Patient Zero

by Jonathan Maberry

“Or else I might wake up one night to find my store a pile of ashes.”

  “The paper plant told you that?”

  “No. Someone else. Someone … how do I put this … connected. He didn’t say his name; he just said to lay off. He called and that’s all I’m saying.”

  This was a turn of events I hadn’t anticipated. I was keen on getting to the bottom of the pollution and eventually stopping it. But if the Mob was somehow involved, I wasn’t sure what I’d do. Then I smiled. Truth be told, I didn’t know what I’d do even without the Mob. But I trusted my mind and body to figure it out.

  I nodded. “Don’t worry about this. As far as we’re concerned, I was never here.”

  He nodded. Then he paused. “We?” he asked nervously. “Who else have you told about this?”

  “Just me and Wheatie,” I said. “No one else.”

  I turned and left, Wheatie beside me. When we hit the street, we walked for a time so I could figure things out. Even I knew I couldn’t go against the Mob. Heck, I couldn’t go against four football players. No, that wasn’t what I was going to do. One day I’d be in a position to do something dramatic, be Spider-Man. But for now I’d have to settle for being Peter Parker. I’d gather evidence and find a way to report it. If not for me, for the memory of Helen, because the more that I walked, the more the memories of the two of us morphed until we were swimming together in a cauldron of black water, pieces of our skin smoking and then falling away.

  Just as she began to scream, Wheatie brought me back to the present.

  “What now, boss?”

  “Now I go and find a camera.”

  “What’s the camera for?”

  “Another stakeout.”

  Wheatie groaned.

  “Except this time we’re not hanging out just to see if an asshole is going to rape some girl. This time we’re there for that and to see who’s dumping in the pond.”

  I went around to Luskin’s to apologize to Mr. Howison, but that didn’t go well. I really should have called and he let me know just that.

  “Plus, I can’t have any fighters working for me. I mean look at you. What would the customers say if they saw you?”

  I wanted to say, That I was jumped by four of your high school football heroes, but I didn’t. Mr. Howison was a nice guy and was also a football booster. Assholes like Monger and his crew came and went. I wasn’t the sort to paint everyone with the same brush. And I understood where Mr. Howison was coming from, even if I was always in back on the loading docks and never saw any customers. He needed to count on me and my head wasn’t in the right place. Hell, it hadn’t been in the right place for years.

  He gave me sixty bucks and we shook hands. No hard feelings. I took that sixty to a pawnshop. Their 35 mm cameras were out of my price range, but there were some Instamatics I could buy. Problem was, it was going to be in low light, or even no light, so I’d need a flash. Then I spied a Polaroid. The instantaneousness grabbed me. The audacity of stepping out of the bushes and taking a picture of them in the act of polluting was a powerful pull. So $30 later, I purchased a Polaroid OneStep Flash. Then, after I hunted down some batteries and film, I was ready to save the planet … or at least the place where my memories of Helen were perhaps the best.

  I spent that Friday night hiding in the weeds near Patton’s Pond, waiting on a truck to show up. The spot had the usual traffic of guys with girls, steaming up the back windows of cars. Once I heard a scream come from the rear of an Impala, but it was followed by a giggle. With all the boy-girl action, it wasn’t long before my thoughts drifted into the dismal memories surrounding Helen. Part of me couldn’t help wondering what it would have been like with us had she not been attacked … had I been able to save her. There was a hole inside me a mile deep where what-ifs and what-could-have-beens fought Texas cage death matches, possibilities plowing into each other with barbed-wire fists and razor-blade feet, only to be reborn to fight again. The images were never-ending and tended to blend into reality until I believed I was seeing things that couldn’t possibly be there. For a year after the rape I’d see her, only not as she’d been before, but after, standing by a bus stop, bruised, bloody face cracked open or standing in line, her face purple, eyes accusing.

  I’d tried to be with her at first, hoping I could be part of the recovery process. But it wasn’t long before I realized she wanted nothing to do with me, so I stopped trying to see her. She’d become such a recluse, all I could do was wonder if she spent her time blaming me. The attack was the very reason I’d found martial arts. I vowed that I’d never be in such a helpless position again.

  Not that I hadn’t utterly failed in that plan the other day. I knew how I’d let them get the best of me. I knew it and hated myself for it. Overconfidence belonged nowhere near a fight. Neither did hesitation. I should have taken it to them the moment they’d confronted me, but instead I’d posed like a character out of a Bruce Lee movie who was reluctant to fight, but who everyone knew would eventually unload a can of kung fu whoop ass and be the hero.

  Yeah, that’s me.

  Stupid.

  A station wagon pulled up and parked. Thing 1 sat in the front. Thing 2 sat in the back. Their dates sat beside them and looked like children. The size difference was so improbable that I almost laughed. They drank a few beers and groped the girls. Just as I was thinking they’d leave, Thing 1 spilled out of the front seat and began walking toward me, unzipping his fly. I eased myself deeper into the bushes. Yet still he came. I doubt he saw me, but I sure saw him. I watched with more than a little disgust as he relieved himself, the sickly stream landing just in front of me, splattering my knees. As if things couldn’t get any worse. I heard a car door slam and then Thing 2 was beside Thing 1, adding a new stream. I couldn’t look away. If they saw me, I needed to be ready. So here I was, kneeling in the bushes, forced to watch two gigantic offensive linemen holding their rods, inches away from me, giving me a golden shower.

  I held my breath until they left, packing, zipping, turning, wiping their hands on their pants as they returned to their dates.

  The rest of the evening was uneventful. I stayed until morning, but no dumping.

  I made it back by nine, in time to see my father leave. We nodded to each other as we passed, our only connection. I slept for ten hours and woke at seven. My father still wasn’t back. Probably at the track.

  Wheatie showed up as I was wolfing down a can of pork and beans.

  “How’re you feeling?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I said around a mouthful. “Where’d you get to last night?”

  “Was busy.” He glanced around. “Your dad around?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good,” he said. Then he asked, “What do you think of your dad?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “Simple question formed from a leading interrogative, followed by a subject and a verb and an object … the object of the question being your dad, with me asking what you think of him.”

  I sighed. I forgot sometimes that Wheatie was a smart-assed genius. “I try not to think of him.”

  “You know he doesn’t like me, right?”

  “He just doesn’t understand.”

  “I think he does. And you know what else? I think he loves you.”

  “You don’t know anything I don’t tell you to know.”

  “That’s sort of harsh.”

  “Well, I’m feeling fucking harsh.” I tossed the can in the trash and the spoon in the sink. “You ready to go, or what?”

  We were in place by nine, watching the steady flow of hormone-fueled teenagers come and go.

  About eleven, Wheatie asked, “You’re hoping you see them, aren’t you?”

  Some questions you can answer with a nod or a word, but this wasn’t one of those. The answer ran back years to those hideous moments when Helen was on the ground and four older teens were doing to her what no man should ever do to a woman. Despite the sketch artists and police promises, th
ey were never identified, although I swore to myself I’d know them if I ever saw them again. Was I out here looking for them? I never stopped looking for them. I looked for them in every store, on every street, and in every place I went. Instead of answering, I continued my vigil. Whether it be Monger, the polluters, or one of them, I was on the lookout, and by God, I’d find one of them.

  Wheatie bugged out at three in the morning, but I stayed until dawn. No sign of Monger. No sign of anything. I was halfway back to my house when I heard the rumble of an engine. I looked over and saw a station wagon. Thing 1 and Thing 2 filled up the front. They were in sweats and it looked as if they’d just worked out as they pulled up next to me.

  “What’s going on, ground stain?” Thing 1 asked, prodding Thing 2 in the rib with an elbow.

  “What’s in your purse?” Thing 2 asked, all grins and steroid acne.

  I had a small pack with a water bottle and my camera. It wasn’t a purse, but they didn’t need to know that. Instead of answering, I cut across a lawn, leaving them in the street. They’d either drive away or—

  I was gratified to hear the sound of two doors opening, then slamming shut.

  “Don’t you walk away from me when I’m talking to you,” Thing 1 growled.

  I turned and watched him stomp across the grass, hands working around invisible necks. Instead of running, I took three quick steps and got into his guard. He reached out and I hip-chucked him ten feet. Before he landed, I was on Thing 2, firing two punches to his kidney, then raking my foot down his shin and into his instep. He fell to the ground, grabbing at his foot.

  Thing 1 started to get up and I kicked him in the face.

  Thing 2 saw it happen and stayed in place.

  “What’s wrong? No one to sucker punch me?”

  Just then a cop car pulled to the curb. Its lights began to flash and I could see the cop talking into the radio and eyeing me as if I were an escaped convict. Then he got out of the car, his hand on his pistol.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked.

  Neither Thing 1 nor Thing 2 said a word.

  “You and you, on your feet. What’s going on?” he asked, looking at me.

  “Fellas tripped is all.”

  Thing 1 wiped blood from his broken nose with the sleeve of his sweat suit.

  “I know you guys. You’re on the football team.”

  They both nodded but said nothing. Thing 2 glared at me, but Thing 1 wouldn’t meet my gaze. The cop shook his head. “I don’t know what really happened here, but let’s not do this again.” He pointed back to the station wagon. “This belong to you two guys?”

  They nodded.

  “Get it moving. And you,” he said, pointing at me. “Where should you be?”

  “Home, Officer.”

  “Then get there.”

  I nodded and left.

  Half an hour later I was home and in bed and I fell asleep with a grin on my face.

  * * *

  Sunday night as I was about to leave, my dad came in the kitchen.

  “Where you going?” he asked.

  “Out.”

  “Where out?”

  I glanced at him from where I was eating a microwaved burrito, leaning against the counter. Why was he suddenly wanting to be the good father? I guess I took too long to answer, because he rolled his eyes and lowered his voice.

  “Listen, Joe, I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

  “I’m safe.”

  “Seriously. You’re out at all hours of the night doing God knows what. Your mother is worried and I just need to make sure you aren’t breaking any laws.”

  “I’m not breaking any laws,” I said, finishing the burrito.

  “Then where are you going?” he asked.

  I turned to him. “Out,” I said, daring him to ask me again, act as though he cared, maybe even be a father and stop me from being rude.

  For one solid moment, I thought he would. But then he sighed, turned, and walked out of the room.

  I left the room, too, leaving it as empty and sterile as it had been before. Thirty minutes later I was in the weeds on stakeout.

  * * *

  At 10:53 a flatbed truck pulled up at the far edge of the pond. Wheatie had gone out for some Cokes, so I was alone. I began to edge my way around. As I was navigating the bushes, I heard Monger’s Trans Am pull up as well. I took a long look and saw that Susan was with him. Her head moved funny, as if it wouldn’t stay up. Then it hit me. Fucker had rufied her, or maybe gotten her drunk. This was the night for certain.

  I stared at the flatbed. Six metal drums were on the back of it. I had no doubt that the two men in front were going to dump them in the pond.

  Caught between two competing decisions, I wasn’t sure what to do.

  The two men got out and began to wrestle a barrel onto the ground.

  I decided that concealment was overrated. I stood my full height and ran toward them, pulling the camera from my bag as I went. They heard me when I was ten feet away.

  “Get out of here, kid.”

  “I know what you’re doing.” I pulled out the camera, pressed the on button, and snapped a picture. The flash blinded them and me both. Then the camera whirred and spit out a picture. I grabbed it and shoved it in my back pocket.

  “Hey!”

  “You can’t do that.” The driver reached out his hand. “Give me that now.”

  I backed away and took another picture. Then another. “You don’t get out of here now these pictures will be in the Baltimore Sun tomorrow.” I took a picture of the side of the truck where it said CANELLI BROTHERS, then a picture of the front license plate.

  “You can’t do that!”

  “I can and did. Take your barrels somewhere else.”

  I backed away and took one last picture.

  They cursed as they loaded the barrel back on the truck.

  “If I see you, you’re dead,” the passenger growled.

  I held up the camera and grinned.

  Then they drove away.

  I turned and sprinted back around the edge of the pond. I could see movement in the Trans Am. The passenger seat was lying flat. Monger was on top of Susan. When I arrived at the car, I began taking pictures.

  One. Monger on top of Susan. Her eyes closed. His hands up her shirt, groping her breasts.

  Two. Monger’s face surprised. Susan’s eyes still closed, his hands pulling free of her shirt.

  Three. Now Angry Monger. Susan’s eyes still closed.

  Four. Monger launching himself out the window.

  I ditched the camera and put all the pictures in my back pocket with the others.

  Wheatie appeared behind Monger, and behind him came the station wagon.

  “The others are here, Joe. Be careful.”

  Monger got to his feet. At six five, he towered over me, but that didn’t matter.

  I planted a boot in his crotch and watched with satisfaction as he fell to his knees. Then I brought my own knee into his face and was pleased to hear the crunch of his nose.

  The others bailed out of the station wagon and gathered in front of the headlights.

  “Leave him alone,” Mattis howled.

  I stalked toward them, every step, every movement, with dire intention. For however long it took the police to come and arrest me, my targets were no longer Monger, Mattis, Thing 1, and Thing 2. Instead, they were the four strange boys who’d brutally raped Helen, shattering her life and bruising her soul.

  It was because of them we were no longer friends.

  It was because of them I couldn’t look into her eyes.

  It was because of them she couldn’t participate in the world.

  * * *

  Wheatie and I sat in the holding cell for three hours. Two drunks and a perplexed-looking man in a suit and tie sat on the metal benches. Twice Wheatie tried to engage me in conversation, but each time I ignored him.

  I remember that they had to bring two ambulances.

  From the b
ack of the police cruiser where I sat handcuffed, I watched Monger leave in one of them.

  Thing 2 left in the other. I’d broken his arms and shattered his knee.

  Thing 1 would be peeing blood for a few weeks.

  Likewise, Mattis would be doing the same. If he ever held a football again with that right hand, I’d be surprised.

  “Come on, Joe. It was four against one. They can’t hold you.”

  I glanced over at Wheatie. He was a good friend and I was lucky to have him.

  “But I attacked them,” I said.

  “The cops don’t know that.”

  Just then my father appeared, his face a crimson ball of anger. As a cop, he knew it looked bad to have his oldest son in jail.

  “What did you do?”

  I stopped a man from raping a girl and stopped two men from polluting the pond.

  He shook his head. “You’ve gone too far.”

  “I had to do something.”

  “Do something? You almost killed those boys.”

  “They had it coming.”

  “Do you hear yourself? ‘They had it coming’?” He shook his head again. “You have got to stop this, Joe.” He turned to look behind him. “There’s only so much I can do.”

  Now I shook my head. “As long as there are bad men out there, I won’t be stopped.”

  He pointed to his chest. “I’m your father and you will do as I say.”

  “Better listen to him,” Wheatie said.

  My father lowered his voice. “I spoke to the other parents. They were going to press charges, but the police found your photos.”

  “What did they show?”

  “Two men with a barrel by the pond and what looks like the boy you hurt on top of an unconscious girl. Care to explain the pictures?”

  “I think they’re self-explanatory.”

  He stared at me for a long moment. “Listen,” he said, “I know I haven’t been the best dad. I know I can be better. You have a few more months before you can leave on your own. Let’s make those months good ones. If not for our sake, for your mother’s. Okay?”

  I felt a powerful emotion grow in my chest. For the first time in forever, he was acting like a father. He was doing everything I’d wanted him to do. I opened my mouth to speak, but found I couldn’t.