The Pumpkin Seed Massacre

by Susan Slater

  It had been somewhat of a fluke that he had even discovered a virus that attacked the lungs. He had toyed with altering Puumala, the virus carried by voles. He had even trapped some voles in Scandinavia, where the vole population rises and falls on a four year cycle. But the carriers were difficult to work with, and he had abandoned the experiment in favor of the Norwegian brown rat. But it was the brown rat’s cousin, the bandicoot, who tested positive for a Hantavirus that could be manipulated and changed in form without diluting its virility.

  A buzzer sounded and a red glassed globe by the four-inch-thick steel door blinked a warning and interrupted his thoughts. Douglas must be here. He’d make him meet out front by the insect cages. That would ensure that the meeting would be short.

  “Is this place safe?” Douglas Anderson wiped his face with a white handkerchief as he stepped into the lab. Tony thought he let it linger over his nose and mouth.

  “Do you mean is the air filtered?” Tony explained the ventilation system that was linked to massive filtration machines that whirred and hummed twenty-four hours a day and pumped fresh air throughout the lab. Because aerosols from the rodents were so deadly, he designed a system that swept them into a hood that kept them separated from air from other parts of the lab. They were filtered by their own smaller system. He had thought of everything. He had been thorough.

  “I don’t doubt you. I’m just damned upset by this ... thing getting loose, spreading like it is. The casino’s underway, but nobody’s going to gamble out there if they’re afraid for their lives. Isn’t someone going to suspect the suddenness of its appearance? Wonder where it came from originally?”

  “The papers are emphasizing the fact that there’s lots of deadly stuff around—stuff the public has no idea exists. Most of it is simply untraceable and lies dormant for centuries, then bingo—half a dozen people die. One researcher called our little flu a ‘metaphorical mayfly,’ like the insect that lies dormant underwater for years then surfaces and lives only a few days.”

  “So, what are you saying?” Douglas sounded peeved.

  “That no one is pointing a finger at humans as the cause. I’ve been careful. Don’t you believe that?” Tony waited for Douglas’s nod.

  “Yes, yes, but tell me again why they won’t suspect human intervention.”

  Patiently, Tony reiterated, “I have access to a strain of virus that in its natural state is transmitted by the saliva, urine and feces of the bandicoot.”

  “Bandicoot?”

  “A very large rat over two feet long.”

  “I’ve never heard of the animal.”

  “Comes from India. It has some long-clawed cousins in Australia—insectivorous marsupials from the genus Nesokia,” Tony warmed to his subject, “They have long snouts and thin closed ears—”

  “I don’t share your enthusiasm for vermin.” Douglas interrupted. “What does this have to do with the virus?”

  “In the laboratory, I altered the virus so that it was deadly if ingested by someone over fifty. It was no longer a virus but still acted like one. I was able to contaminate foodstuffs, things with shells worked best—that’s why we chose pumpkin seeds, something with a hard outer coating, and something the governor relished.”

  “How many did he have to eat?” Douglas asked.

  “Three or four. Not many. He obviously shared them with friends.”

  “There’s no way that anyone could have gotten sick from just handling them?”

  “No. Originally, the people had to eat them but now, it’s apparent that a genus related animal ingested seeds from the packet; that animal then became a carrier and reintroduced the virus into its surroundings. I had hoped the governor would simply eat them, not feed them to chipmunks.” Tony laughed uproariously.

  Douglas seemed pacified. Tony watched as Douglas’s eyes roamed the room, taking in the glass-walled homes of thousands of brown and black insects. Some, Tony was proud to point out, measured over four inches in length. The oldest came with a certificate verifying it to be seventy-three years old. And still virile, Tony found out.

  “I helped myself to some rodents in the pueblo area and found two carriers. Now that the CDC has given the virus a name, it’ll take steps to stop it.” Tony said.

  “What will they do?” Douglas asked.

  “Oh, let’s see, continue to trap various animals, especially mice. Now that they’ve isolated the culprit, they’ll go in and trap on a grand scale, educate the public about rodent control and everything should die down.”

  “This isn’t what we had planned. I can’t believe this is happening.”

  Tony watched the agitated elder Anderson pace close to the cages along the side wall.

  “Jesus, these things make me nervous. How can you stand to stay cooped up with them all day?” Douglas began to absently scratch under his collar.

  “They’re quiet.” Tony said. He watched Douglas look at him closely, but there was no hint of a smile. “The only way anyone would be suspicious is if the original seeds were analyzed. But the pouch and the seeds are long gone, right?” Tony asked.

  “Right.” Douglas said and silently cursed Johnson Yepa. Maybe someone needed to go out there and put the fear of God in him. Face to face. Nothing he could misinterpret as witchcraft. He thought he had just the right person for the job—if he could trust that person not to be too rough. But maybe that was called for now. They couldn’t afford any slip-ups. Too much was at stake.

  + + +

  The bumpy pink cuticle of his little finger had traces of blood along the nail base. Johnson didn’t even know anymore when he was gnawing on his fingers. Nerves. He should be on top of the world. He had only to walk to the door of his office to hear the sounds of all his hopes and dreams coming true. The Andersons had brought the earthmoving equipment back. The party had been a roaring success. His picture had been in the paper. The powerboat would be delivered today. His wife had started fixing him meals again. But there was that little matter of the pumpkin seeds.

  How had Dr. Black come to have a small bag of the seeds? Did Mary Toya give them to him? And, if so, why? A film of perspiration broke out on his forehead and upper lip. And then this morning when he took the box of patent loafers out from behind the Bronco’s front seat, exactly where he had left them after the party, there had been only one shoe in the box. Only the right shoe nestled untouched in the tissue paper. Someone had taken the left one to cast a spell. Someone who wanted to do him harm? Or just warn him?

  “I need your signature on these consultant contracts with Anderson and Anderson Investments, Inc.” Mary stood in front of him with a stack of papers. Johnson looked up and then it came to him. Maybe he could find out some answers on his own. Quickly he began opening and closing the drawers in his desk.

  “Mary, didn’t the governor keep a sack of pumpkin seeds around here somewhere? I remember he had a basket full on his desk.”

  “I took them with me after I cleaned the office.”

  “Do you remember what you did with them?” He looked up. Uh oh. He’d have to back off. He saw Mary’s eyes flicker. Did she remember something? Did she wonder why he was asking? She was staring past him fixed on a point over his right shoulder but not seeing.

  “I don’t know why there’s all this fuss. Dr. Black was asking about pumpkin seeds the other night.”

  “He was?” Johnson feigned surprise and hoped the trickle of sweat that was creeping along in front of his ear wasn’t noticeable.

  “Some tourist got sick. A little girl from Illinois. Seems she was allergic to them. I’d forgotten that I took some to Santa Fe with me.”

  “Well,” Johnson forced a laugh, “guess I don’t want those for my mid-morning snack.” He signed the papers and watched Mary leave the room. However Dr. Black had gotten the seeds, he didn’t have them anymore. Maybe Johnson’s bad luck was really good luck. The spirits directed him to the lab and gave him the evidence. He could feel the anvil-heavy weight rise from his chest. He’d get
that trailer hitch put on the Bronco and pick up his boat. And maybe he’d see the medicine man about a cleansing ceremony. A person couldn’t be too careful.

  + + +

  “So what’s the plan? We better get some warnings out in the pueblo. Tell people what to avoid. How ’bout pamphlets?” The lab tech sat in the front row of the hospital’s crowded conference room.

  “Limited impact,” Sandy said. “We need something more visual and personal.”

  “Is fresh mouse urine still the number one suspect?” A nurse asked.

  “Yes. Aerosols float through the air and can be inhaled,” Sandy said.

  “We could do a video. All the docs could wear Mouseketeer caps and pee on ...” The rest of the young physician’s sentence was drowned by laughter.

  “Sexist. I’m a doc and I’m not going to pee on anything in front of a camera,” a woman in the front row yelled. More laughter.

  Sandy waited until he had their attention again.

  “Nothing beats blanketing the earth with good old fashioned posters.” Ben spoke up from where he was sitting on the floor.

  “You’re probably right. I was also thinking of canvassing the pueblo—a door-to-door warning—answer any questions at the same time.” Sandy saw Twila sitting three rows from the front. “Twila, could you help me organize something like that?”

  “We’ll have problems making people believe the virus is carried by mouse droppings.” This from an Indian aide in the back.

  “We’ve got to make them believe it. Think of the surge in cases this fall when rodents move indoors,” Ben said.

  “I may have proof that foodstuffs contaminated with dried urine caused the virus in a child. Nancy, have you finished testing the pumpkin seeds I gave you?”

  “Dr. Black, the, uh, seeds ... the packet seems to have been misplaced.”

  “Misplaced? So, you haven’t run any tests?”

  Nancy shook her head.

  Sloppy. Granted, the lab had been chaos lately, but there was no excuse for this. “I expect you to keep looking for it. Let’s proceed as if dry feces is a factor.” Sandy didn’t care if the anger showed in his voice.

  “What about getting a list of precautions out to the public?”

  “Good idea. Ben, check with Julie,” Sandy said.

  “What are high risk activities?” a nurse asked.

  “Gathering piñon nuts from rodent nests, cleaning out barns, working in the garden …”

  “What about camping?” a man in back called out.

  “Any sleeping on the ground should be discouraged.”

  “How close are we to a diagnostic test?” a physician asked.

  “Not very. But it has priority. Anything else?” Sandy scanned the group. “Let’s keep close tabs on our allergy and asthma patients. Meeting adjourned.”

  “Mary Toya called.” Gloria handed him a stack of phone messages.

  “What did she want?”

  “Wanted to make sure I told you that she was the one who had given the pumpkin seeds to the little girl.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “She got the seeds from the governor. He had them in the office. After he died, she took them home. She feels terrible that she might have made someone sick.”

  “It wasn’t her fault,” Sandy said.

  It made an even stronger case for dried mouse droppings being carriers. He’d have to check with Bernie at the grocery. Maybe he didn’t keep his bulk merchandise in closed containers. And if he had a mouse problem in his storeroom, the combination could be deadly.

  + + +

  “What do you think, Mr. Yepa? Isn’t she a beauty?” The sales manager wiped his sleeve along a piece of chrome on the bow. “Decided where you’re going to keep her?”

  “Elephant Butte.” Johnson gazed at the gleaming whiteness of the hull interrupted by silver detailing that ran the length of the body, a chain of feathers linked to a webbed circle one foot in diameter on the starboard side. The Dream Catcher. The name was done in script and unfurled like a banner above the symbol. The symbol was meticulously painted, every wisp of feather and bit of string was knotted and strung to look like a spider’s web. From the center, a long twisted rope of eagle feathers fluttered to one side. It looked so real. Johnson reached up and ran his hand over the flat fiberglass surface.

  Johnson wasn’t happy about using a Plains Indian symbol, but it fit. The symbol and name were right. The legend told of bad dreams that could get caught in the web, while good dreams float through freely. He had bad dreams now. People calling to him from the other side. Beckoning him to follow.

  “If you’ll step this way, Mr. Yepa. We can finalize the papers.” Johnson was reluctant to leave the boat, but he followed the man into the showroom.

  “Let’s see. You put ten thousand dollars down. The special paint job added another four thousand three hundred and change.”

  The salesman punched the numbers into a calculator and filled in some blanks on a form. “Boy, were you smart to have that paint job done at the factory. Had a friend who towed his boat over to an artist’s backyard. Before the guy could even get to it, vandals just about destroyed it. Shame. Don’t think it was ever the same. No. You take this baby to the lake and put her under lock and key.” The salesman turned the contract toward Johnson. “Looks like you’re on your way as soon as I get another fifty-seven thousand, four hundred and thirty-two dollars. I rounded that off so we won’t have to worry about the small stuff. Will that be a check or bank draft?”

  “Cash,” Johnson said. He opened a briefcase and emptied its contents on the table.

  “Cash? Weren’t you afraid walking around with all that money? You’re braver than I am. It’s tough out there even in the best neighborhoods. Let me count this, and I’ll be right back with your receipt.”

  + + +

  The lapping of the water against the boat’s sides was soothing. Johnson stretched out on the decking behind the wheel house and baked in the sun. He had taken off his shirt, rolled up the legs of his jeans to his knees and covered his eyes with a towel. Reflected light from the boat’s white surface both blinded and comforted him. Seven feet above the water, he was enthroned in blazing whiteness. He relaxed and listened to the shrieks of water skiers. Snatches of conversation from picnicking families drifted over the marina. Number seventy-three. It felt right, The Dream Catcher’s new home.

  He dozed, letting the gentle motion of the boat pull the tiredness from his muscles. The first drops of rain startled him. Opening one eye, he squinted up at the sky. Blue. Above, to the right, to the left. Not a cloud. Three more splats of water smacked his forehead, chest and crotch. Swiftly, he rolled to the side and stared at the boat tied next to him. Five feet away a grinning ten-year-old stared back, a bazooka water gun at his side.

  “Don’t bother me,” Johnson said. He tried to look mean but thought he hadn’t succeeded when the boy didn’t budge.

  “You got any kids I can play with?”

  “No,” Johnson said.

  “How come you don’t go out on the lake?”

  “I will later.”

  But Johnson knew that was a lie. It had never dawned on him that he might need lessons before he could take her out on his own. Two young men had maneuvered The Dream Catcher through the tangle of boats docked at the marina and into number seventy-three slip. He wasn’t sure how he was going to back her out and steer around the moored boats, not to mention the boats coming in and going out. No, it was a problem he hadn’t anticipated.

  Johnson looked over the side. The boy with the water gun was gone. Elephant Butte always had big crowds on weekends when the weather was nice. People with families. Maybe he should have chosen Lake Powell or even Navajo Lake. No. The Butte was closer. And he didn’t really care if he went out on the water. This was comfortable.

  TEN

  The poster was plain. A large red, barred circle over the caricature of a somewhat startled looking mouse. The whole thing was two and a h
alf feet by three feet on a black background, big enough to get attention. Ben handed Julie a box of push pins and a roll of masking tape. She was sorting the posters into groups of four.

  “Do you think we have enough?” she asked.

  “Forty should do it. I vote we go together. That way I know you won’t get lost.” He noted with a jolt that he had wanted her to smile. But she hadn’t. She had been quiet, subdued. Was she angry because he hadn’t called? Wasn’t this the thing he hated most about relationships? The veiled demands. And he felt himself pulling away—her career, the decision that he had to make about school ... the time wasn’t right. Or, was he just plain afraid he might get too serious and get hurt? They met in the Tewa Community Center to organize the poster campaign before putting anything up around the village. Ben promised to help find some rodent burrows afterward that could be filmed as part of Julie’s series on Hantavirus warnings.

  “Julie. I think we need to talk about us.” Ben took the posters from her and put them on the table and turned her to face him. But touching her made it difficult to talk to her. He stepped back.

  “What is there to talk about?” Her voice was even, unemotional.

  So far, so good, he thought. “I’ve decided to go back to school, on scholarship, part of a pay-back program with IHS.”

  “How soon?”

  “January.”

  “Do you know where yet?”

  “Probably East Coast.”

  “Psychology?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think that’s great. You’ll be good.” Her smile was genuine, but her voice lacked enthusiasm.

  “And you?”

  “A year or two at the station here—hopefully as evening anchor—and then probably Los Angeles or Seattle.”

  “A little tough on romance.”

  “A lot tough on romance.” Julie smiled ruefully. Ben fought an urge to kiss her, hold her, unbutton the blue chambray shirt