘Where do you think you’re going to find a doctor – out there? I know you, Paston – you’re going to go – straight to the cops – and tell them it was me.’

  ‘Shark, you’ll die!’

  ‘What the fuck – do you care? I used you – you used me – and your family got wasted.’

  Edgar stood straight again.

  ‘I still think I ought to try and find you a doctor. There have to be doctors who wouldn’t ask questions.’

  McManus almost laughed. But his laughter turned to coughing, and his coughing became gasps of pain.

  ‘Paston – you’re such a stupid shit!’

  ‘Don’t say that. Shark.’

  ‘Aah… why should you care?’ whispered McManus.

  Edgar clenched and unclenched his fists. He seemed to be trying to say something that wouldn’t quite form itself into coherent words. He wiped his perspiring forehead with his shirt-sleeve, and then he said, ‘Shark—’

  McManus was moaning. Edgar knelt down beside him, as close as he could, and took his hand.

  ‘Shark, I do care.’

  Shark’s breath smelled bad, and his face, in the gloomy darkness of the office, looked like a white wax death-mask.

  ‘Shark, I don’t want you to die.’

  Shark slowly moved his head from side to side.

  ‘Thass… bullshit.’

  Edgar Paston leaned over the dying boy and held his face in his hands. Shark’s eyes were almost closed, and he was breathing thickly and slowly through his parted lips.

  ‘Shark, listen, I have to tell you this. Please, listen, will you? I have to tell you.’

  McManus opened his eyes a little wider and stared at Edgar as if he had never seen him before in his whole life.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ll understand,’ said Edgar. ‘But I have to tell you anyway. I know Tammy and the kids were killed, but you have to believe that I don’t blame you. You were trying to h
elp us, Shark, I know that. It was the cops who killed them. You have to understand that I don’t blame you.’

  The office was so dark that it was impossible to tell if Shark McManus was listening or not. He quivered from time to time, and whimpered, but he didn’t answer.

  Edgar Paston was crying now. ‘Shark,’ he said, ‘I got it all wrong. I didn’t understand. Don’t you see? I got it all wrong because I was dead and you were alive. I didn’t recognize you for what you really were. Shark, you’ve got your youth. Look at me. How old do you think I am? Shark, I’ve never had a youth! It was school, and then it was college, and then it was Tammy and the kids and work. Christ, Shark, you’ve got freedom and love and confidence and everything, and all I’ve got is a useless dreary stupid supermarket!’

  Shark McManus, after a few moments, seemed to smile. He managed to raise one limp hand and touch Edgar’s tears.

  ‘Paston,’ he croaked. ‘You’re such a stupid shit.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t say that.’

  ‘I have to say it, man. It’s true.’

  Edgar Paston sat up. His voice was unnaturally high, and in an odd way he was almost hysterical.

  ‘God!’ he shrieked. ‘Can’t you see how much I envy you?’

  McManus was in less pain now. He gave a few breathy chuckles, and rolled his head to one side.

  ‘Paston,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t want to be envied by you. I think I’d prefer to die.’

  Edgar got to his feet, and automatically brushed the dust from the knees of his pants.

  ‘Well, that’s too bad,’ he said impatiently. ‘That’s just too bad because I’m going to go right out there and find you a doctor. You’re going to get well again and then we’ll see. Give me the gun.’

  ‘Paston,’ said Shark, ‘you’re out of your head. You can’t go out there.’

  ‘Give me the gun. Shark.’

  Edgar bent over and caught hold of McManus’ wrist. Shark was too weak to resist him, and he gave up the .38 without a struggle.

  ‘Okay now,’ said Edgar, forcefully. ‘I’m going out there and I’m going to find you a doctor. Give me an hour. If I’m not back after that time – well…’

  ‘Can I die then?’ asked Shark McManus. ‘Am I allowed to?’

  Edgar leaned over and patted him on the cheek.

  ‘You are not to die,’ he said tenderly.

  Shark nodded. ‘Okay, then. I won’t.’

  Edgar took the gun and left the office. He walked along the landing to the concrete staircase that led down to the street. As he reached the top step, he heard an unexpected scuffling noise, and he paused. He peered into the darkness, and he could have sworn that he saw something moving. He wished he had a torch.

  Feeling his way down step by step, with his hand against the rough concrete wall, he came to the next turn in the stairs. He heard the noise again. There was a high-pitched squeaking, and the patter of feet.

  ‘Rats,’ he said to himself. ‘Oh, Jesus!’

  He descended the next few stairs cautiously. The rats scuttled down ahead of him, and he could see their eyes reflecting the dim light from the open street door. He managed to reach the sidewalk, kicking a couple of rats aside, and it was only then that he realized how many there were. The office building was teeming with rats, and so were the streets. Disturbed by the chaotic violence and looting, frightened by fires, aroused by the smell of dead bodies, they were rising from the sewers and electrical conduits of Manhattan in a gray tide.

  Edgar ran across Third Avenue and turned down 52nd Street. Now he was out in the open, his confidence was shaken. It was menacing and strange, and the fires that burned through the drizzling rain cast enormous shadows. He had no idea where he could find a doctor, and he peered hopelessly at all the signs and nameplates he saw.

  From Third Avenue, he reached Lexington Avenue. Uptown, he could see immense fires blazing. Whole blocks were alight. Downtown, it was all darkness and savagery. He crossed the street and walked quickly towards Park Avenue, panting hard and clutching his pistol tight.

  He didn’t see them until he had turned the corner. There were eight or nine of them – marauding black teenagers with clubs and knives and razors. They had raided three hotel bars on the East Side, and they were fiercely drunk. The day before, white hoodlums had come up to Harlem and thrown gasoline bombs in their neighborhood stores and their houses, and they were out to fix honkies and nothing else.

  Edgar raised the .38.

  ‘Don’t you come a step nearer, or I’ll shoot!’

  The black kids jeered and laughed. Edgar, holding the pistol in both hands, aimed directly at a silhouetted head.

  It went through his mind like an action replay. The supermarket doorway. The laughter in the car park. The shot. One of the kids fell to the ground, without a sound. The rest of them scattered. ‘He’s dead all right. I got him in the head.’

  And while his finger froze on the trigger, a tall black boy in green jeans ducked under his line of fire and stabbed him straight in the face with a broken gin bottle. The glass sliced into his cheeks and mouth, and he dropped the gun on to the sidewalk in a slow-motion twist of agony.

  They cut his face up first. He felt knives in his eyes. Then one of them grappled his wet, petrified tongue, and they sliced it off with a razor. The last thing he felt before he died, in a hideous burst of agony, was the broken bottle they forced, laughing, into his rectum.

  Shark McManus died that night, too. As he lay on the floor of the office, helpless and weak and soaked in diarrhoea, the rats came scampering in. He was so close to death that he scarcely felt them running over him, and at one moment he thought of the kitten his father had given him when he was six, and he opened his arms to embrace the scuttling gray tribe that bit at his flesh and turned his hands into raw bloody strings.

  ‘Paston?’ he said hoarsely.

  There was no answer. He heard a squeaking, pattering noise that he didn’t understand.

  ‘Paston?’ he said again.

  No answer.

  ‘Paston?’

  *

  After the hideous chaos of the night, the morning was gray and silent. The rain stopped, and a smeary sunlight filtered across the East River and into the broken streets. Uptown, fires still burned in Harlem, and the black carcasses of buses and cars were littered all over the streets of the midtown hotel district, smoldering and smashed. The sidewalks were glittering with powdered glass, and amongst it, like frozen explorers caught in a strange kind of snow, were the bodies of plague victims and riot casualties.

  One or two police cars patroled the streets slowly and cautiously, driving over rubble and bricks and debris. The cops all wore respirators and goggles, and were heavily armed. There were still a few stray looters around, and they had orders to shoot to kill.

  The rats were still in evidence – swarming into abandoned delicatessens and restaurants, and over the corpses that lay huddled up in every street.

  Every office block and apartment building was locked and guarded and under siege. But even if the residents were able to keep out the looters and most of the rats, they couldn’t protect themselves from the plague. During Monday morning, the fast-breeding bacilli brought painful death to thousands of New Yorkers, transmitted by minute specks of infected saliva. It only took a word of encouragement to pass the plague on, or the touch of a hand in friendship.

  Some people died slowly, in prolonged agony, while others succumbed in two or three hours. By midday, almost seventeen thousand people were dead, and several apartment buildings had become silent, pestilent mortuaries. As the People collapsed, the rats scurried in, devouring food and flesh in a suffocating orgy of self-indulgence.

  Other people, trapped in elevators since Sunday by the power failure, began to collapse from exhaustion, thirst and lack of air. There was no one to rescue them, and they died in a squalid confusion of darkness and urine.

  In the subways, imprisoned in darkened trains, people moaned and cried
and waited for the help that would never arrive. Old people and invalids sat in their apartments in front of dead televisions, waiting for nurses who didn’t dare take to the streets. Drug addicts, shivering and sweating, haunted the Lower West Side looking for fixes.

  Dr. Petrie, up on the sixteenth floor of Concorde Tower, stared down at the city for almost an hour. Adelaide and Esmeralda had taken Prickles to meet the Kavanagh children on the floor below, and Ivor Glantz was locked in his study, laboriously working out the mathematical probability of destroying the plague with radioactive rays. Dr. Petrie drank coffee and tried to relax. He had slept badly, with nightmares of travelling and suffering and violence, but he felt better than yesterday. He was just wondering how long they could survive on the sixteenth floor, without food supplies, or any guarantee that their water or power would hold out.

  He was going to pour himself another cup of coffee when there was a rap at the door. He walked across the sitting-room and switched on Ivor Glantz’s closed-circuit TV. The building super was standing outside, looking agitated. Dr. Petrie opened the door.

  ‘Hi,’ said the super. He remembered Dr. Petrie from the night before, when they had banged on the glass doors of Concorde Tower and shouted to be let in. He was a thin, nervous man with greasy hair and a neatly-clipped mustache. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Sure. Professor Glantz is working right now, but if it’s urgent—’

  The super worriedly chewed at his lip. ‘It’s getting pretty serious, to tell you the truth. I got assistants going round the whole building, informing everyone.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Well,’ said the super, ‘we got quite a crowd outside. You know – people who were caught on the streets when the power went off. They want us to let them in, and they’ve started cracking the front doors already.’

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘Well, it’s hard to tell, maybe a couple of dozen. I took a look off the roof, and the same thing’s happening to other condos, too. I guess quite a few people got caught out last night, and now they want to get back inside.’