by John Russo
“I can’t help hoping otherwise,” said Bill.
As he left Pete’s office, he despaired of the plague’s ongoing legacy of fear and despair, which made people give in to the raw primitive aspects of human nature, instead of clinging to the higher level of enlightenment that had been so hard-won down through the ages.
CHAPTER 41
In her office at the Chapel Grove Medical Research Institute, Dr. Traeger was hastily composing a report for Colonel Spence at the Homeland Security Department. It disgusted her that Dr. Miller, whom she had previously thought entirely trustworthy, had chosen to betray that trust. But at the same time she felt vindicated. She had advocated for a continuation of the Foster Project but had been denied, and now the stupidity of that denial was threatening to come home to roost. Therefore she hoped that she would quickly be able to gain approval for the renewed funding that she was urgently requesting.
In her cover letter, she admitted to Colonel Spence that she had harbored nagging suspicions about the children of the Foster Project, but had not suspected that they might be carriers of a disease as rare and exotic as porphyria. Deflecting blame from herself, she pointed out that it only manifested in children who were infected by the adoptees, not the adoptees themselves, and when those children were young their symptoms were too far too mild to accurately diagnose. She put the blame on Dr. Miller for not alerting her to what she now realized fully, that the more alarming symptoms only started appearing when certain of the children reached puberty. Up until then, they had always tested normal in every respect, and on that basis funding for the project had been discontinued. However, now that so much more was known, it was imperative to ascertain how many other children may have been infected by the Foster Project adoptees, and to zero in on which ones and subject them to intensive tests. That was why substantial additional funding was needed.
Thinking back over key events connected with the adoptees, Dr. Traeger recalled that Darius Hornsby had bitten Jodie Curtis, the detective’s daughter, when Jodie and Darius were both six years old. Over time, the event had faded in Dr. Traeger’s memory because it seemed for the succeeding years nothing much had come of it. Till now. She knew more now, and she searched her conscience for any trace of self-blame that she ought to accept, but she didn’t see how she could’ve drawn any different conclusions based on what she knew back then.
She pulled Darius’s file and reread it, in case there was something that she should not have missed. Something that should have alarmed her more, in other words. Darius’s biological father was Hal Rotini, the drummer of the rock band the Hateful Dead, druggies whose use of the infected needles had caused that terrible outbreak sixteen years ago. The mother, bitten by Rotini and turned into one of the undead, had given birth to Darius in Chapel Grove Hospital; then she had been dispatched, and her corpse had been cremated. The baby was subsequently adopted by a conservative, straitlaced CPA, Cyrus Hornsby, and his wife, Lila, a first-grade teacher. Darius had grown up with a fondness for music and at least a smidgen of talent, likely inherited from his low-life father.
Dr. Traeger did not see anything in the folder that pointed to culpability or willful error on her own part, so she put the folder back in her file cabinet and resumed writing her report. In her summation, she refrained from pointing out that she had argued that the Foster Project should not have been terminated in the first place. She hoped that Colonel Spence and the other bigwigs at HSD would realize that fact without having their noses rubbed in it, and would give her credit for her prescience.
She contemplated the evil tendencies that she had come to tentatively suspect in her adopted daughter and her closest friends. For the time being, she decided to hold back on voicing those suspicions, for her daughter’s sake, not wanting to prematurely place a stigma upon her. But she knew that withholding vital information, even conjecture, from the watchdogs of Homeland Security could cost her her freedom or even her life.
She elected to end her report on a bright, hopeful note. She reiterated that not only the children of the Foster Project, but also the others known to have recovered from bouts of porphyria, needed to be studied further. She stated that, since these others had recovered and afterward appeared every bit as normal as the ones who had likely infected them, the cure for porphyria, as well as for the plague itself, might be unveiled by more exhaustive, more sharply focused studies. She concluded by pointing out that much needed to be learned before the proper steps should be taken concerning the infected children, whatever those steps might ultimately turn out to be.
After she put her imprimatur on the report and handed it over to an armed courier, which was the prescribed procedure since e-mails were not trusted, she let herself into the lockdown wing where Kelly Ann Garfield was kept. She just wanted to talk with her for a while, without having to take notes. She had found, to her surprise, that with Kelly Ann she shared the closest thing to an intellectual rapport that had come her way ever since her husband’s accidental death. That is, if it actually had been an accident. It was obvious that Bill Curtis had suspicions, but they were squelched by the institute’s watchdog, Pete Danko, before they could amount to anything. On the day of her husband’s death, Dr. Traeger had been thankful that her daughter was let off the hook. But more and more, upon further reflection, she became increasingly uneasy about Kathy’s potential involvement. Daniel was so frail and crippled that perhaps an angry child could have pushed him down the stairs. Those disturbing kinds of thoughts kept Dr. Traeger awake at night, tossing and turning.
Kelly Ann was poorly educated, but she had good instincts, a sound intellect, and an offbeat sense of humor. Conversation with her was actually a delight. It seemed clear that with the proper advantages, like the ones Kathy was ignoring or even blatantly mocking, Kelly Ann could have had a long, meaningful life. A daughter like that would have made Dr. Traeger proud. Sometimes, in her more wistful dreams, she would treat Kelly Ann as her daughter, instead of Kathy, as if a transformation had occurred—but then she would suddenly wake up with tears running down her face, as disappointed as a little girl who had dreamed of having a pony only to have it vanish when the dream ended.
Kelly Ann was lying down watching a TV news channel when Dr. Traeger entered her room. She constantly had either the news or a documentary of some sort playing in front of her, as she tried to educate herself about what was currently going on in the world, since she had hopes of soon entering a new life of freedom. She also watched quite a few evangelical religious programs, but far from excluding all else. Dr. Traeger viewed this as a testament to her innate intellectual curiosity, and for now she wanted to nurture it, even though it was bound to lead to a dead end. She hung her lab coat on a hook behind the door, sat on the chair next to the bed, and said, “Let’s just chat informally. I’d like to know whatever you choose to tell me about yourself, without regard to any diagnostic issues.”
“I’d like to learn more about you, too,” Kelly Ann said. “You’re sort of my only friend. In prison I had only myself and my eight-foot cell.”
“We don’t need the TV, do we?” Dr. Traeger said. “I think its constant presence can insulate us from our thoughts.”
Kelly Ann picked up the remote and made the screen go blank. “I wish I could go to church,” she said after a long, thoughtful pause.
“You’ll be able to do that by and by,” Dr. Traeger lied.
“But when?”
“Soon. I promise you. In the meantime, nothing stops you from praying, right here in your room.”
“Most hospitals have a chapel. So do most prisons. Or at least visits from a chaplain. Why can’t I see a Baptist preacher, like that Reverend Carnes I’ve seen on television.”
“He’s a charlatan. Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t know what to think. He’s trying to do his best, as God gives him to see the light, and that’s all any of us can aspire to. I think his heart is in the right place. I wish I could talk with him about his beliefs.�
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“I’ll make it a point to allow you to meet him, as soon as you’re released.”
“Oh, good! I can hardly wait!”
“Do you give any credence to his preaching about the dead and how they must be spiked or burned?”
“I don’t know. I was almost glad I was safe in my cell when some of the epidemics broke out. But after my execution date became ironclad, I would have given anything to be let out, even if I had to battle a horde of zombies.”
“You wouldn’t want to become one of them, would you? They can’t easily be put to death.” Dr. Traeger chuckled to show she was making a macabre joke.
“Well, I ended up cheating death without becoming a flesh-eating zombie,” Kelly Ann said. “I’d rather die of a lethal injection than become one of them!”
Dr. Traeger resolved to keep this sentiment in mind when she decided her patient’s ultimate fate. She wished fervently that the decision would be taken out of her hands, but she couldn’t foresee any way that was possible. If she wanted her experiments to continue, she’d have to maintain her position as director of the institute, and she’d have to accept all the responsibilities, even the ugly ones. If she wavered, her own fate would surely be decided unfavorably by her superiors at the HSD. She lived all the days of her life in unmitigated dread of them and their bureaucracy. And this all-encompassing dread was amplified by her stark memory of Jamie Dugan in the room in the basement, his blood and brains splattered against the padded wall.
Pete Danko was a misogynist, a hater of women, and a skilled, enthusiastic torturer. Dr. Traeger had no doubt he would enjoy having her at his mercy. There was only one way to come out on top, where he was concerned. She dreamed of finding her long-sought-after cure for the plague, after which she was certain to receive a bonus of at least a million dollars, and then flying off to some quiet, enchanted place with Kelly Ann to live the rest of their lives together, as mother-and-daughter soul mates, in peace and seclusion.
But she knew it was pure fantasy.
Even if a cure for the plague came into being, and experimental subjects were no longer needed, any that remained would have to be destroyed. And if that happened there would be no way for her to save Kelly Ann.
CHAPTER 42
Kathy Traeger knew how pretty and innocent she looked in her long blue dress, pink blouse, and emerald beads, sitting all by herself in the sunlit cemetery. Most girls of sixteen would be scared to be alone here even though it was such a lovely and peaceful day. But Kathy wasn’t the least bit nervous. She was calm and watchful. She had positioned herself here as bait because she and her friends needed a special kind of sustenance and today they were going to get it from someone who richly deserved to become a donor.
Kathy had with her a butterfly collection that had actually belonged to her mother. She had no real interest in butterflies. They were a prop, for today only. She pretended to write on their labels, acting far too absorbed in her task to take much notice of what was going on around her.
But she knew she was being stalked. Brenda and Tricia had told her about the fellow who lurked in the cemetery. He had raped three of their classmates who had been too scared to report him. His name was Roger Dalton, and his wealthy parents were avid supporters and enablers, who always bailed him out of trouble. He never got any serious punishment for the hideous things he did, going back as far as grade school and junior high school. His mother and father paid for high-priced lawyers when they needed to, and even paid off his victims when they could.
Two years ago, he had been arrested by Bill Curtis, Jodie’s father, and was scheduled to go on trial until the thirteen-year-old girl he beat up and raped was pressured by her distraught and loving parents not to testify in court, for fear that she’d be ripped apart by Roger Dalton’s defense attorneys. Brenda and Tricia had asked Jodie if she remembered anything about that case, and Jodie told them that she had overheard her dad complaining to her mother that the girl’s parents had suddenly bought a new home about three months after the case was thrown out. He said that he felt like taking the law into his own hands sometimes, and this was one of those times. He said he didn’t blame the girl’s parents for at least extracting some money from the rapist. He warned Jodie to stay away from Roger Dalton, who was known to lurk in quiet, relatively unpopulated places, trolling for young girls to victimize. He didn’t usually stoop to hanging out in cemeteries, but Kathy and her friends had made a game of following him from time to time and found out that he often came here.
Now he was going to pay in blood for his life of rape and cruelty to women. How fitting and proper that this should be his fate!
Kathy risked a sneaky glance in his direction, and spotted the lecherous gleam in his eyes as he pretended to fuss with an ornament on a nearby grave. He was a bland-looking boy, only nineteen, dressed in sharply creased tan trousers and a green polo shirt. His outward appearance definitely did not inspire fear. The infamous serial killer Ted Bundy was the same way. Bundy had a harmless look about him, especially when he approached young women with a fake cast on his arm and asked them to help him wheel his bike or something.
Without even turning around, Kathy could feel Roger Dalton edging toward her, like a sixth sense or something, but she pretended to be unaware. She faked tinkering with the dead butterflies and resolved to burn them in the fireplace when she got home.
She whirled around just as Roger was lunging at her. She dropped the case of insects and grabbed his wrists. Surprisingly strong, she bent his wrists back till he moaned in pain as she stared fixedly at him, her flashing green eyes only inches from his face.
He gasped and trembled. His mouth gaped open and his eyes bulged.
Her incisors had become fangs!
She laughed at him, a weird, demonic, ululating sound that was bolstered by laughter from additional voices, louder and shriller, eerily amplified.
“C’mon, join the party!” Kathy called out.
Brenda and Tricia appeared from among the tombstones. Baring their fangs, they closed in on the would-be rapist. Kathy placed her fingers tenderly on Roger Dalton’s right shoulder, pushing him down slowly and effortlessly to the ground. He began to babble, saying that he never harmed anybody, and begging to go free.
The teenage girls converged upon him with their sharp, glistening fangs. He screamed when they began to bite into his flesh.
Kathy smiled at him as sweetly as she could, very much enjoying his terror. Then she bit into his jugular vein where the rich, salty blood flowed most easily. Soon he would become one of the undead. He would not have the honor of becoming a blood seeker, and he did not deserve to. Anyone bitten by fully transformed blood seekers after they had passed through puberty could not become like them. They could only become slaves. Flesh-eaters. Once living. Now living dead.
CHAPTER 43
Margaret Stein, Attorney Bennett Stein’s wife, parked her SUV in front of Mildred Hornsby’s house. To her disgust, she noticed Darius Hornsby’s garish van parked in the driveway. Bottling up her anger, she headed for the front door, but changed direction when she heard loud music coming from the backyard. She stopped short when she saw Tricia, Kathy, and Darius lounging on the patio in swimsuits, all three of them smoking cigars and swilling vodka straight from the bottle.
Darius eyed Margaret coolly. Her mouth dropped open, and she was suddenly fearful of him even though she was an adult and he was a juvenile.
He said sneeringly, “Well, hello, Mrs. Stein. Care for a slug of vodka? A fine Cuban cigar?”
“You better watch your mouth!” she scolded.
The kids laughed at her.
“Don’t laugh at me!’ she screeched at them. “I’ve had enough of your insolence! You all played hooky from youth group—rest assured I’m going to tell your parents!”
“My parents don’t give a shit,” said Darius.
“My dad didn’t give a shit either,” said Kathy. “All he cared about was his research.”
Mockingly,
Tricia asked, “Are you sure you won’t have a cigar, Mrs. Stein? They were my father’s, straight from Havana, on the black market.”
The kids giggled and took big drags.
Appalled at the snotty looks on their faces, Margaret fumed at them. “I see why you three didn’t come to church! This is a disgrace! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! Playing hooky is like giving God and Reverend Carnes a slap in the face!”
Kathy and Tricia giggled uproariously, passing the vodka bottle back and forth and swigging from it.
Darius said, “Hold on, Mrs. Stein. I’ll be at the weenie roast tomorrow night, and I have a strong hunch you’ll be there too.”
Margaret snapped, “I most certainly will not! The campfire cookout is for the boys only. I supervise the girls.”
Darius leered at her. He said, “Still, I happen to know that you will be there, even though you’re not planning on it. I’m looking forward to seeing you. It’ll be a delightful evening.”
“Nonsense! You’re drunk and disgusting! Where’s your mother, Tricia? I want to speak with her!”
The kids snickered.
“She’s . . . uh . . . indisposed,” Tricia fabricated. “You can’t see her now. But when you do see her you’re going to have a lot in common. Soul mates, that’s what you’ll be. You’re even going to enjoy meals together. My mother used to prefer Spanish cuisine, remember? But now you’re both going to like the same kind of food! And I’m not telling what kind that is! Can you guess, Margaret?”
Again the kids snickered.
Margaret took her cell phone from her purse. “All right, Miss Smart Mouth, if you won’t let me see your mother, I’m not playing games with you—I’m going to call the police. I’ll have you arrested. There are laws against underage drinking, and as a good citizen and the wife of an attorney, I’m compelled to report you.”