“Interesting choice,” Theo said, but he did not deter his son further.
The family froze as a clatter of keys hit the front desk. “Hello?” The deep voice ricocheted off the concrete walls. “Anna? What are you doing here?”
The newcomer was Thad Krenner, Theo’s boss. His British accent was thick, “plummy” Theo called it. Mr. Krenner always wore a brown pilled sweater with a frayed collar underneath his rumpled sports jacket of the same shade as the sweater. Jaimie never saw him without that jacket. The boy made a mental note to look up “sports jacket” in the dictionary. He couldn’t think what sport Mr. Krenner played or how his tight jacket could be comfortable for playing any kind of physically demanding game. Mr. Krenner was enormous, and, though he always smiled Jaimie’s way under his sharply-trimmed moustache, his size and the force of his booming voice frightened the boy. “Loudest librarian on the planet,” Theo said.
“We’re all here, Thaddeus!” Jack called.
“The Spencers are all working overtime? I’m not sure we have it in the budget to hire all of you,” Krenner said.
Theo came to the front desk, a half-dozen books tucked under one arm. The family followed. Mr. Krenner looked down, eyeing Jaimie’s armful of dictionaries and a picture book that showed satellite pictures of Earth. His gaze lingered longer at the garbage bag at his feet, overflowing with Anna’s book choices.
“You’re not preparing for a siege are you?”
“Yes,” Theo said. “Yes, we are. Have you been watching the news?”
“Oh, a little bit, but there’s no need to overdose on it. It seems like the media is about their business, whipping everyone up. Too much, I say.”
Mr. Krenner looked to the bags of books, not looking directly at the Spencers. “You seem to be taking this stuff quite seriously, Theodore. No sense in that. This will all blow over. It’s true we closed the library early today, but that wasn’t my decision. The higher ups said the schools are closed so they insisted we all take some vacation time. It’s unfortunate, I think. I like to take my vacations at the cottage when the leaves turn.”
“I’ve been doing a lot of research and talking to some people who think we should take this seriously, Thad. We might be in isolation for a while.” Theo stepped closer and put on a smile Jaimie had never seen him use at home. “You can’t expect me to be locked up with the kids for more than a day or two without lots to entertain them, can you? You’re an animal lover. You wouldn’t do that to a dog, would you?”
Krenner laughed and Jaimie shrank behind his mother. The sound from the head librarian’s throat was a clatter of various sizes of dishes. When Jaimie peered from behind Jack, he said, “That young man of yours is getting tall. He wouldn’t cause you any trouble though. He’s not at all a chatterbox!” and laughed again.
Theo glanced to his son and reddened. “Has everyone got what they need?” Anna and Jack shrugged and nodded.
“We’ll take this out to the van. You two talk,” Jack said.
Jaimie stayed with his father, slipping his hand into Theo’s grip. He stared at Mr. Krenner’s wide and long shoes, studying their shine.
“Theodore, really, you mustn’t get yourself and your family too worked up about all this.”
“We’re just taking precautions.”
“It’s the tyranny for young people these days that they’re cursed with the expectation that they’ll all live forever if they can just do everything right, exercise themselves to exhaustion and eat the inedible just to squeeze a few more hours out of life. Stress gets us all in the end, and emptying out the shelves as soon as we close strikes me as something designed to cause me stress, running off with all the inventory in the night. You are not following procedures. Especially with the reference books. The dictionaries can’t go home with you.”
Theo squeezed his son’s hand and pulled him toward the door. “You’ll get over it, Thad. I hope you live long enough to get over it.”
Jaimie watched the big man’s certainty drain away. His aura shrank and yellows crept in at the edges, muddying his red and navy blue energies. After a pause, Mr. Krenner gave a short nod. “You think it’s as bad as all that, Theodore?”
“Call me Theo. You know that’s what I’ve always preferred yet you have always ignored my preference. It’s Theo.”
Krenner’s face went pale. His eyes shifted to Jaimie and he straightened, clearing his throat, looking for words. In a cheery tone that rattled empty, he said, “We’re in the lending business, after all…Theo.” He stuck out his hand and Theo shook it. “I hope you’ll soon find that all of this was no big deal.”
“I took a risk management course during my undergrad and I’ve thought about this a lot. My brother’s a doctor and…he told us things,” Theo said. “The cost-benefit analysis makes sense. Go to your cottage, Thad. Don’t wait for the leaves to turn. Go now. If I’m wrong, you can call me Theodore when you see me next and I’ll smile instead of gritting my teeth.”
Krenner turned away. His wave was more dismissive than friendly. Before he turned to the exit, Jaimie spotted the fleeting thin slash of black across Mr. Krenner’s back. A short, sharp bark erupted from Jaimie’s throat and Theo and his boss turned together to look at the boy, their mouths dropped open, as if both stood before a grotesque fun house mirror. Krenner sought out Jaimie’s eyes. The boy backed out, putting distance between himself and the man. Jaimie was sure Mr. Krenner would not live to see the leaves change at his cottage. He might not have another day before he felt the first symptoms of the Sutr Virus.
If Jaimie had taken a moment more — if he had been brave enough — he might have seen where that deadly slash of black went, and if it reached out for his father, planting its seeds for the horrific harvest to come.
As he retreated to the van, Jaimie held the Latin dictionary to his chest. The boy had opened it at random and caught one phrase which piqued his interest: O tempora! O mores! It meant, These are bad times. The dictionary entry looked like a prophecy. From the auras he had read, Jaimie was certain the world was about to get much worse.
Jaimie stepped into the car and leaned over to whisper in his sister’s ear. “Spiral.”
But Chaos rules The Last Cafe.
As Dr. Craig Sinjin-Smythe moved down the row of plastic cages in his Hazmat suit, his alarm grew. Six of ten of the first batch of rats were dead from the Sutr-X virus. Each white rat’s cage was labelled with a code number. Sinjin-Smythe had named them all: Ernest Borgnine, Jimmy Cagney, Robert Mitchum, Burt Lancaster, Jimmy Stewart, Henry Fonda, Sophia Loren, Ella Fitzgerald, Raymond Burr and Humphrey Bogart. The rats came and went, but he named them each the same.
“Something’s weird with the actors,” the doctor observed. His fiancee and colleague, Ava Keres, was listening through the open mic in his helmet. He had to speak up to be heard over the fan above his head.
Dr. Keres’ voice came through a little too loud. “As I’ve told you many times, your practice of naming them is silly, unscientific and against protocol.”
“Whimsical and creative,” Sinjin-Smythe replied.
“You use the same names repeatedly with all the specimens.”
“Somewhat creative, then.”
She sighed. “I don’t deserve you.”
They’d been together two years. It had been a tumultuous courtship. Ava could be imperious and lectured him on his idiosyncrasies. However, every time he had thought to break it off, she did something sweet for him. Since he had taken her with him when he moved to the Cambridge lab, she’d grown happier and softer around the edges. Or perhaps that was the baby. She was three months along. He’d wanted her to stay home as soon as the pregnancy test stick showed two pink dots. She told him she’d consider a leave of absence at six months. “The lab has so many precautions, the baby and I would be in just as much danger with me banging around the kitchen bored out of my skull. Besides, every day chaos is so scintillating.”
Sinjin-Smythe was especi
ally glad of those precautions as he peered into the tenth cage. “Something’s wrong with Bogart. Do you have a clear picture?”
The helmet cam whirred and focussed as Ava adjusted the camera’s angle from the isolation lab’s observation booth. “I see a rat, Craig. Tell me.”
“Specimens one through six inclusively are deceased,” he said.
“Expected.”
“Uh-huh. Seven through ten are still alive, but Bogey isn’t looking too good.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Sophia, Ella and Raymond are docile.” He bent to peer closer. “Oh, god. The side of the cage…it’s like Bogey tried to break through the cage to get at Raymond. It’s smeared with saliva, feces and blood. Bogey’s lying on the bottom of his cage and Raymond’s cowering in a far corner.”
“Anything else unusual about ten?”
Sinjin-Smythe had difficulty maneuvering in the huge isolation suit as his air hose coiled and tightened behind him. His movements were slow and deliberate, as they had to be in the High Hazard Unit, but his pulse beat in his ears as his excitement grew. “Um…his eyes are looking milky. I haven’t seen that presentation bef — ” The rat launched at the doctor, smacking its head against the cage door.
Sinjin-Smythe stepped back from the rodent’s prison as fast as he could. Running away from the rat was irrational but involuntary. He planned to dissect Bogey’s body later that day, but he wished he held the scalpel in his hand now, or a flame thrower, perhaps.
* * *
The hyper-encrypted, military version of Skype was a bit slow to connect. However, when his screen filled with Dr. Daniel Merritt’s moon face from the CDC, Sinjin-Smythe forced his shoulders to relax. He didn’t say hello. “This could be an outlier, but we might have a new variant.”
Dr. Merritt was quick. As soon as Sinjin-Smythe described specimen ten’s behavior, he said it sounded like rabies.
“Have any of the other nodes reported anything like that?”
Merritt shook his head. “However, there are bats with rabies in Los Angeles and reports have come in that they are becoming more aggressive of late. There have been fatalities among the homeless, but we’re having a hard time determining numbers. It’s a low number so…” he shrugged. Health care and therefore epidemiological studies among the homeless were sketchy at best, especially in America. “We’re working on that to get some samples and find out what’s going on. Sutr’s a fast jumper, so it is a concern. Perhaps when the bats take up residence in a rich, white neighborhood in the Hollywood Hills, I’ll get more funding for techs on the ground.”
“My rat’s a fast jumper, too. I really thought it might smash right through the plastic for a moment there.” Sinjin-Smythe grinned, embarrassed at his admission. “I’ll have more for you after I autopsy the little bugger.”
Dr. Merritt gave him a long look. “It’s just the one rat, right?”
“Yes, I’m certain.”
“Good.” The CDC virologist shuffled some papers. “From the latest I’ve heard from the Middle East, one terrible strain of flu will be enough for us to deal with. The Dubai lab has gone red. Not just Julian. The whole lab’s staff are dead.”
“Think we can get more funding and help? Maybe pool more information with the Chinese?”
Dr. Merritt shook his head. “Nanjing went red late last night. We lost all communication with Dr. Seong’s lab. Radio silence from the Chinese government. No one’s sorted out what’s happened yet. I assume someone on their end is working on that. Or running for their lives to hide out in a Tibet monastery.”
“And Ellen?” Sinjin-Smythe had met Dr. Ellen Harper in person at a symposium on clostridium two years previously in New York. He had fond memories of Dr. Harper introducing him to Manhattan’s nightlife. If Ava hadn’t swooped in on him at the same conference, it might be Ellen working with him in Cambridge instead.
“The Manitoba node remains green, but nothing new there. Go do that autopsy and get back to me with the histologicals ASAP, Craig. Tell me something new.”
* * *
In the isolation unit, Dr. Ava Keres had turned off the safeties, the backups and alarms. She entered the room that held the doomed rats and hurried to the tenth cage. Bogart lay on the bottom of the cage, battered and weakened from his attacks. “I’ve waited years to meet you,” she said, “and now you’re finally here.”
She slipped off her thick glove, unlocked the rat cage and thrust her bare hand at the rat. It was weak, but it snapped its jaws immediately. The infected rat’s teeth sunk into the web between her thumb and forefinger. The pain was exquisite, but brief. She shook off the animal, closed the cage and retreated, holding her wounded hand tight to her swollen belly.
Dr. Keres had signed out of the lab at the security checkpoint and was in a taxi headed for Piccadilly Circus before Craig Sinjin-Smythe was finished talking to the CDC’s Sutr virus vaccine coordinator.
When Sinjin-Smythe returned to the lab, he was puzzled that his fiancee was not at her desk. Another fifteen minutes went by before he checked the ladies’ washroom. She wasn’t there. He tried calling, but Ava did not answer her cell.
Dr. Ava Keres had disappeared into a noon-day crowd to spread the virus before he found the handwritten note on her desk:
Craig,
Words are important. Keres is not my real name, but it was chosen for me long ago. Keres is from Greek mythology. It’s a female spirit of violent death: Death in battle, by accident, murder or terrible disease. Today marks the end of all your First World problems.
We are strong.
We are coming.
You deserve us.
The chaos in every day you have left will be so scintillating.
We make history and a new future.
Season 1, Episode 2
He knows where you live.
Everyone thinks the worst will come for someone else.
~ Notes from The Last Cafe
Here we sit in The Cafe of Despair
Dr. Craig Sinjin-Smythe stood, chewing a knuckle as he made the call. After a few rings, Dr. Dan Merritt, the Sutr Virus Task Force coordinator for the CDC, picked up his private line.
“Craig? I didn’t expect you to call me back so soon. Surely you don’t have the histological report already?”
“Something’s wrong, Dan.”
“You should be calling on the secure line, Craig. That’s what it’s for.”
“Ava’s gone.”
“Ava’s dead?”
“No. Gone. As in, out of the bloody building. Security says she left in a taxi. I can’t raise her on her phone.”
“What are you telling me, Craig?”
“She disabled the alarms and safeties and she left a note.”
“A note? What does the note say? Fractured safety protocols and off for a nap? Tra-la-la! Back by tea time?”
“The note says…it’s not good, Dan. It suggests this is a Level One.”
“You know what this means. Did you go into lockdown? Are you in the isolation unit now, doctor?”
“Maybe it’s not as bad as we think! The rat is still in its cage. Bogart, er…number ten is right where I left him.”
“She disabled the safeties, Craig. Level One is our Defcon One. I’m sorry, but it’s a breach.”
“Can’t we talk about this? They went to Defcon Three on 9/11. Surely…Dan…this is Ava we’re talking about. Don’t call it a breach!”
“Done is done, Craig. You know it’s not up to me. Interpol is listening. They’re undoubtedly already on their way.”
There was a pause. Each man could hear the other breathing.
Finally, Merritt said, “Dr. Sinjin-Smythe. It’s been an honor serving with you. I’m sorry, but you’ve gone from green to red.”
“Don’t! There are innocent people still in the other isolation uni— ”
Behind Sinjin-Smythe, the innocuous black glass building at the edge of the Cambridge campus exploded into a bright fireball. Hell opened and thundered into
the sky. The doctor fell flat and covered his head with his big leather briefcase as shattered glass and debris fell around him.
Screams from bystanders went up first. Then sirens. Before the first ambulance arrived, Craig Sinjin-Smythe was already blocks away, removing the battery from his cell phone as he ran.
* * *
The woman in red found a comfortable seat in an empty pub just off Piccadilly Circus. Despite the warnings, plenty of people wandered about outside in the sunshine. There were no tourists — they had all rushed home before the airlines were grounded. However, Londoners came and went, tired of their government’s requests that they stay indoors to avoid spreading the flu.
The woman sat, waiting. She didn’t have to wait long. A man in an ill-fitting, black leather jacket sauntered in and sat beside her. He ordered a Heineken.
“Buy a lady a drink?”
The man glanced down her body. “Pardon me for saying so, but a person in your condition shouldn’t be drinking, should they?”
She shrugged. “It’s the best time. The baby isn’t going to make it. And I just left my fiancee this morning.”
“Oh, my god!” the man said. He handed her his beer. “You’ve had it, haven’t you, love? Beastly! He couldn’t handle losing the baby, is that it?”
“It’s complicated.”
“You’re not wrong. Always is.”
“Thank you for the beer. I think I’ll drink this. Then I’ll chew on something. Then I’ll switch to Fosters. What’s your name?”
“Pete. Pete Grimsby.” He offered his hand and, as she extended hers, he pulled back. “Oh, that’s a nasty cut, you have there.” He looked at her hand and grimaced. “It’s not your day at all, is it?”
This Plague of Days Season One (The Zombie Apocalypse Serial) Page 5