Alan E. Nourse - The Fourth Horseman

by Alan Edward Nourse

  66

  "It's saturation bombing," Ted Bettendorf said when Frank collared him in the basement of the First Methodist Church in Willow Grove at two in the morning. "That's what it is, plain and simple."

  "The air force would call it 'deep interdiction,' " Frank said. "Bombing and enfilading behind the enemy's lines."

  "It's still saturation bombing," Bettendorf insisted, "and it's never worked in modern warfare that I know of on a tactical level. And with an antibiotic? I don't know that it's ever even been tried. Jesus!"

  "Look, don't carry the analogy too far," Frank pleaded.

  "We're not talking about field warfare, and we're not talking about dropping antibiotic bombs—except figuratively."

  "Yes, I know." Bettendorf paced the floor. "What you're actually talking about, specifically, is loading up the entire population in the area—every man, woman and child in Willow Grove, Nebraska, and its surrounding villages—with a full ten-day therapeutic dose of a new, completely untested antibiotic drug, including about seventy-five percent of that population that has no established evidence of infection whatever, nor even any established evidence of contact with the infection."

  "Not yet," Frank said. "But what are the odds that any one of them is going to turn up with active infection, or have active exposure in the next ten days? You figure the odds. You've got the numbers from other similar communities. You know what the penetration curves are."

  "It's insane," Bettendorf said.

  "Different, maybe. Not insane. Look, the bald fact is that what we're doing now isn't working, even with a remarkably effective drug. That's what you were telling us in our little conference. We aren't stopping it. It's simply moving too fast. Monique hit the target right on the bull's-eye: we're always behind it, never quite catching up. We're merely reacting to what it does—and that's not enough. We've got to jump over it just like we had to jump over those state cops a week ago just to get the drug into town."

  Bettendorf shook his head. "Frank, what you're proposing is scientifically insupportable. If we were to try it and it backfired, our asses would be hanging so far out in the wind there'd be nothing left of them."

  "Seems to me that mine is already out there quite a ways," Frank pointed out. "So are a lot of other people's."

  "That's true enough—including mine." Ted scratched his jaw. "Jesus. The CDC could be drummed right out of existence as a credible entity. But then, its credibility isn't all that high right now, as it is. And if something doesn't slow this plague down somehow, there's not going to be any CDC around very long to point fingers at—"

  "Who's going to be pointing fingers, anyway?" Frank said.

  "The entire scientific and medical community, for openers."

  "Oh, come on, Ted. What scientific and medical community? There isn't any left, to speak of. It may be gone for good, as far as we know. All we have are a few remnants here and there, a few Whitey Foxes and Sam Maclvers slugging it out for their own immediate patients. And what do they have to offer? Precious little, I'd say."

  The tall gray man paced some more, paused to sift some computer readouts through his fingers, shook his head. "Well, I still say it's insane," he said, "even if Monique is right on target. But suppose we tried it—would it even be practical? It would have to be all or nothing, you see. How many individual doses of that stuff did you bring up here to begin with—ten thousand or so? And you're already running low, just covering the ones we know are infected or exposed. Now you're talking about a gram of the stuff per day per person for ten days straight—and for how many people? About twenty-five or thirty thousand? That's well over a million and a quarter doses you're talking about, and to do what you want to do you'd need them here, right now, today. Where are you going to get them?"

  "Well, in the first place, we don't need it all today," Frank said. "We only need about 120,000 doses the first day, along with some wild kind of distribution system, to buy us twenty-four hours. But in practical terms, I've already checked, and there are approximately 700,000 doses in all stockpiled right now in Wichita."

  "In Wichita."

  "That's right. I've also already talked to Sally, and by now"—Frank consulted his watch—"she will have stolen a truck—"

  "Stolen a truck," Ted Bettendorf repeated.

  "—stolen a truck and gotten it loaded with half the stockpile we have down there and be heading north, due to pull in here about eight hours from now if the truck she's stolen doesn't break down. No, you haven't met Sally Grinstone yet, but you will, you will. Sally is a very resourceful young woman, and she doesn't mind stealing trucks in the least when she figures she needs one. She'll only bring half of the stockpile with her, just on the off-chance that some vagrant idiot somewhere down in Kansas tried to hijack the truck somewhere along the way. Meanwhile, Running Dog—"

  "That's the Indian?"

  "—will bring the other half of the stockpile up in a different vehicle, following a different route and arriving a little later. While all this is going on, the rest of us are going to figure out how we can get the stuff spread out, with instructions, to thirty thousand people, preferably within the next twenty-four hours. . . ."

  Ted Bettendorf reached for a chair and sat down, somewhat unsteadily. "I—I think I'm following you," he said carefully. "But you still are only accounting for three-fifths of the drug you're going to need."

  "Right," Frank said. "That's where you come in. Tom Shipman and his rump factory for making this stuff is down in Wichita, and the only thing standing between us and the remaining two-fifths of the drug we need is enough tetracycline to make it with. The finished product may not come to us in the elegant form you'd like, all dosed out and stuffed in capsules—it may come up here in bulk, packed in drums, just a raw green powder mixed with excipient, and we may have to guess a little bit at the exact dosage, but if Tom can get enough tetracycline fast enough and the place down there doesn't catch fire, he should be able to produce in time."

  The man from Atlanta suddenly stood up. "Yes," he said, "and it's time we're talking about, isn't it? If you need tetracycline somewhere in Wichita, you'd better tell me just where in Wichita you want it to appear, and then I'd better get on the telephone and start drumming it up for you. And you'd better get Sam Maclvers out of bed and start planning how you're going to distribute the stuff." He looked at Frank. "It may be insane and scientifically insupportable and we may all be dead men if this scheme doesn't work, but by hell, it's going to feel good to be doing something for a change. Even something as crazy as this."

  Sally Grinstone pulled into town at ten in the morning in a twelve-ton dump truck marked Murphy's Sand and Gravel, its rear neatly packed with cartons and a tarp thrown over the top. She was covered with grease from head to toe—the muffler had fallen off halfway there and she'd had to crawl under the truck and wire it back on again—"All I needed was a ticket from some jackass for making too much noise"—so she didn't look too much like an angel of mercy, but 350,000 doses of the Ship-man drug were delivered safe and sound in Willow Grove, Nebraska. Ted Bettendorf spent eight hours on the telephone, pausing only once to look at this grease-smeared truck thief of a female with a completely unreadable expression on his face; he had trouble getting through to much of anybody for most of the eight.hours, and the ones he did get through to either didn't believe it was really Ted Bettendorf calling them from somewhere out in Sticksviile, or thought he had taken leave of his wits, considering the requests, pleas and directives he came up with, but at the end of the time he sighed and rumpled his hair and said to Sally Grinstone, "Better phone your chemist friend down there and tell him to get ready, because he's about to be buried in tetracycline."

  Meanwhile Frank and Monique, the two doctors and their office people, Sally Grinstone and Running Dog (when he finally arrived with his half of the stockpile) set about organizing the first stage of a truly prodigious distribution effort. Later on, nobody could possibly have said who did precisely what, who came up with wh
at ideas, who manned the phones for what purpose, or who could take credit for any given thing that happened; it was totally impromptu, there were no guidelines to follow, and plans changed from hour to hour or even minute to minute, mostly in terms of implementing changes to speed things up.

  The problem was simple enough, on the face of it: how to get three days' dosage of the drug into the hands of every breathing soul in Willow Grove and environs within twenty-four hours, even within twelve if possible, without exposing anyone to any unnecessary contact with anyone in the process—and identify for certain which people had the medicine in hand, with instructions, and which ones didn't. It was clear from the start that the people could not be allowed to come get the medicine—the medicine had to be taken to the people, and people had to be notified that it was coming and why. Sally took over liaison with the media, most notably the town's single radio station, providing a stream of messages to be poured out without even pauses for station identification—communiques written by Sally, even identifying which streets and which blocks were being covered when, and repeating the most vital word: stay home; wait; someone will bring envelopes with medicine to your door; read the directions and then take the medicine as directed; your life may depend upon following instructions exactly.

  Tim Larramee and the other Eagles mustered their Scouts and took over the waiting room of the clinic to help with the stupefyingly dull task of counting out twelve capsules and putting them in envelopes, one envelope for each citizen, stapling the envelopes shut and rubber-stamping them with directions made from one Scout's toy printing set; running to the stationers for staples and inking pads and more envelopes and still more envelopes. Once a supply of envelopes was ready the town police delivered Scouts and others willing to serve as delivery boys carrying boxes full of envelopes to block after block of homes, each delivery boy armed with a felt marker to leave a clearly marked X on each door where delivery had been made, along with the number of envelopes delivered to that house— "Use the red markers," Sally insisted; "we might as well make it symbolic while we're at it." By noon the first loads of envelopes were going out, and feedback said that most folks were getting the message, if not directly from the radio, then from the next-door neighbors who were, at Sally's broadcast suggestion, going out on their front porches and shouting next door or beating on a dishpan until somebody looked. By 5:00 p.m. most of the downtown residences had been covered and some of the more peripheral areas were being penetrated. Squad-car policemen not. actually depositing Scouts on street corners were patrolling the streets themselves, looking for unmarked houses, delivering envelopes in person. By midnight, with virtually everyone involved facing exhaustion, the stockpiles of drug had dwindled sharply, and street maps were checked, and outlying village maps were checked, and there came a point of consensus that just about everybody had been covered who could be covered and there was nothing more now but to go home to bed . . .

  That night in his mind's eye Ted Bettendorf saw the Horseman, riding the streets and byways of Willow Grove, Nebraska, pale and naked, bony legs clasping the flanks of his nightmare steed, pale as its rider, its shoulders pouring sweat, great nostrils flaring, fearsome eyes blazing with death, the great and spiral horn spearing up from its heavy forehead. Silent hoof-beats clattered through the streets and alleys and across the rooftops, and behind the Horseman his ragged, filthy hell-child rode, clinging fiercely to his master. Was there something different tonight? The pale steed seemed nervous, pausing now and then, changing direction slightly at no urging from the Horseman, dancing a nervous death-dance at the street corners, looking, turning before dashing off. Did the beast sense something different tonight? Did the Horseman? No matter; still they rode through the frozen night.

  ... to bed, yes, but not to sleep. Long hours, wide-eyed, staring into the darkness. Too exhausted for talk, too much tension to sleep. A waking nightmare of waiting.

  And at dawn, more waiting. Too early to know anything, far too soon. Frank and Monique found Maclvers pacing his waiting room at 7:00 a.m., already taking the day's calls. More new cases, ignoring all directions, waiting until seven to call the doctor. Contacts written down, medications confirmed; yes, keep taking them. Frank and Monique drank coffee in glum silence, hearing the doctor's gravelly voice. No point even looking for Bettendorf, he would have nothing to tell them. By noon Maclvers was showing signs of cracking, his voice tense as piano wire on the telephone, fairly snarling answers—Frank caught Monique's glance, nodded, took the little doctor's arm—"Come on. There's a little gas in the van. Let's take a ride."

  They rode out to the edge of town, down along the river gorge, through the willows, the little city park, empty of people, up the grade on the other side. No words, and after a while Sam Maclvers turned his face to the window and covered his eyes with a hand and began crying, very quietly. Frank drove on out through the open fields of wheat stubble, let him get it over with, and presently he stopped. Sam turned back, looked out through the windshield. "Dumb country," he said gruffly. "Stupid country, some people think, even people who live here, but it's beautiful, beautiful. Made to support life. Good rich land, good people. Too many tornadoes in the summer, but that's all right, too, they pass."

  Back in town, back at the clinic, Sam said, "Thanks," and Frank nodded, watched the little men sprawl out on a waiting-room couch and sleep like a baby for three hours while he manned the phone.

  Later they went to find Bettendorf, but Ted just shook his head. "There's nothing yet," he said. "Too early; you want too much too soon. Sam called in his figures—the new cases are the same, perfectly flat curve. Not going up, that's something. Recovery curve is a little better, but it was getting better before we started this. When will we have a hint?" He shook his head. "I don't know. It takes twenty-four hours to establish an effective blood level; we have no real handle on the in vivo sensitivity of the bug. I can't tell you when. Maybe tomorrow . . ."

  That night Frank slept, with nightmare dreams. Slept late, actually, had a long breakfast with Monique. Called in to confirm with the radio-station manager that the station was still broadcasting directions, reminding people to take their capsules, each mealtime and at bedtime, don't miss a dose. Call in if you didn't get the medication, call in if you dumped some down the toilet by accident. Stay home. Wait. The station manager sounded weary; yes, he'd been up all night, spelling the regular announcers and manning the phone. "Calls? God, yes, we've been getting calls—referred them all over to the clinic. Lots of them, last night; Dr. Fox was fielding them until four in the morning. Yes, mostly new cases, I guess."

  No word from the basement of the First Methodist Church. No point dogging Bettendorf, Frank knew; he'd let them know when there was anything to know. It was as if, with enormous effort and every ounce of strength available, they had rolled the blunderbuss cannon to the top of the hill, given it the final push to get it over the hump and now could only watch, totally helpless, as it bounced and rattled and crashed its way down, watching in horror that it might veer from its path, strike a bump and shoot off course, and there would be nothing, not one thing in God's world, to steer it back if it did. . . .

  The next day—the third—Sally Grinstone confronted Bettendorf in the church basement early in the morning. "We talk," she said.

  Head shaking helplessly, Bettendorf spread his hand. "I can't tell you anything. We haven't even got the night's figures yet."

  "Doesn't matter," Sally said. "If we lose this one we're washed up anyway, so we assume we're going to win and we plan for that, okay? Call it fantasy, call it wish fulfillment, I don't give a damn, we plan just the same. Tom Shipman called me earlier, and Dog is on his way south again—there's more drug to pick up. We're going to have Willow Grove covered for ten days, by the skin of our teeth. But if we win here, one man working one little production line in Wichita isn't going to fill the bill. We're going to need factories churning out that stuff everywhere we can plant them, chemists to work them, personnel, plenty of r
aw materials. Priority lists of where it goes first, where next, where after that. Financing. Transport. Communications. There'll be nothing else in this country that matters but grinding this stuff out and dumping it down people's throats. Right?"

  "Right. That, and vaccine to follow it up. If we win here. God, yes, if we win. ..."

  "So we plan. We start now and pretend. Now I happen to have a rough flow sheet and a few ideas that I've been working out—" And Sally pulled out a sheaf of yellow legal-tablet sheets covered from top to bottom with her weird spidery scrawl and she began telling Ted Bettendorf in some small detail how she had figured out that it was going to have to work, after the battle of Willow Grove, Nebraska, was history.

  One of the computer men tapped Ted on the shoulder some hours later. "Won't it keep?" Ted said irritably.

  "No. Come take a look."

  He took a look, a long, detailed look, checking and recheck-ing. Then he tore sheets of readout from the machine and snatched the roughed-in graphs from the statistician's hand and ran for the door. "Keep writing," he shouted to Sally over his shoulder, "for Christ sake, keep writing, I'll be back in no time—"

  —Plunged across the street at a dead run, papers flapping under his arm, realizing as he ran that they would already know, they would have to know, because the telephone calls would have dwindled to a standstill.

  Frank was holding the door for him. "The new case curves?"

  "They've fallen off the cliff. Not some little decline— they've sunk like a stone." Bettendorf looked at people standing frozen around the room.

  "You mean we're winning," Dr. Sam Maclvers said hoarse-

  iy.

  "We're not winning," Bettendorf said. "We've already won. We have already stopped it dead in its tracks. It's not going anyplace from here."