Parasite

by Patrick Logan

  A smile slipped onto Carter’s face, and he again adjusted the white collar around his neck, which seemed to be just a little too tight for his liking.

  The man he had in mind was big, black, and had a star on his chest. Word was, the sheriff may need him just as much as Father Carter Duke needed him.

  Ah, ye of mutual benefit.

  Two of Carter’s favorite words—mutual and benefit.

  Carter finished his beer and stood, tossing the empty bottle on the dirt ground.

  “Dangerous, sure,” he said, the smile still plastered on his face. He gave Pike a friendly pat on the back. “But that’s why I have you, isn’t it?”

  Pike looked up at him, but he still wasn’t smiling.

  It was of no matter; the man rarely smiled, and Carter didn’t blame him for not smiling now.

  It was time to get to work.

  24.

  It came as a surprise to Greg Griddle as he made his way down the narrow white hallway that he was in Askergan County Hospital. It was a surprise because Greg didn’t think that a place with a population of somewhere around three thousand warranted their own hospital. But it was an old building, which was evident by the peeling paint and the warped linoleum floors, and he assumed that it had been grandfathered in—a relic of times gone by that still maintained some utility. In a way, this was a blessing, because if he had been shipped to an adjacent county—Darborough, or maybe Pekinish—then his plan would have been more complicated. As it was, being in the Askergan hospital meant he was more likely to find out the answers that he sought.

  Old hospitals like this one usually didn’t have much in the way of security, or even key passes to gain access to the morgue. And they were almost always located in the basement in these old buildings.

  Which was where he was headed now.

  Greg passed a doorway, and his reflection literally stopped him cold.

  Jesus, this can’t be me, can it?

  But as he brought his hands up to his face and pulled the sallow flesh beneath his eyes, it was obvious that this was, in fact, him.

  Greg used his hands to try and part his hair, to make it settle down on his head. It responded, which at first was surprising, but as he leaned closer to his reflection, he realized that it was the grit and grime that made his hair so pliable. His first instinct was to use his t-shirt to wipe the soot from his hair and face, but a glance downward revealed that this would not only be futile, but it would make things worse—clearly, with the sheer volume of patients that had been admitted during Askergan’s darkest hour, the nurses hadn’t had time to strip him of his clothes and put him in a hospital gown. Greg was still wearing the same t-shirt and jeans that he had been when he had roared up to the station in his wounded Chevelle—which could have been two, three, maybe even four days for all he knew. His shirt was filthy, covered in not just dirt and ash, but also with a tacky white substance reminiscent of molten marshmallows.

  Marshmallows… Kent had been so pissed when Tyler had stolen his marshmallow. So pissed, and he had been pouting again.

  The fresh tears were helpful in that they cleared some of the black streaks on his face, but he quickly wiped them away.

  Now was not a time for crying—soon, after he found out why Corina had made it out of the basement and Kent hadn’t, there would be plenty of time to cry.

  And reminisce.

  “You’re a master baiter, Kent.”

  The hallway was predictably packed after what had happened in Askergan, which was a blessing: no one took notice of the dirty man in the blackened clothes wandering around like a drunk. And the chaos also meant that he had no problem locating an abandoned nurse’s cart pushed off to one side. A quick glance revealed a clean towel, and he immediately snatched both, barely pausing to spray it with some alcohol. He was about to continue down the hallway when he noticed a fresh set of scrubs on the lower shelf, sticking partway out of the half-closed sliding door. He grabbed these too, then ducked into the next doorway he passed.

  The room that Greg entered—room 230—was identical to the one he had woken up in. A quick glance revealed that the only bed in the room, also identical to the one which he had lain in when Nancy had entered, was occupied, but the elderly man lying on it was breathing rhythmically, his eyes closed. The top line on the beeping monitor read, Simon Bodkin, M, 68 y/o, followed by a random stream of numbers that Greg didn’t understand.

  For a moment, the sight of the old man lying alone in the bed caused his heart to flutter. There were deep grooves etched in his wrinkled face, ones that were evidence of one of two things: a hard life, or wisdom and experience. Greg was tempted to walk over to the man, to get a better look at him, to maybe stroke his forehead and hold his hand. It was strange, this feeling, and somewhere deep down he knew it was a longing to feel something for an old man, someone that he might be able to love, to care for.

  A father, one so very much unlike his own.

  Years ago when he had left home, he had made a solemn promise to himself, one that until a few days ago he had diligently kept.

  I will never treat my son the way I was treated. Not only will I not be the source of his anguish, I will protect him from everything.

  But the crackers had stolen his boy from him, and he had let it happen.

  Greg clenched his jaw.

  “Fuck you, Dad,” he hissed, then added, “Fuck you, Simon Bodkin, whoever you are.”

  Pulling his gaze from the man, he used the damp cloth to quickly wipe his face and arms, trying to clear off most of the grime. After a few strokes, however, the cloth had turned completely black and become useless. He glanced about the room for another, and while he saw a pile of fresh towels by the sink, before he could move, the man on the bed groaned and his eyes flickered.

  Greg abandoned getting another towel and instead tore off his shirt and tossed it on the chair. Then he put on the top scrub. He debated putting on the bottoms too, but his jeans weren’t that dirty, at least not compared to his shirt, and a quick tap on his back pocket revealed that his wallet was still there. The scrubs, on the other hand, didn’t have any pockets.

  Pockets… wallet…

  A plan was already formulating in his mind, and he knew that if he wanted to get into the morgue to see his son, he would need his wallet and his business cards.

  It dawned on him that he would also need his car, which was…

  Greg racked his brain.

  Did I drive it to the Estate?

  He thought he might have—but whether it was at the Estate or back at the station didn’t matter, he realized; either way, it was clearly no longer accessible.

  Simon Bodkin groaned again, and Greg’s eyes darted to his face. The man’s sagging cheek was twitching in obvious pain. Allowing his eyes to drift, he spotted a set of car keys lying on the table beside the man’s bed.

  Jaw still clenched, Greg strode across the room and snatched up the sleeping man’s car keys, noting the Mazda symbol on the electronic fob.

  Wallet… cards… and now car.

  He offered one final glance to the man on the bed, and was shocked to see that it wasn’t Simon Bodkin anymore, but someone else.

  It was the face of his father, who for so many years had abused and tormented him, the underlying reasons for which had never come to the fore.

  “Fuck you, Dad,” Gregory Griddle spat, then turned and left room 230.

  * * *

  “Hi,” Greg said, trying to lay on his most charming smile.

  It was all for naught, as the woman behind the desk in the pink scrubs didn’t even seem to notice him. Instead, she quickly flipped through a couple of pages on the notepad in front of her.

  Her lips turned into a frown.

  “Jane? Do you know what happened to—” She flipped another few pages. “—Mr. Simon Bodkin? Says here he’s supposed to be in room 203, but the computer is showing that that room is empty.”

  For a second, Greg was taken aback.

  Simon Bod
kin.

  That had been the name of the man in the room that he had changed in.

  What are the odds?

  Greg shook his head and tried to refocus as he waited patiently while another woman, an older woman with stark white hair, lifted her head from her computer screen.

  “203? You sure? Computer is saying that Mr. Bodkin is in 302?”

  “302?”

  “302. Oh, and you have company.”

  The first woman, a thick-skinned black woman, finally lifted her gaze. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Greg standing in front of her. He tried his best to keep his winning smile plastered on his handsome face.

  “Hi,” he said again.

  Sell… you’re a salesman, for Christ’s sake, now sell.

  “Hi,” she replied curtly, raising a painted eyebrow. “Can I help you with something? Are you looking for—?”

  “My name is Greg,” he interrupted. “And I know that you are really busy—I mean really, really busy—and my timing couldn’t be worse.”

  He coughed into his sleeve; coughing and keeping a smile on his face at the same time was much harder than it looked.

  The woman’s eyebrow traveled so high up on her forehead now that he thought it might roll right over the top and become part of her hair that was pulled back in a tight bun.

  You’re losing her.

  “But—” He rubbed a hand on his still dirty face. “—I’ve had one hell of a day. But I can see that everyone in Askergan has. See, I’m not from Askergan, I came here because Dr. Drake invited me.”

  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. After flipping through several cards, he found his business card and held it out to her.

  The nurse in the pink outfit just stared at it, making no move to grab it.

  “I’m sorry, but this is—”

  Greg held up his hand.

  “The worst timing ever? I know, I know. But look at me. This was the worst time to come here. And I’m really in”—he lowered his voice—“deep shit here, if you catch my drift. I drove all the way from Lancaster, begged my boss to let me go. I’ve had three warnings already, missed my sales quota for three straight months. I just need to see Dr. Drake for a minute. Just a minute, to tell him about these new defibs that we are selling.”

  There was a pause, and Greg waited. He could see the woman’s hazel eyes soften, but her lips remained pursed together.

  “This is the worst time,” she said simply.

  Greg nodded.

  “I know, I know. And I get that Dr. Drake won’t be buying anything today, obviously. Still, I need to see him. If my boss calls and Dr. Drake says he never met with me, it won’t matter if the apocalypse descended on Askergan, it’ll be my ass.”

  He had debated using something other than defibrillators as the object that he was selling—after all, he wanted to get into the morgue, not the ER—but it wouldn’t sound genuine. After all, that was what he sold. Besides, he doubted with what was going on that the nurse would put two and two together.

  “I don’t know a Dr. Drake,” she said, then turned to her colleague, who had since receded behind her computer again. “Jane? You know a Dr. Drake?”

  “Nuh-uh. Don’t know a Dr. Drake.”

  The woman turned back to him and shrugged.

  Greg raised his hand again.

  “It’s okay, I don’t need to speak to him. I just need to speak to someone in the morgue, in case my boss calls. Doesn’t matter who it is. And, again, I get it. Not selling today, and that’s cool. I also know that you could care less about defibs. But, please, I’ve had one hell of a night, and I don’t want to lose my job.”

  He could tell that the woman before him was torn, which was a good thing, and he debated adding more, but he didn’t want to come on too strong.

  Let her answer; let her come to me now.

  There was an awkward pause, and Greg’s cheeks started to burn from the fake smile he was still sporting.

  “And you just want to see anyone in pathology? Dr. Gilbert should be around here somewhere, but I doubt she’ll give you even a second. But if you wait here, you might be able to walk with her. No promises, though.” She indicated a lone chair against the side wall. “You can wait there.”

  Not good.

  Greg’s gaze drifted to the door at the end of the hallway, the one with red block letters that read “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.”

  He shook his head slowly.

  “This sucks, I know. Like, I really know. But if I could only go in there”—he indicated the door—“just for a minute, I think I might be able to keep my job for another month. Please.”

  The woman looked at him quizzically, then turned back to Jane, who had an identical look on her face.

  “Here,” Greg said, holding out the card again. “Please, take my card.”

  When she turned back to Jane again and the woman shrugged, Greg knew he had her. His narrative had been nearly flawless; first convincing her that he wasn’t some sort of pervert, and then disarming her. After all, what was the worst he could do? It was the morgue, and everyone in there was already dead…

  The smile on his face had become genuine.

  “There someone in there, Jane?”

  “Yeah—the specialist that the sheriff called in.”

  The woman turned back to Greg.

  “One minute,” she said, her lips pressing together again. “Just one. Don’t make me come in there to get you. In and out, that’s it. Talk to whoever is in there about your defibs and then out again. And I’m only doing this so that you can keep your job. That’s it.”

  “I swear,” Greg replied, already backing toward the door. “And thank you, thank you so much.”

  He turned to the door, but then paused.

  “Oh, and Mr. Bodkin is in room 230, not 302,” he told the ladies, his hand finding the set of car keys in his pocket. A pang of guilt struck him, but this quickly vanished when he pushed through the doors marked “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.”

  25.

  There were bodies everywhere. And it was the sheer number of them, as opposed to the individual injuries—although, in some cases, these were horrible enough—that made Greg’s stomach turn.

  Unlike his son, he had seen his share of dead bodies, but this—this was too much.

  Bodies were piled four or five deep on top of gurneys that were meant for one person. There were stacks of bodies on the floor, pushed up against the wall like dust or dirt swept to one side.

  Greg swallowed hard. As a medical device salesman, he had seen dead bodies before, but not this many and not like this.

  He tried to compartmentalize what he was seeing, trying to consider the bodies as items and not once living, breathing people. He tried to focus, to try and concentrate on the reason why he was here in the first place.

  Kent. Where are you, Kent?

  But this seemed a near impossible task. The piles of bodies weren’t inventory like bonbons or rakes or pieces of lumber; these were loved ones. And there were so many of them—so many lives lost.

  His mind flicked back to the woman in the lobby, the one that had hesitantly let him in the morgue. She could not have seen this—if she had, there was no possible way that she would have let him in here.

  This was… it was horrible.

  Greg saw men, women, even children, their tiny bodies placed—thankfully—off to one side by themselves. It wasn’t really possible for him to count, but Greg thought that the room must have had forty or fifty bodies.

  “About time,” a voice from the back of the room sounded. Greg’s blood ran cold. “I need all the help I can get.”

  Greg’s mind churned as he decided what to do next.

  “Hello?”

  Greg finally spotted the woman, and he knew instantly that his defib ‘help me keep my job’ story wouldn’t work with this woman. No, this woman was… different.

  She had short brown hair that was tucked behind both ears, and vibrant blue eyes that st
ood out on her tanned skin. Pouty lips, a small upturned nose, and a figure that he could make out even beneath her lab coat: small and tight, but curvy, too.

  She was cute, bordering on beautiful, but she was also smart. Greg could tell this just by looking at her—he could see it in her eyes.

  No, the ‘missed my quota’ would never fly with this woman.

  And when he didn’t respond immediately, she sensed something was off and her eyes immediately narrowed.

  “You’re wearing scrubs… the top at least… but you aren’t a nurse or doctor. And Sheriff White never said anything about another deputy.” She looked him up and down. “Besides, no deputy would wear those filthy jeans in the morgue. So, who are you?”

  Greg’s face went slack. He was sick of lying and trying to remain calm. His son, his champ, was dead. And he had meant everything.

  “Greg, my name is Greg—I’m just a father looking for my boy.”

  The woman’s tight expression immediately softened.

  “Did your boy go to the school?” she asked gently.

  Greg looked up.

  “School?”

  “Wellwood Elementary.”

  He shook his head.

  “No… he was… he was at the house.”

  The woman stared at him for a second.

  The house.

  Then she nodded.

  “I’m so sorry—so sorry.”

  Then she gestured for him to move toward her, and Greg obliged, doing his best to avoid the piles of dead bodies. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught strange shapes buried underneath their dead skin, outlines that could only be one thing: crackers.

  His breathing was coming in short, terse bursts.

  The woman grabbed his hand when he was near, and then pulled him toward a gurney off to one side.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” the woman whispered. “But I’m a parent too.”