“Tara’s right,” Julie said with her usual optimism. “We just need to keep our eyes open for anyone or anything out of the ordinary. Maybe it’s time to clamp down again on our disinfecting procedures—just in case. Wear gloves and masks in any situations that concern us, boil food, and all the rest of it. We’ve relaxed quite a bit since the worst of Ebola passed.”
They agreed, but no one had much else to offer. For all of them, it was as though someone had announced the death of hope. Tara sighed, trying hard, but finding it difficult to be optimistic.
“Tomorrow night is our nursing class and Melanie will be back in town.” She decided to play devil’s advocate, voicing the worst case scenario. “We need to fill her in on all this, get her take on it and ask a few questions about the fiber thing as well. We’re already exposed now. If either of us gets sick, I guess we go from there.” Tara glanced around at their faces. “That takes care of the contagion end of the story, now what do we do about the madman or madmen responsible for these experiments?”
Mary brought up what they had talked about earlier. “Julie, do you remember telling Tara about the experiments rumored to go on at the camp?”
Julie’s eyes grew large. “That’s right. I’d almost forgotten. I heard it from a few of the others in my building. Apparently, one night early on a man ran screaming from the rear of the camp. He was naked. And before the guards caught him, several people saw him; his arm was severed and spurting blood everywhere.” Julie looked around fearfully. “But there was something far worse than that.” She shuddered. “His eyes were sewn shut.”
“What?” Lee stared at Julie. Tara thought it sounded like something straight out of a horror movie.
“Let me tell you, that little scene spread like wildfire through the camp. Soon everyone there knew about it. And the man was screaming about a doctor, calling him Dr. Mengele.”
“The Nazi war criminal?” Tara couldn’t believe anyone would fashion themselves after that monster.
Julie nodded rapidly. “No one ever saw the poor man again,” Julie said. “And that was that.”
“How could this have happened, even as messed up as it was there?” Tara asked her. Julie just shook her head.
A thought struck Tara. “Mary, do you think those bodies we found could have been preserved somehow, making them look fresher than they actually were?” Tara asked. “Because if they were from the time Meyers ran the camp, then we’d have nothing new to worry about.”
“I suppose anything’s possible,” Mary answered. “Stranger things have happened. Especially with all the snow and ice we had all winter. I just don’t know, Tara.”
Lee scratched his chin and weighed in. “That still doesn’t cover the sores with the fiber-looking things coming out. I don’t think acidic or alkaline soil explains it, Tara. It would have to be some new kind of decomposition I’m not aware of. At least accounting for the ice and snow of winter, it might mean the experiments and fibers both went out with Meyers’s old regime.”
Tara turned away, wanting to be done with it. Her mind was on overload and she could not take another negative thing. She began dividing up the cans and sacks of flour and sugar to distract herself, putting Mary’s share into a plastic bag for her. She handed the bag over and Mary took it, a scowl on her face. Tara could tell everyone else’s thoughts were as dark as her own. They’d all had quite enough, thank you very much.
“C’mon Julie, Luke, let’s go home. Grab the munchkin,” Mary groused.
Lee told them goodbye and Tara followed the group to the front door, letting them out. She suddenly remembered their foraging spoils. “I almost forgot the eggs, Mary.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, go ahead and make your own dinner, and I’ll make ours. Let’s each save a little for Clyde and check on him in two hours or so.” They agreed to meet and ride their bikes back over to see the old man. “I’ll dig out my cold medicine too.”
Tara closed the front door and leaned back against it. Lee stood in front of her, not saying much. He led the way back to the kitchen, descending to the basement to stoke the potbellied wood burner. He moved slow, but was a near pro on his crutch by this time.
Tara stood at the sink, washing the Morels, hosta shoots and cattails from the crock of boiled water she kept on the counter. Deep in thought, she worked on cooking-autopilot, chopping the shoots and mushrooms then breaking the duck eggs into a bowl and whisking them with salt and pepper. She oiled a cast iron skillet, added the shoots and carried it, along with the bowl of eggs and mushrooms, down to the stove.
Lee sat prodding the burning wood, pushing the hatch door shut with his poker as Tara sat the skillet on the hot stovetop. She stood stirring the greens as they cooked.
After a couple minutes of silence, Lee spoke. “What do you really think?” he asked.
She tested the tenderness of the small green and white plants then poured the egg mixture into them.
“I just don’t know.” Tara didn’t want to say it, but after seeing the contents of the graves, and factoring in Clyde’s illness, it felt like the beginning of the end for real this time.
~
Tara walked as fast as the biohazard suit would let her toward the quarantined barracks near the end of the row. Her mind was full of what she’d seen buried in the woods, but she tried to clear her thoughts as the work involved in her everyday life went on. She wasn’t allowed to do much for the patients, not being a real nurse, but providing basic comforts and being another set of eyes for the medical professionals at the camp was a huge help. Today, she headed over to the recovering Ebola cases.
Tara checked her mask and gloves, then took the key from her pocket, slipping it in the lock. There were eleven people in the room and most were past their worst symptoms. Tara was greeted roundly by all but the sickest. She particularly loved the youngsters—there were two pre-teens and one preschooler. The youngest and eldest of them immediately rushed over.
“How are we feeling today?” she asked the room in general. A couple of groans from the adults, all of whom stayed put on their cots told their story, but the kids seemed to be doing great. Tara dug under her gown for the tinfoil packet she’d saved especially for them. Their eyes lit up. Noticing the middle child wasn’t with them, she glanced toward his bed. He lay curled up on it. Alarm instantly rose in Tara, tightening her throat. She gave the two their piece of ghetto fudge and walked to the boy’s bed.
Tara rolled him onto his back, concerned. “What’s wrong, Tyler? You were doing so great last time I saw you.”
The ten-year-old boy shook his head. “I don’t feel good.”
Tara walked to the supply cabinet and unlocked it, bringing back a thermometer. While she waited for a reading, she rolled up the child’s shirt and saw an angry red rash on his belly which had opened into sores in a couple spots. His temperature was 101 degrees. Something definitely going on with him, Melanie or Mary needs to look at this.
“My skin hurts,” the boy whined.
Tara poured a bit of disinfected water onto a cloth for his head, and gave him some children’s liquid Tylenol from the cabinet for fever. She stood there thinking, unsure what else to do. She couldn’t stop her mind from making the connection with the corpses in the makeshift graveyard. Maybe it’s the measles. I’ve never seen them before, no idea what they look like. One of the adults called out that Tyler had started feeling sick during the night. Tara nodded, walking to the cabinet to close it up.
She comforted the boy as best she could, said goodbye to the rest of them and headed to the front to report this to one of the nurses, not really wanting to go where her mind was already going.
Chapter 5
Marine brig
Cleveland, Ohio
The big man sat hunched over on the edge of his cot, staring at the rough cement floor of the cell. A profusion of thoughts swirled in his head as each possible escape plan formed and was immediately discarded and replaced by another. He assumed his court martial would be forthcomi
ng, but due to the scarcity of officers and those usually responsible for conducting such affairs, he’d been granted a slight reprieve until it could be arranged. War crimes, crimes against humanity— Commander Brent “The Brick” Meyers wasn’t entirely sure of the charges, but he knew they would be bad.
He had not heard word one from the colonel. At the thought of him, Meyers’s skin began to crawl. He was more afraid of the colonel than he was of a military tribunal. A noose or a firing squad might actually be preferable.
All bets are off now. It’s down to him or me. Meyers had pretty much decided he would have to use his information about the colonel as leverage. Once the powers that be understood Meyers was only a simple cog in the works, they would turn their focus away from him. Once they understood who really was the brains behind the operation, who held the money and the power, they might even drop charges to get Meyers’s testimony.
His thick neck glowed red in the dim light, and he gave one curt, decisive nod to seal his plan. Just then the sound of footsteps in the hallway broke through his reverie and he stood, ramrod straight, ready to do whatever necessary to save himself.
A young soldier appeared around the corner, surreptitiously glancing behind him as though afraid.
Who is this?
The soldier approached the bars and Meyers moved closer, waiting.
“Commander Meyers, sir,” he saluted. Meyers gave an answering salute and asked him who he was.
“I’ve just come from the colonel. He sends a message. Keep the faith and he will get you out of here. He has work for you to do.”
Hope and fear chased through Meyers’s head, all previous thoughts of throwing the colonel under the bus fleeing. He nodded at the soldier. “Tell him I agree to this.”
The young man turned and left the way he came.
He knows what I was going to do. His skin began to crawl again at the thought of the colonel, a terrifying psychopath with more money and power than God in this new world.
Meyers wiped away a bead of cold sweat that inched down his forehead wondering what sort of “work” he would have to do for the colonel next. His stomach clenched at the thought.
~
Tara glanced up at the sun sinking in the west as she secured Clyde’s dinner in the basket of her bicycle, the stem of dogwood flowers jutting from the little vase wedged in one corner. They had about an hour of daylight left to deliver Clyde’s food and check on him.
She turned around on her seat to wait for Mary, who was mounting her own bike across the street. The older woman was still a bit shaky on it, not having ridden for years, according to her. Tara was a regular and enthusiastic cyclist, and now bicycles were a faster way to get around. Their cars still had gas, but fuel was a precious commodity, and they knew it would begin to degrade and be useless within a year or so, maybe less than that. Diesel lasted much longer, but unfortunately their vehicles used gasoline. Lee started their cars every now and then, always keeping in mind they could be used in an emergency. But bikes and foot power were the new normal.
Mary crossed the street pedaling slowly, her brow knitted in concentration. Tara tried not to laugh, but it was comical. “Mary, pop a wheelie,” Tara yelled, always trying to find bright spots in the day.
“Nobody likes a smartass, Tara.”
At this, Tara finally burst out laughing. She needed it after the way the day had gone. Mary drew alongside and dropped her feet to the ground to anchor her. “Whew. I made it.”
“You’ll get it, Mary. It just takes a little time.”
“If we were meant to have wheels, God would’a gave ‘em to us.”
Tara pointed down at the bikes. “He did!” Mary made a grimace. With a backward glance, Tara started off down the street and Mary soon caught up with her.
“I’ve got some Nyquil PM for Clyde. It should help him sleep tonight. It works wonders for your garden variety rhinovirus— common cold.”
They turned down Clyde’s alley and moments later, rolled to a stop in his backyard.
Tara put the kickstand down, trying to secure the bike on the soft ground, and it wobbled a few times then stuck fast.
“I almost hate to go in, afraid of what we’ll find,” she told Mary softly. Mary nodded. They were both fully aware of Clyde’s advanced age, knowing any day could be his last.
They let themselves into Clyde’s small tidy kitchen and Mary started for his bedroom, Nyquil in hand. Tara carried in his dinner, already plated up. She grabbed a fork from his silverware drawer and a paper napkin from the holder on the tiny table. She positioned it all on a breakfast tray, the sprig of dogwood rising from the vase in one corner. As she turned down the hall, she spotted Clyde’s Marine uniform hanging on his closet doorknob. He always left it out like this, insisting often that he be buried in it. Tara forced her thoughts away from Clyde’s morbid request, afraid of jinxing things any worse.
The old man looked awful. He was hunched up in bed, covers clutched to his neck, shivering. His face was flushed, and Tara could tell Mary was alarmed. Her face went blank, assuming the professional neutral “give nothing away” nurse expression, first feeling his forehead then pulling out a digital thermometer.
“Clyde, how do you feel?” Tara asked, bending close to her old friend. He was sweating, and his eyes opened a slit.
“Poorly,” he croaked. “Can I have a drink of water?”
Tara quickly ran into the kitchen, searching for Clyde’s supply. A jug of boiled water sat beside the sink and she poured a glass, returning to the bedroom to hold it to Clyde’s lips. He sipped gratefully and fell back on his pillow. But he seemed a little more mentally with-it this visit.
Mary held out the thermometer for her to see—102.
“I’m hurting all over, girls. My head hurts, my skin burns like it’s on fire, prickling and itching. Feels like bugs are crawlin’ and bitin’ on me.”
Mary appeared deep in thought. She gently rolled Clyde’s covers down and pulled up his T-shirt. Dark red spots were forming all over Clyde’s skinny chest. Mary’s expression shifted from neutral to baffled.
She whispered to Tara under her breath. “Flu or scarlet fever possibly. Maybe even measles, God knows.”
“It looks like that kid I told you about at the camp, Tyler,” Tara whispered.
Mary stared at her a moment, then made the connection. “I didn’t get the chance to see him yet.” Next she lifted the covers from Clyde’s legs, rolling up the ankle of his pajama bottoms. Tara moved closer to see. Several swollen, angry looking red sores had formed there. Tara put a hand to her mouth in alarm, glancing at Mary, who leaned in squinting.
Suddenly Mary pointed and Tara bent down. One of the sores had blue fibers sprouting from it and you could see the lengths of coiled strands beneath Clyde’s pale, paper-thin skin.
Oh my God.
~
Clyde insisted he would stay in his own bed, and so after seeing to his every need, feeding him several spoonful’s of Tara’s eggs and Morel’s, followed by a small cupful of Nyquil PM, they left him there. Tara could hardly bear it. She backed out of the room giving him a final “I love you,” and turned off his light. “I love you too, child.” He answered feebly.
Tara clutched at Mary as they entered the kitchen, hoarsely whispering, “What in God’s name is going on, Mary? Those fibers are in him! What the hell is it and where would Clyde catch it? He’s nearly housebound!” Tara felt like the plagues of Egypt, or some epic biblical punishment had descended upon them again. Except Clyde was one of the good guys, so why?
Mary just shook her head. “I have no idea, Tara. But his body is desperately trying to fight off whatever it is. He’s strong for an old man, but that’s a high fever, so prepare yourself.” Mary stood hands on hips, staring out the kitchen window thinking. “I have no clue how to treat it, or whether it’s even contagious.”
It was dusk when they stepped out of Clyde’s house and mounted their bikes to head back. Tara’s stomach was churning, imagin
ing the old man dying of the strange and creepy condition that they may very well catch themselves upset her badly. She needed a few minutes to calm down. She didn’t want Lee to see her this way twice in one day.
“Let’s not go home quite yet, Mary, how about a little detour past the Winery?”
They exited Clyde’s alley and turned left at the intersection where the old barn sat perched sixty yards down on the right side of the road. Tara took slow, deep breaths, trying to regain her composure as she scanned the property, wondering if the kid Jake was anywhere around.
The women passed the large building slowly, both watching for the young caretaker, but he was nowhere in sight. Tara hoped to meet the owner himself at some point. She had pretty much decided to invite Jake for dinner next time she saw him—maybe even the owner Mr. Brenner too, for that matter. The women cruised past silently, and Tara motioned toward the fields of grapevines lining each side of the road further down. “Let’s ride past the vineyards.”
The warm day had cooled off into a cool night, and Tara’s light jacket almost wasn’t enough to cut the chill. It was nearly full dark as they rolled toward the acres of grapes. Tara noticed a darker shape moving among the wires strung with vines. The shadow moved slowly, in a distinctive way—and had a thick build. Tara froze, a sense of recognition washing over her—Meyers! Her breath stopped in her throat, and she pointed him out to Mary. “Look!”
But the shape was gone now, and Mary saw nothing.
“What was it, Tara?”
“There was a man there, back in the vines. But it wasn’t Jake, it looked like…” Tara could see the pale oval of Mary’s face staring at her, puzzled.
“Like who?” Mary asked.
Tara shook her head. Surely not. Meyers was in prison somewhere, court martialed, locked up, key effectively thrown away. Still.
“It looked like Meyers.”
Red Death (Book 2): Survivors Page 5