9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev

by Unknown

  The sky was beginning to darken as she returned to the car, the other people on the sidewalks were becoming more sinister-looking, at least to her eyes, and she was glad to regain the plush interior and lock the doors. She was aware of one or two young men eyeing her car and she could feel their calculating regard as she drove thankfully away.

  Diane turned south and made for Long Beach, stopping only briefly once or twice along the way, not venturing more than ten yards from the car, just far enough to run her fingers along a bench or wall or railing.

  She did the same at Long Beach, not straying out of easy reach of the car that now looked the colour of ripe cherries in the halogen wash of the streetlights and like the stain of dried blood in unlit areas.

  Leaving Long Beach, she followed the coast for miles, stopping briefly at the various beaches that she passed—Huntingdon, Newport, Laguna—and marinas and viewing points, never staying long enough to draw attention to herself, though most places were virtually deserted on this December night that had grown chilly with the promise of another shower.

  By the time she picked up the San Diego Freeway west of Dana Point, Saturday morning had dawned.

  Although they were not yet aware of their peril, almost one twentieth of the residents of Greater Los Angeles had caught the Millennium Bug; some from direct contact with the powdery smears Diane had left in her wake; many, many more from contact with those already affected. Within another twenty-four hours, that figure would increase tenfold so that every other resident was infected.

  By Monday, as Diane left San Diego on Highway 15 to travel back towards Los Angeles, the incidence of infection was fast approaching ninety per cent and the first deaths had already occurred.

  * * * * *

  Lisa Jones was not in work on Monday. The school secretary popped her head around the classroom door as Tom was taking the morning register to let him know that Lisa had rung in sick. Three pupils were also absent, including Janie Rees, who Tom had mentally earmarked to play the part of Mary in the Nativity.

  “So much for my speech on Friday about staying well,” Tom muttered to Mark Davies, his teaching assistant.

  “Can’t be helped, I guess,” said Mark. “There’s always something going around this time of year, no matter what they say on the telly.”

  “You sound a little croaky yourself, Mark. Are you feeling all right?”

  “Oh, probably overdid it at the weekend.” Mark grinned, but it lacked his usual sparkle.

  As Mark started to organise the children into groups, Tom noticed that he coughed once or twice and winced as though his throat hurt to swallow. Throughout the morning, Tom also noticed that a few of the children were developing coughs. One or two seemed listless; not even the prospect of taking a part in the Nativity could raise their spirits.

  At lunchtime, Tom was on playground duty, but managed to grab a word with the other teachers. Everybody had at least two pupils missing from their classes. One teacher and three classroom assistants were away. The headmaster, Ross the Boss, was thick-throated and teary-eyed, but it would take more than a touch of flu to make that old goat go on the sick.

  As home time approached, Tom called it a day for rehearsals and allowed the children to sit quietly and colour. Half a dozen of them had now fallen into lethargy and more than half the class coughed as they crayoned.

  Mark’s eyes looked as though he had lined them liberally with a reddish-purple eyeliner. Tom sent him home at the same time as the children.

  Tom cleared up, alone with his dark thoughts.

  * * * * *

  A three-year-old boy with the name Jarod Oakley was the first citizen of the United States to perish of the Millennium Bug. He was admitted to L.A. County Hospital just as Sunday was slipping into Monday, accompanied by his frantic mother. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, not only through grief.

  By the time Jarod was seen in E.R. by a young intern, who took one look at the child struggling wetly for breath and ordered immediate isolation protocol, the paramedic crew and three members of the nursing staff had been infected. The young intern himself, who enjoyed taking in the winter air on a nearby park bench and smoking cigarettes during his breaks, was already experiencing a tickling cough and sore throat. When he reported anxiously to his senior resident, he unwittingly infected his colleague by letting out a huge and unexpected sneeze as he explained why he had ordered the toddler to be isolated.

  The senior resident looked in at the boy, now encased in an oxygen-rich and germ-containing polythene tent, and concurred with the intern. He didn’t think to check on the couple of elderly patients admitted that same night with flu-like symptoms until they had infected a doctor, five nurses, the admissions clerk and four other patients.

  At 3:54am, Pacific time, Jarod Oakley let out a weak, wet breath, little more than a sigh, and didn’t draw another. The crash team, gowned and masked, worked on him for forty-seven minutes as his mother infected the nurse who tried to keep her calm.

  Jarod’s mother returned home in daylight, dazed and coughing. She would die there alone four days later. By then, hospitals had ceased functioning. Bursting at the seams with dying patients, trying to operate on a skeleton staff with running eyes and hacking coughs, they had become little more than repositories of the dead and soon-to-be dead. Mortuaries were full. Bodies draped in green or white sheets occupied gurneys in corridors. There was nowhere and nobody to take them.

  Soldiers in full-body environment suits and gas masks stood guard at entrances, allowing nobody to enter—or leave. Their weapons contained live ammunition and they were under orders to employ them in lethal force if necessary. In what circumstances such action would be necessary was not so clear. ‘Containment’ seemed to be the keyword from on high, but it was patently obvious to soldier and civilian alike that this horse had long bolted.

  Many of the soldiers surreptitiously rubbed at their throats when they thought nobody was looking or tried to muffle tickling coughs. Eyes behind gas masks were red, running and scared.

  Chapter Seven

  Unlike most of his kind, Peter Ronstadt had acquired the habit of sleeping. He could manage perfectly well without it, but had grown to enjoy the sensations of drifting off into slumber and the slow wakefulness of morning, though it had taken him many years to master. He had first to overcome the feelings that he was somehow surrendering his sovereignty by allowing himself to slip into unconsciousness; placing himself at a disadvantage that could easily be exploited; abandoning his kin.

  Although he had eventually mastered the art of falling into slumber, he was never able to stay under for longer than two or three hours. He had also, during a fifty-year period, become accomplished at faking sleep, but had not needed to employ that skill for seventeen years. Neither did he need to continue retiring to bed and willing himself to sleep each night, but he continued nevertheless. He enjoyed it and derived some measure of comfort from it: the process reminded him of her.

  This December morning, as was his practice during winter months, Peter waited until four o’clock to sleep so that he would awake around first daylight. He liked to stay in bed awhile, yawning and stretching, allowing his senses to return gradually to full alertness, enjoying the cosiness of his bed. Unless a full bladder drove him out sooner—rare, due to the efficiency with which his body extracted every last microgram of nutrition from what he consumed—he’d lie there until he could hear the chattering of children passing on their way to school.

  Those sounds appeared later than usual this morning and were quieter than normal, muted, subdued.

  Peter got up, dressed and descended the creaking staircase. He had laid the fire before retiring to bed and he lit it before making breakfast. The day was chilly.

  He switched on the television and flicked between news channels as he ate his breakfast. It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for. It was only a brief report, a snippet, but it had begun.

  To stock footage of ambulances, doctors wear
ing face masks and patients attached to drips lying in hospital beds, the newscaster said, “Reports are coming in from Los Angeles of an outbreak of an as-yet unnamed flu-like illness that seems to be striking down the very young and the very elderly. Seven people are said to have died of the illness in Los Angeles County Hospital, while other unexplained deaths are being investigated to establish whether they, too, can be attributed to the mysterious disease. A spokesman for the hospital said, ‘This could be merely a minor outbreak of influenza that is quite usual for this time of year. It is possible that the victims had not been immunised. There is no cause for concern.’ In the meantime, four people are reported as having died in Sydney, Australia from a similar, flu-like illness. This report has not yet been confirmed.”

  The programme moved on to other items. Although the living room had warmed up somewhat as the fire did its job, Peter shivered. He turned the television off and finished his breakfast to the sound of logs spitting in the hearth.

  He had just finished washing the few breakfast dishes when there came a knock on the front door. Peter opened it to find the manager of the Land Rover garage in Cardiff on his doorstep. Behind him at the side of the kerb stood Peter’s Range Rover.

  “Mr Ronstadt, sir!” The manager brought his heels smartly together. “Your chariot awaits.” He brandished a set of keys and stood aside.

  Peter smiled and took the keys. He stepped outside and gave the vehicle a cursory examination. He opened the large boot and checked on the presence of the spare tyre. He nodded, satisfied.

  When he turned back, the manager was gazing at Peter’s cottage, a thoughtful expression on his face. As Peter watched him, trying not to smile, the man sneezed. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his nose. Then he coughed. Peter’s urge to smile faded.

  “Everything to your satisfaction, sir?” the manager enquired.

  “Perfectly,” said Peter.

  “Splendid. Er, Mr Ronstadt, if you don’t mind my asking, are you some sort of eccentric millionaire? Um, if that’s not too presumptuous a question. . . .”

  Now Peter did smile. “Something like that,” he said.

  A Rover saloon drew up behind the Range Rover. It was driven by a young man in a suit, though not the young salesman who had first approached Peter in the showroom on Saturday.

  “Ah,” said the manager, wiping his nose again. “My lift back to Cardiff. Not young Justin, though, I’m afraid. He rang in sick this morning.”

  “You don’t look so good yourself,” said Peter.

  “Yes. Seem to be coming down with something. And only last week on the news they were saying they weren’t expecting a flu outbreak this year.” He rolled his bloodshot eyes. “Bloody experts, eh?”

  “Listen, um . . . I don’t even know your name.”

  “Musgrove, sir. Adrian Musgrove.”

  “Listen, Adrian. Do you have a wife? Children?”

  “Why, yes. The wife’s off work today. A bit poorly. And both children are home from school. Running high temps.”

  “Go home. Shut up the showroom or leave someone else in charge. Whatever. But go home. Be with them.”

  “What? I can’t do that. Impossible.”

  Peter stepped forward and laid his hand on the man’s forearm. The manager’s eyes widened a little under the intensity of Peter’s gaze.

  “You need to be with your family, Adrian,” Peter said quietly. “Go home.”

  A look of confusion passed across the man’s face. Then his eyes cleared. “Go home? Hmm . . . yes, maybe I should do that.”

  “Yes, you most certainly should.” Peter released his forearm and shifted his grip to shake him firmly by the hand.

  He stood and watched as Adrian climbed into the passenger seat of the saloon. As the car pulled away, Adrian sneezed, startling the driver and making the car jerk slightly before it pulled smoothly away.

  * * * * *

  The reception class of Penmawr Primary School was down eight pupils and one teaching assistant on Tuesday. Mark came in, but his voice was husky and he frequently had to blow his nose.

  Tom abandoned the idea of a Nativity concert. Not one of the remaining ten children even mentioned it.

  The classes of older children fared slightly better, but each class had on average five pupils missing. Two teachers and three classroom assistants had rung in sick.

  Tom popped into the school office during morning break to ask if Lisa had rung in. The school secretary shook her head.

  “No, Tom, she hasn’t. But I spoke to her yesterday and she sounded terrible. There’s some bug doing the rounds and no mistake.” She coughed. “I think I’ve got a touch of it myself.”

  Before returning to the classroom, Tom sent Lisa a text:

  How r u feeling?

  She hadn’t responded by lunchtime and Tom felt a small worm of anxiety stir in his stomach.

  That afternoon, Tom arranged for three pupils to be collected by their parents. They had gone downhill drastically, eyes and noses running freely, weeping for their mums and shielding their eyes as though bathed in bright summer sunshine, not grey December gloom. Most of the remaining seven children in the class had become withdrawn and listless. Tom and Mark had never had it so easy, but Tom would have swapped it at the drop of a hat for a class full of unruly, healthy, normal five-year-olds.

  Mark, too, was deteriorating: his cheeks had become sunken and sallow, dark shadows had appeared beneath his eyes and a persistent cough had acquired the rough edges of a bark.

  Tom sent him home again at the children’s home time.

  “Mark,” he said as his assistant shuffled to the door. “Unless you’re feeling much better in the morning, don’t come in.”

  Mark attempted to smile, but it seemed too much effort and it became a grimace. He passed through the doorway and was gone.

  Tom never saw him again.

  * * * * *

  On Tuesday morning, the local cable news channels in the Los Angeles area showed a fuzzy still of a woman. She had been photographed from above, her right arm outstretched to a door as though about to enter the building. She was glancing up towards the camera, which had captured her image face-on.

  It was difficult to determine the woman’s age, though some estimates gave it at somewhere in her mid to late thirties. She was dressed in faded jeans and a thick, dark coat. A scarf covered her neck. Her hair appeared in the still to be mousey-brown or dusky blonde, reaching an inch or two below her shoulders. Over her left shoulder she clutched a small rucksack.

  Why the police wanted to talk to the woman was never quite made explicit. It was hinted that it had something to do with the recent outbreak of the mystery virus affecting some local inhabitants, but without linking her directly.

  Even if the photograph had been clearer and closer, the woman it showed had neutral, nondescript features and would never stand out in a crowd, though quite how it was possible to stand out in a crowd in Los Angeles was in any event a moot point. Needless to say, the news stations received hundreds of calls naming possible candidates as the mystery woman, but not one of them by the name of Diane Heidler.

  The woman who bore that name was motoring along Highway 15 in a blood-red car, heading north away from Los Angeles towards the Mojave Desert.

  * * * * *

  The Range Rover handled like a dream. Peter drove into the country, choosing twisty, winding B roads and hilly areas, growing accustomed to the gearbox. The steering was light and responsive for such a heavy vehicle, the brakes sharp and effective. Coming across a rutted farm track with the gate thrown wide and nobody in sight, Peter flicked the four-wheel drive switch and set off across the field, testing the vehicle’s suspension and ability to handle rough terrain. Both proved extremely satisfactory.

  Peter visited a large supermarket and stocked up with enough bottled water and canned goods to last a month’s siege. Although late morning on a weekday and he hadn’t expected the shop to be packed, the aisles were unusually quiet.
The shoppers were mainly middle-aged to elderly, quietly going about their business, exhibiting no obvious signs of illness. Yet, there seemed to Peter—and, yes, he was looking out for it—a certain antipathy, a listlessness, about the shoppers, as though they were merely going through the motions of normality.

  The shelves that normally contained fresh bread were half-empty as though there had been a rush of panic-buying, though there was no sign of feverish shopping activity. Peter asked a passing employee about it.

  “Short-staffed in the bakery, love,” the woman replied. “In fact, we’re short-staffed everywhere today. Lucky it’s not very busy.”

  “Some sort of virus doing the rounds, I expect,” said Peter, regretting that he had engaged the woman in conversation. He had to fight the urge to reach out and hug her.

  “Aye, I expect so,” said the woman. “Are you all right, love? You’re looking a bit peaky.”

  “I’m fine, fine,” said Peter, turning away. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Righto, love. Well, take it easy.” She went about her business, leaving Peter to brush angrily at the corners of his eyes. If holding a brief, banal conversation with a supermarket employee was going to affect him like this, how the heck was he going to get through the next few weeks?

  Peter added a loaf of fresh bread to his trolley. He didn’t have a freezer—his kitchenette was too small to hold one—and a loaf usually lasted him a few days, so it was pointless buying more. He also purchased meat—steaks, sausages, pork chops, a chicken—that he could fit into his tiny fridge and cook when required so he wouldn’t have to live off canned food alone for the next week. Finally, he added as much fresh fruit and vegetables as he calculated he would be able to eat before they started to rot.

  On his way to the checkout tills, he passed a display of batteries. He paused for a moment considering, then with a shrug added most of them to his trolley.

  He deliberately avoided engaging the checkout boy in conversation. This seemed to suit the boy who did his job disinterestedly and made no comment on the number of batteries, tins or bottles of water that he passed over the barcode reader. The boy sniffed frequently and coughed occasionally. He didn’t cover his mouth with his hand, not even when he sneezed, although he at least had the courtesy of turning away from Peter, instead spraying the back of the girl operating the till behind him.