by G. M. Ford
“Ninety percent,” the colonel said. “Ebola Zaire killed ninety percent of its untreated victims.”
Mike Morningway from Emergency Management cleared his throat. “So what you’re saying is that if we’ve got a hundred dead people down in the tunnel, the chances are…we’ve got another ten infected people who walked out alive and are strolling around the streets somewhere.”
“Chances are,” Hines said.
A low-key buzz filled the room.
“Except!” Belder said it in a loud voice, bringing the room to silence. “Except that none of this makes any sense,” he went on. “Hemorrhagic fever does not kill people in their tracks. It is passed only through the bodily fluids of an infected person. It does not fly through the air like a pox virus.” He looked up at Chief Dobson. “And even if it did…there’s the matter of your officers,” Belder said.
“They’re under strict quarantine.”
“But showing no ill effects?”
“Not yet.”
“So why aren’t they dead too?” Hines wanted to know.
Belder pondered the question for a moment and then stepped back from the screen. “You’re going to need to send a team in there. The CDC is going to require blood…”—he began counting on the fingers of his right hand—“tissue and skin samples. Also we’ll need to use wipe kits on the walls and any other flat surfaces.”
“I’ve got a team that can do that,” Dobson said.
Ben Gardener found himself rising from the chair. From the corner of his eye he watched Mike Morningway raise a finger as if to volunteer the services of his organization. Gardener’s mouth began to move before his brain was fully in gear. “I’ve got people specially trained for this sort of thing,” he said.
Dobson stiffened. Hesitated for a moment. “We’ve already got personnel at risk here, Ben…probably best if we—”
Gardener interrupted. “All the more reason you ought to let us handle it. Your guys have already—”
Morningway cleared his considerable throat.
“Put something joint together,” Harlan Sykes snapped.
“What do we do about the possible carriers we may have walking around? People who were in the tunnel at the time and walked out just before people started dropping in their tracks,” Mike Morningway asked.
“We pray,” the colonel said.
11
Dougherty chewed at her lower lip as she trudged up Olive Street with her shoes still dangling from her hand. The jetsam of the city wore gritty on the soles of her feet as she moved along. Her torn stockings circled her ankles like kittens. As she came abreast of Starbucks, she caught sight of Stevie’s taxi backed into the shrubbery at the top of the parking lot. He was standing on the pavement smoking a cigarette, watching the smoke rise up into what had turned out to be a clear night sky.
At the sight of her, he dropped the cigarette to the pavement and pulverized the butt beneath the sole of his boot. “So?”
She shook her head. “I lost him,” she said.
“Where?”
She threw a thumb back over her shoulder. “Right back there in the street. It was like…one second he was there and the next second he was gone.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that.”
He looked her up and down. “You don’t look so good.”
“Some drunken lunatic nearly ran us over,” she said and then fed him the story in fifty words or less.
“For real?”
She held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Missed me by this much.”
Stevie sympathized, but she seemed not to hear. “I been watching for the van,” he said after a moment of silence.
“The van’s still there. It’s him I lost.” She looked downhill again.
“You said he used to live in the neighborhood. Maybe he went in someplace…you know like to see somebody he knew or something.”
“Maybe,” she said, without meaning it.
“Whata you wanna do?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“We could maybe keep an eye on the van for a while. See if he don’t come back here pretty soon.”
She looked at the jagged holes where the mirror used to rest and shook her head sadly. “How you gonna get the cab fixed?” she asked.
He looked down at the holes and winced. “The Somalis,” he said. “They’ve got a shop up on Twelfth East. Open twenty-four/seven. Coupla hundred bucks and an hour…they’ll have it back in shape.” He patted the bright yellow fender. “They got a lot of this color already mixed,” he said with a grin.
She looked up into the night sky. Saw a line of stars. Orion’s belt, she thought. Low on the horizon, a thick train of clouds chugged north, toward Canada and the Arctic beyond. In her mind’s eye she saw herself standing alone on the tundra, her cape fluttering around her as she watched the world through a shimmering curtain of blowing snow and ice, isolated from all sensation except the breathy wail of the wind. The shuffle of Stevie’s feet pulled her out of her reverie. She looked around the parking lot as if seeing the scene for the first time.
“Let’s get your cab put back together,” she said. She grabbed the door handle and pulled it open. Threw her shoes onto the far side of the backseat. “I don’t know what the hell I was doing anyway,” she said, as much to herself as to Stevie. “What I expected to accomplish by following him around.”
She looked over at Stevie, as if he might have the answer. “Sometimes…” he said.
The word hung in the air like cannon smoke. “Yeah,” she said. “Sometimes.”
Whatever came next was lost in the squeal of tires and the roar of the engine. A red Dodge pickup truck came careening into the parking lot, banked hard to the right on its springs, its bright headlights blinding them both as it rocked to a halt in front of the cab. Wasn’t until the guy was out of the truck and she noticed the shattered side view mirror hanging down from the door that Dougherty snapped to what was going on. By that time, Stevie was already backpedaling.
The guy was short, fat and redder than his truck. His shaven head gleamed purple in the unnatural overhead light. He had the remains of the cab’s mirror in his hand. He brandished it at Stevie. Waved it in his face. “You gonna try to tell me you didn’t notice we had a little accident,” he shouted. “You stupid son of a bitch.”
Stevie showed him a palm, calling for restraint.
Without warning, the guy hauled off and threw the mirror at Stevie’s head. Hard as he could. Trying to flatten Stevie’s skull with a five-pound hunk of twisted metal. But Stevie was quick as a mongoose, pulling his head aside, allowing the missile to whiz harmlessly past his face and smash against the cab. “Hey now…hey now,” Stevie began to chant. “No need to get…”
At that point, the guy rushed him. Head down, arms flailing, he smashed into Stevie, throwing him backward over the hood, pummeling him alternately in the head and ribs as he kept him bent back over the car. As the guy gathered himself for another volley of punches, Stevie rolled left, sliding across the expanse of yellow sheet metal and off the front of the cab. He had balled his hands into fists and was dancing like a boxer.
“Come on, man…come on,” he was saying. “You want a piece of me? I’ll kick your ass, old man…”
Half a dozen pedestrians had interrupted their evening strolls and were watching the proceedings with mild interest. Pickup man took a deep breath, lowered his head again and charged. At least he started to. Halfway to Stevie he came to a stiff-legged stop. Almost like a mime confronting an imaginary wall. His eyes lost their furious focus and for a moment he appeared to be listening to distant voices. He clapped a thick hairy hand to his chest and then looked down at the appendage as if it belonged to someone else. He dropped to his knees. A groan escaped from somewhere deep in his innards.
His face was purple now. He coughed once and then spewed a thin line of phlegm onto his shirtfront. He was breathing in hiccups. He brought his other hand to his chest, fell over sideways and closed
his eyes.
Stevie was at his side before Dougherty could collect her wits. “Guy’s havin’ a heart attack,” he hollered. “Somebody call nine-one-one.” Stevie had a bruise along his jawline and was developing a serious knot over his right eyebrow. He cleared the guy’s mouth with his finger and then bent low over the man’s chest, listening for a heartbeat.
“He’s alive,” Stevie reported.
On the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop, half a dozen people were calling for an aid car. The guy was on his back now, mouth hanging open, breathing like a locomotive. Stevie rolled up his jacket and put it under the guy’s head. Off in the distance, a siren began to wail, and then a moment later another plaintive voice joined the chorus. Stevie looked over at Dougherty. “Jesus, lady,” he said. “You gotta find yourself a new cabdriver.”
12
A bead of sweat slipped out of Corso’s hairline, slalomed down his forehead, rolled along the side of his nose and finally paused on his upper lip, where he corralled it with the tip of his tongue. Despite the cool of the evening and the louvers in front of his face, the closet had become quite humid and close. Wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d been able to mop his brow once in a while. Unfortunately, the storage area was too narrow for that. The confined space would not allow him to raise his hands above his waist, which explained why, after ten minutes of silence in the van, he was so pleased to be stepping out into the aisle and why he was so disappointed when he heard new voices coming his way.
“Hey Bobby,” the first voice said.
Corso took in a lungful of cool air and then stepped back into the closet and locked the door. “What we got?” a second voice wanted to know.
The van rocked on its springs as first one and then a second person stepped inside.
“What we got is a Level Four, Bobby. Biohazard of some sort. Full suits and full decom afterward.”
“No shit.”
“I’m thinking maybe we got victims down in the tunnel.”
“They said that?”
“They didn’t say shit, but I could tell. Just the way the captain sounded.”
“Where’s Boomer and Chico?”
“They’re not coming along. We’re working with a couple of firemen and a guy from Emergency Services.”
“What the hell is that about?”
“You tell me.”
“Weird.”
“No shit. The whole thing’s weird. All they’d tell me was who was going down and that we’d be briefed on the scene.”
“Be a lot better working with our own people,” Bobby said. “What’s the point of all the training…if…we gotta…”
Corso heard the closet door swing open and then the rattle of hangers as the orange biohazard suits were pulled out. “Politics,” the first guy said disgustedly. “Gotta be some kind of stupid-ass politics.”
Corso pushed his head into the far corner of the closet and peeked through the door’s narrow louvers. Bobby and the other guy were in their mid-thirties. Hair helmets and thick necks. He watched as they spread the elastic and pulled the suits on over their boots. In unison, they got to their feet and shrugged their shoulders into the shiny coveralls, before zipping up and pressing the Velcro covers in place. Before continuing, they took a moment to check one another out. Making sure they were properly sealed in the suits. Corso watched as they ran through their safety checklist.
“Fucking firemen better get here,” Bobby said, pulling on a pair of black neoprene gloves. “Lest we have to handle this one on our own.”
The van rocked. “Fucking firemen are here,” a deep voice said. Somebody let loose a laugh. “I’m fucking fireman Bill Ensley. This miserable specimen is fucking fireman Tim Shultz.”
Through the narrow slit, Corso watched a handshake get passed around.
“No offense intended,” Bobby assured them.
“No problem,” Shultz said.
“You know what we got here?” the first fireman asked.
Cop number one shared what he knew, which wasn’t much.
“So where’s the guy from EMS?” Shultz wanted to know.
“No idea,” somebody said.
“We know who it is?”
“Nope.”
“Hope to God they’re not sending us a virgin.”
“What else they got?” cop number one said as he pulled the orange hood over his head, leaving only an oval of exposed skin in the center of his face. Across the aisle, Bobby followed suit. Both cops stepped out of view for a moment. When they returned, each man was holding a black rubber breathing device in his hands.
“We’ll gear up and meet you in the street,” Ensley said.
“What about the EMS virgin?” Bobby wanted to know.
Ensley showed his palms to the ceiling. “He’s here when we’re ready…he comes along…if he’s not…” He made a c’est la vie face and stepped out into the street.
A minute later, Bobby and his partner stepped out, leaving the van silent. Corso slid a hand across his torso and pushed the button on his watch. The dial lit up: it was ten twenty-seven. Give them six or seven minutes, he figured. Give them a chance to check their gear, get their orders and head inside. At that point everybody’s attention ought to be focused on what the team was doing. Be a good time to make a quick break across the sidewalk to the door to the Underground. He could feel the sweat forming on his forehead. He took a deep breath and waited.
Four minutes in, he heard voices again and silently cursed. “Hey…” someone was calling. He squinted out through the louver just in time to see a blond guy in his late twenties step up into the van. He was so pale the freckles on his cheeks looked red as rouge.
“Hey…” someone outside called again. “You hear me?”
A tall man stopped in the doorway and turned toward the voice. A Seattle cop stepped into view. “This is an off-limits area,” he said. “I don’t know how the hell you got in here, but…”
The stranger sat down on the metal bench, fished a laminated ID card from his pocket and waved it at the cop. “I’m Colin Taylor from Emergency Services,” he wheezed. “I’m supposed to meet some guys here and…” He looked fearfully over his shoulder. “I’m supposed to help out down in the station.”
The cop leaned in far enough to scrutinize the plastic ID card. “You better hurry up. They’re just about ready to rumble,” he said. “I’ll go tell ’em you’re here.”
Taylor got to his feet and pulled an orange outfit from the closet. He plopped down heavily onto the bench, worked one foot into the suit and then suddenly stopped. He massaged his temples, leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. His mouth hung open. His breathing was quick and shallow. He cradled his stomach with both hands as if he had an old-fashioned bellyache.
He was still in that position when the cop returned. “You okay?” the officer wanted to know. Although Corso didn’t hear a response, Taylor must have indicated he was fine. “You sure?” the cop pushed. “You don’t look so good to me.”
“No…no. I’m good to go.” His voice was flat and without conviction.
The cop wasn’t buying it. Something about Taylor had the cop’s radar buzzing. He looked downhill, dug his front teeth into his lower lip and whistled. He windmilled an arm a couple of times. “Come on up here,” the gesture said. “Fast.”
Half a minute later, a pair of blue-jacketed EMTs joined the officer in the doorway. “Have a look at this guy, will ya?” the cop said. “I don’t like his color.”
Taylor sat up. Tried to wave the medics off, but by that time they were kneeling on either side of him, checking his pulse and shining a penlight into his eyes. “I’m telling you I’m okay,” he protested. “I’m just a little nervous is all.” He looked from one guy to the other with a plea for understanding in his eyes. “I’ve never really…you know something like this…”
“You’ve got a heart rate of one eighty-five,” one of the EMTs said.
“No way we can send you out with a
rate like that,” the other one said.
Seemed like a little confirmation was all his partner needed. He reached down and pulled the bottom of the haz-mat suit off of Taylor’s shoe. “They’re going to have enough to do down there without having to worry about you,” he said.
He looked back over his shoulder at the cop. “Tell ’em he’s not gonna make it today,” he said. When the cop strode off, the EMT turned his attention back to Taylor. “Let’s get you more comfortable,” he said. “See if we can’t get that heart rate down.”
Taylor started to protest, but the more he talked, the more the sense of relief in his voice became palpable. They took hold of his elbows and raised him to his feet. His knees shook slightly as he stood in the center of the floor. Taylor pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his parachute pants. “I’ve got to call…” he began.
The nearest EMT slipped the phone from his fingers and dropped it back into his pocket. “We’re gonna walk you down to the aid car,” he said. “You can call whoever you need to call from there.”
“There’s no need…” Taylor protested. “Just a little air is all…”
Corso felt the van rock a couple of times as they took him out the door, then listened as Taylor’s protests became fainter and farther away until, at last, it was silent inside, and he popped the lock and stuck his head out of the closet.
Empty. He stepped out of the closet and hurried over to the door. Ten yards downhill, Taylor’s legs had turned to foam rubber. If the same cop hadn’t showed up and lent a hand, Taylor might have fallen on his face. As it was, it took all three of them to keep him upright and moving forward. “Tough day for virgins,” Corso whispered to himself.
Half a block up, the battle was over. The citizens had been herded back against the boarded-up bodega where they milled sullenly. Other than an infrequently shouted curse, they seemed to have vented their wrath and had now lapsed into some sort of postriotal repose.