Mina grinned softly, pulling Ben down for a kiss.
That night the Harkers ate dinner while listening to the sounds of Harlem.Outside another storm rattled the windows with a screeching sort of howl.
Chapter 26
"Be sure to cut those planks out evenly," Ben said on his way out the opening on the new blooming addition to the farmhouse. "This is supposed to be a nursery and you don't want to deal with Mina if we muck it up."
James smirked, using a sharp pencil to mark the wood to be cut. "Yeah yeah, I know more about carpentry than you know about most things." He started to laugh but ended up in another coughing fit. Dropping his pencil, he tugged out a rag from his slacks and hacked into it.
Ben stopped and glanced at his brother.
James waved him off. "Just this dust, tickling my throat is all."
Ben frowned. There was a lot more dust in the air, and more and more each day. It was hard telling when another storm would blow through, but he had a feeling is was more than just an itch or tickle—his brother looked drained and tired, sweating more easily than before and his skin more ashen.
Thumping the newly placed door frame with his hand, Ben went out into the kitchen. On the wood stove, a black pot was steaming, the smell of fresh coffee beans enticing him to search for a mug. He found one in the cupboard—he rinsed the inch of dust that had collected in it and poured himself a cup.
He stood drinking his coffee in front of the kitchen window. Outside, Mina was taking advantage of the clear blue-sky day, hanging shirts and dresses and pants and socks and undergarments. Ben took a sip and grimaced. It was a strong brew, but there was a slight tinge of dirt on the back of his tongue. It was impossible to get rid of it all. Dust was everywhere. Where did it all come from? No one knew for certain. Parts of Kansas, Colorado, Oklahoma, and Texas. Land untouched by rain or moisture. Barren and dry as a desert. Already folks had begun talking about leaving. Those suitcase farmers never came back—why bother? Rumor was, California on Route 66 was the way to go.
Money of course was not an issue with Ben. He'd made a considerable sum from his adventures in Egypt with Professor Helwing. Enough to survive this Depression, certainly so. No, money wasn't the issue; it was finding a place to purchase their needs—not just their wants. They were unpermitted to go into the General Store, and with the dust storms, ordering by catalog was becoming less reliable.
What to do?
What to do?
"Ben?"
Ben shook away his thoughts.
Mina was waving at him from outside the window, still by the clothes line, gesturing to the road in front of the farmhouse. Dust was kicking up, but not by a storm. Ben went to the front door and walked out on to the porch watching as a 1929 Ford Model A pulled up next to his not-so-blue anymore Chevrolet pickup. "Police Cruiser" was stenciled on the door along with an embalm of the sheriff's office. Climbing out, an average built, middle-aged man stood. He wore dark slacks and a dark coat, all the buttons undone expect for the top. He had a bowtie and penned on his chest was his badge, a golden dull star.
After a few moments talking in the farmhouse, the Sheriff greeted Ben at the base of the steps to his house. "Not sure if you remember—"
"Sheriff Holmwood. I recall."
"Good. Nice afternoon, ain't it?" Holmwood said.
Ben took a sip of his coffee. "No complaints."
The Sheriff nodded. "Pretty enough, at least. Give folks a chance to breathe."
"I suppose."
The man studied Ben for a moment, took off his hat and rubbed a hand through his short cropped and graying hair. "Well, I wanted to swing by and see how you folks were holding up out here."
Mina came off from the clothes line and stood near Ben on the porch. The Sheriff watched her for a moment, his gaze settling on the bulge of her stomach.
"When's the little one due?" he asked, grinning now.
He had a warm smile. Ben relaxed. He'd heard rumor of law enforcement in other towns nearby that were not so welcoming of colored residents.
Mina was charmed instantly and blushed a bit, as she had been doing lately anytime anyone mentions anything about the baby. "Oh, few months still."
Still nodding and grinning, "That's good. Congratulations to you both."
"Thanks, Sheriff," Ben said, cupping an arm around his wife.
Holmwood's smile seemed to fade. His expression looked wary. "Again, I just wanted to check in on you folks. The dust storms have a way of playing tricks on people. Be sure to stay inside when one comes rolling along. Heard there's a nickname for this mess—back East they're calling this the Dust Bowl. Silly name but fitting sure enough. There's been talk about this new up and coming Governor from New York—another Roosevelt if you can believe that. Say's he stands with us out here in the dirt. We'll see. Politicians, they all like to talk. In the end, its always townsfolk looking after their own."
Holmwood looked up at the sun and glanced around. "Well, if ya'll are doing alright, I best let you be. Have a good day. Enjoy this sunshine—but if a storm comes in...best thing to do...stay inside. You don't want to find yourself lost in the dust." He smiled again, though weakly, and started back toward his Ford.
Ben called after him. "Has something happened, Sheriff?"
He turned back and shrugged. "In the midst of an ecological disaster and a depression, saying if something bad happened sounds somewhat redundant." Holmwood looked away, to the clothes flapping gently and then to his own dust covered boots. "Some in town have come down with sickness—dust pneumonia is what Doc Seward is calling it. He may be right. But some folks—some have simply disappeared. Gone. Vanished during the dust storms."
Mina held her hand to her mouth and gasped. "That's terrible."
The Sheriff nodded somberly.
Ben watched him, still and cold as stone.
"Marion, she works with Bab's at her salon, she's gone missing. Along with Frankie Duckett, Paul Smith, and Caleb Leslie—all three worked at the lumber yard I believe. And worse of all, Bill and Ann Norton's little girl, Susan...wondered out during one of the storms...got lost I suppose." Holmwood's voice trailed off.
Mina was still holding her mouth and shaking her head. "That's just terrible."
Holmwood glanced at her before looking away. "It is indeed, Mrs. Harker. Ya'll be careful now, okay. Don't go wondering out into one of those black blizzards, okay." He opened the driver side door of his Ford and started inside.
"Have you found the bodies," Ben nearly blurted out.
The Sheriff paused, one foot still in the Ford. "What?" he frowned, as if he hadn't quite heard what was said.
Ben stared, unblinking, feeling chilled to his very bones. "The bodies, of the missing, have any of them been found?"
The Sheriff blinked and then said, "No. But the dust has been pretty thick. Chances are they wandered off and got lost and buried out there somewhere—hell of a way to go."
Ben nodded sombrely, thinking of horrible things. Impossible things he told himself. "Yes," he whispered, "hell of a way."
* * *
"That's it. That's the final touch. Paint still needs to dry, but...what do you think?"
"Ben...I..." Mina stood in the doorway, again her hand was at her mouth like earlier that day, but instead of out of fear, this was simple and exquisite joy.
Ben stood behind her smiling from ear to ear. "That bad, huh. I suppose we could rip it up and start all over again."
Mina elbowed him in the gut. "Don't you dare."
Ben held his stomach in mock pain. "I take it you like it then?"
She turned and held his face in her hands.
Nothing was said.
They just looked at each other.
It was hard for him to imagine this was that girl from the Cotton Club—all those years ago, now his wife and soon to be the mother of his first-born child.
She held him still and leaned forward on her tippy toes, kissing him gently on his lips.
He held the c
up of her back, being mindful of the baby bump, and squeezed her close. Smelled her hair. Feeling the soft cotton of her dress. The warmth of her body. And the slight little kick against his abdomen.
They pulled apart holding hands now, both giggling.
Mina touched her swollen belly. "I think Little Miss is happy with her room too."
Ben touched her stomach. "Or his."
Mina rolled her eyes, laughing. "Don't get your hopes up, Mr. Harker. I've got a sense this little joy is a girl. You best get used to it."
He shrugged. "I suppose it would even the numbers out."
She patted his cheek. "Exactly."
They both turned to look again into the newly finished nursery until the sound of something breaking in the kitchen drew their attention to the hallway.
"James? You okay?" Ben called.
Down the hall in the kitchen, the sound of hacking and coughing echoed shrilly. The Harkers nearly ran. James was on the floor, his face ashen pale. He was on his knees, one hand propping himself up, the other clung to his throat. His eye bulged as he looked up at them, red and strained as if he couldn't breathe.
"James!" Ben knelt beside him, patting him on the back, trying to dislodge or whatever he could, anything to help his brother.
James wheezed and shuddered. He reached and touched his nose. Pulling back his hand his eyes drew wider. "My...nose...is bleeding," he rasped.
* * *
"Ben you can't," Mina protested. She'd shut James's bedroom door and joined Ben in the living room. "It's late. He looks stable enough till morning."
Ben was lacing up his boots. He looked up at his wife. "Did you not see him? His breathing might be stable, but its shallow. I don't know what's happening, but I do know he needs a doctor."
Mina was pacing now. Thinking of whatever she could do to try and convince her husband not to go out after dark into a town she knew well enough that they didn't want them around. "What makes you think Doc Seward will even come and see him?"
He finished the last knot and stood. Ben pulled on his Menlo leather jacket, the one she'd gotten for him last Christmas—the first Christmas after the farmhouse was finished or finished enough. They'd added two more bedrooms since. He kissed her on the cheek and opened the door.
"Ben!"
He turned back. "Mina, he needs a doctor."
She seemed jumpy, her small hands trembled as she hugged herself. "I know...just...be careful, okay?"
He came back inside and leaned into her, parting his lips onto hers, tasting her, smelling her. Ben held her there until James gave a dry raspy cough from his room.
"I'll be as quick as possible," he said, and went out the door.
Outside, it was nearly pitch black, if not for the stars in the sky and the glow from the kerosene lamps from inside the farmhouse. He jogged to the pickup and fired up the engine. Letting the Chevrolet rumble for a bit, he shifted into gear and started for town.
* * *
How Ben was able to convince Doctor John Seward to leave his own home at such a late hour, especially on the account of a Negro standing on his porch, was as much a surprise to Ben as it was to Mina. When the pair came into the farmhouse, her jaw hung low in amazement.
"You must be Mina," Doc Seward said. He offered his hand.
Mina shook it. "Pleased to meet you, sir. Thank you for coming out here so late at night. Can I make you something, coffee perhaps?"
He smiled at her warmly. "I'd love a cup." He looked to Ben, "Where is your brother?" His eyes from under his circular spectacles turned from pleasant to serious. In the gloom of the lamps, with his short white hair standing on end and his button-down shirt partially unbuttoned, he looked somewhat mad.
Ben gestured down the hall. "This way." He led the doctor to James's room.
James lay in bed, the sheets flung off him. His chest rose and fell rapidly, as if he were taking short, sporadic breaths.
Doc Seward went to him, opening the leather bag he'd carried in, and retrieved a stethoscope and started prodding James's chest. He listened attentively. Putting away the stethoscope, he used an otoscope to look as best he could in James's ears and nose.
After a few more moments, pulling back James's eyes, listening to his chest again, Doc Seward collected his things and placed them back inside his leather medical bag. He stood and gestured for Ben who had been standing in the doorway to go out into the hall. They went all the way to the living room before saying anything.
Mina greeted them, handing them each a mug as they sat down. Seward took one of the chairs while both Ben and Mina sat on the couch.
"How bad is he?" Ben asked, ignoring his steaming cup, his gaze focused on the aged doctor.
Doc Seward took a sip and raised a slight toast to Mina. "Excellent coffee, dear, thank you." He took another sip, his gaze falling to the floor, collecting his thoughts or so it seemed. "Your brother looks like he has what folks are called Dust Pneumonia. Its been happening all over town and in neighboring towns as well."
Ben shrank back into the couch, his hand trembling slightly.
Mina took his mug from him and placed it on the coffee table. "Is there any treatment?" she asked.
Doc took a sip and shook his head. "Not really. This is some nasty stuff, an acute type of respiratory distress that can develop into an infection of the lungs. Typically, it is brought on by excessive exposure to dust and dirt inhalation. In most cases, dust and dirt if inhaled in trace or small amounts will safely pass through the lungs with the assistance of cilia—tiny hairs in the lungs. With the case of dust pneumonia, the dust travels deep into the alveoli preventing the cilia from moving the dirt through—leading to infection, possible respiratory failure and lung damage. It'll start with wheezing and then chest pain, coughing, fever...and then septic shock, when an infection caused by the dust particles spreads into the blood stream or other parts of the body—causing the organs to eventually shut down."
Ben glanced at Mina and looked away, his gaze drifting to the windows and the pitch-black night. He felt light headed, dazed. Was he going to lose his brother? He'd already lost his father and his friends—so many. Jim Europe and even Henry Johnson who'd seen the worst from that war, murdered by a pack of Klansmen on his way home on a Goodyear bus. Even Renfield was lost to him, not through death but... Could he really face losing James after so much death already?
"There must be something we can do," Mina said.
"If it progresses, we'll need to hospitalize him. Give him a high dosage of antibiotics and fluids, but other than that, sadly no. This is a unique condition caused by all these damn dust storms. The only real cure is to get out of the dust, but where can you go to be truly rid of it? I heard the other day from David Soul—runs the town paper—there were dust clouds all the way in New York City, even Washington got a sprinkle, enough to coat the Oval Office in thin yellow. That Franklin Roosevelt fella will have his work cut out for him—assuming he's elected."
Ben shook his head, coming to his senses. "So, it's leave or he'll die. Is that what you're telling us, Doc?"
Seward took another sip from his mug. "Not precisely. Leaving, getting far enough away from the dust would certainly help, but his condition could get better on its own. Keep the dust out best you can, and you can have him wear one of these," he reached down into his leather doctor bag. He tossed a cotton mask at Ben. "Have him wear this when he's up and about when a storm comes in. It should help him from getting any worse."
Ben held the mask in his hand. "Great," he said and handed the cotton wrap to Mina who looked at it curiously.
"Its from the Red Cross, on their recommendation everyone in town should be wearing one of those." Doc stood, stretching his back and yawning. "But good luck convincing a bunch of sun worn farmers to wear them."
Ben stood and smiled politely. "Ready to head home?"
"If you wouldn't mind, I'm rather tired."
"Of course, thank you again for coming out here tonight."
Doc waved him
off. "Ah, wish I had better news for you. I'm sure James will be alright. Just keep an eye on him and keep the dust out best you can."
They said their goodbyes and went to the front door. Ben still had his leather jacket on over his jean overalls. Mina was collecting Doctor Seward's mug from the table.
Ben and Doc went out onto the porch and started for the steps.
Both men froze.
Out by the pickup truck stood a little girl swaying from foot to foot, caked in dust and dirt. She was humming some nursery song.
"Is that..." Doc started.
"The Norton's little girl, the Sheriff had come by looking for her." Ben breathed heavy, his gaze fixed on that tiny silhouette in the dark, highlighted in the low pitch of yellow from the lamps inside and the moon and stars above. She looked pale. Pale as death.
"What's she doing out here alone at night?" Doc took a step down the steps toward her, calling out, "Susan, is that you? Did you get lost? Are you okay?"
Ben held him by the shoulder.
Doc glanced back at him, frowning.
"Look at her dress," Ben whispered without taking his eyes off the girl.
The aged, white-haired doctor looked at the girl's dress. It was dark, wet looking, and caked in earth as if she'd been buried and crawled her way out of the grave.
"My God, what happened to her? Let me go, she needs help." Doc shrugged, trying to dislodge Ben.
Ben held hard. "No. Something isn't right here. She ain't right."
Doc Seward laughed dryly, and still he took a step back up on the porch. "What do you mean? Look at her, she obviously got lost in a storm. Dehydrated. Acute hysteria, probably doesn't realize where she is or who she is."
Ben held firm. "Something happened to her, but not what you think."
The little girl, having lost her patience waiting for her prey to come to her, hissed loudly, baring a set of horrible needle teeth.
Both men backed up again.
Ben instantly flashed back to France, to that crumbling church in the Argonne Forest and that Thing they had encountered. The same pointed shark face on that bald white bat-like man here now on the face of this little girl. But instead of the black flowing robe, this creature wore a little girl's dress—she had been someone's daughter—Ann and Bill's daughter, and though Ben did not know them very well, his heart ached for them. Ached for what had become of their child, their baby girl with rows of sharp teeth glistening in the gloomy lamp light, hungry, and dangerous.
The Last Hellfighter Page 14