The Plague Years (Book 1): Hell is Empty and All the Devils Are Here

by Rounds, Mark

  “Now I need to bring up something. You all know I live in a condo near Ginger’s school. It is convenient as all get out to have her walk to school but, let me be blunt, if it gets as bad as Chad and Dave say it might, I can’t live there anymore. There are lots of migrants who come through visiting family. They are by and large wonderful people, but I read between the lines of the news reports. I have child support from ‘what’s his name’ and my salary from Bookwalter’s, but I don’t have much put away. I can’t move anywhere close unless ….”

  “Heather, you can always come and live here like you did when you first left him,” said Mary.

  “I have a three bedroom two bath house and all I use is the master bedroom, kitchen and the den,” said Dave. “You are welcome to use as much of the rest of the place as you want. I promise this isn’t a come on, but place is kind of lonely there all by myself.”

  “Dave, you are a sweet man,” Said Heather. “I accept.”

  “And I think we all need another drink,” said Mary as she led the procession back to her patio.

  Chapter 4

  May 8th, Monday, 2:31am PDT

  Macklin was slouching against a car that he had bought that day for just five hundred dollars in the parking lot of Walmart. Even then, he thought the previous owner got the better end of the deal. He was waiting for a guy named Carlos. His contact had given him the number to call if he had something ‘special’ to sell. In an attempt to blend in, Macklin was wearing a dark blue hoodie, ratty looking jeans and some old running shoes. He hoped that if he kept the hood up, no one would see his high and tight haircut.

  After waiting what seemed like an eternity, a well-muscled Hispanic man pulled up in a rusty red Ford Mustang. The car was deceptive. While it looked like it had been through the hammer mill, the engine burbled with the sound of a well-tuned, high performance, small block V-8. The tires were black walled and non-descript but new low profile performance tires.

  “I am Carlos,” said the Hispanic man. “So, you said you might have something for me?”

  “Yeah, I have two kilos of Slash and another of White Heaven.”

  “Where did you get that, white boy?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Macklin trying to sound unconcerned. “You want it?”

  “How do I know you are not cop, mother fucker?”

  “You don’t,” said Macklin. “But I am not. I have the stuff, I need to sell. Are you making the deal or do I move on?”

  “Need to sell?” said Carlos suspiciously. “You rip this off from some other gang? Is there some big mother fuckers gonna come looking for it?”

  “Look,” said Macklin reasonably, “You are right, I am a cop.”

  Carlos looked around and in a panic started backing away.

  “Calm down, it’s not what you think. I got into the evidence room is all. I didn’t have to sign in; no one knew I was there. I grabbed what was in the back, you know the cold cases, stuff no one will miss. I have needs, we can make a deal?”

  “We can gringo,” said Carlos now all smiles. “But the price is gonna make you scream and if there is any trouble, the word goes out that you sold the drugs, you know what that means, don’t you gringo?”

  “I know,” said Macklin with a smile.

  May 9th, Monday, 8:30 am PDT

  Sergeant Chris Vaughn had time on his hands. After he had finished his paperwork over the shooting at the I-82 interchange, he had been put on administrative leave pending the outcome the “routine” criminal investigation was complete. His captain had assured him that it was a ‘good shoot’ and he shouldn’t worry. He had spent all of Friday and a good part of Saturday writing up his report and making his deposition about the shooting. Because of who was involved and where it happened, the highway patrol, Benton County Sheriff, and the Renton PD folks all had to ask the same questions. Then he slept until about noon on Sunday and later, when boredom over took him, went to a local tavern to drink a couple of beers with a couple of buddies and watch the Mariners lose to the Padres. This morning, they had to go to work. Under his administrative leave rules, he had to call in the shop in the morning which he had just done and again at 4:30.

  The rest of the day was his. Sitting around his little two bedroom apartment surfing the web wasn’t an option so he headed out. He had some groceries to pick up and then some time to kill. He decided to check on the Sheriff’s Deputy Hoskins who was still in the hospital.

  He drove his well-used 2005 Ford pickup to Kennewick General Hospital and parked in the lot by the emergency room, picked up the flowers he had bought at the grocery store and went in. The clerk behind the information desk looked up from behind half glasses. She reminded him of Miss Rachel, his third grade teacher who, at the age of fifty-five, had conceded that she would always be ‘Miss’ and was somewhat sour about the prospect.

  “I am here to see Deputy Hoskins,” said Chis with what he hoped was a respectful smile.

  “Are you immediate family?” she asked.

  “No, but I was with her when she was injured. I wanted to see if she was OK.”

  “I read about that in the papers; she was very brave.” She softened a little and then said, “go up to Intensive Care and check in with the duty nurse.”

  “Intensive Care? That sounds serious?”

  “I can’t comment on a patient’s condition,” she said, and then took pity on him. “Look I am not supposed to say anything but we have been cautioned not to touch anyone or anything from that area of the hospital. She seems ok, but the infection control nurse is working overtime and they are using some pretty high powered disinfectants.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate the tip,” said Chris.

  He rode the elevator up and as he stepped out onto the landing, he was surprised to see a uniformed Kennewick Police Officer standing there.

  “Sir I have to ask you about your business here,” said the officer.

  “Oh, I am here to check on Deputy Hoskins,” said Chris.

  “We are only supposed to allow immediate family to visit.”

  “Well I was with her when she was injured. She kinda saved me from being in here myself,” said Chis as he showed his ID.

  “I heard about that. OK, go over to the ward nurse, she will gown you up. They are really intense about that. Is she your girlfriend or something?”

  “Nope, not that lucky, she is just a good cop doing her job who saved my ass. I wanted to check up on her.”

  Chris nodded to the officer and headed down the hall. Before he got to the nurse’s station, an efficient looking woman in scrubs came up.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I am here to see Deputy Hoskins.”

  It’s going to take a bit to gown you up and all.”

  It’s OK, I have time.”

  Fifteen minutes later, he was wearing little baby blue booties over his shoes, a funky blue hair net, mask, and paper gown. He had been cautioned not to touch the patient or anything in the room. After signing a waiver and agreeing to the nurses stipulations, he was ushered into a private room. In the middle of a bunch of tubing and electrical sensors sat Deputy Hoskins. She seemed alert and perky.

  “Hey, how is it going?” asked Chris. His voice was muffled by the mask that also covered his cheery smile.

  “Well, I am not going to lie,” said Hoskins. “I have had better days.”

  “How is the leg?”

  “Well, I am not sure. I have had two operations on it and it hurts like hell.”

  She held up the leg so Chris could see it, showing more shapely thigh than she probably intended. There was a plastic shell over her lower leg with tubes running in and out both sides. She blushed and quickly covered herself when she figured out just how much was showing.

  “Operations? I thought the perp just bit you?”

  “Yeah, but apparently they’re afraid that I might be infected with the same stuff she had. They have this gadget here that continually pumps some disinfectant and drugs through the wound. Th
ey told me what it was, but I get woozy sometimes from the stuff and I don’t remember. They also took a chunk out of my calf. They said there will always be a scar and an indentation. I guess I’ll have to wear boots when I go out.”

  “I bet you would look good in boots. Is the dent big enough to hide your off-duty carry piece?”

  “You are horrible,” said Hoskins but with a smile. It was clear she had precious little to smile about in the last couple of days.

  “How about you,” she asked trying to change the subject. “What have you been up to Sergeant?”

  “You can call me Chris unless and until you apply to work for the WSP, and not much. I wrote my report, and then I got grilled by the investigators, pretty standard stuff. Your boss is a real hard case!”

  “Isn’t he just. What did he do to you?”

  “He wanted to know exactly where my feet were, why you had to get in front of me, who shot first, all that. I felt like I was the bad guy.”

  “He does that to me too. But he works hard and holds himself to the same standard. I have had worse bosses. Anyway, I glad you came to visit.”

  “I would guess that you would have a long line of visitors, all the young men whose heart you broke.”

  “Ha, this job isn’t good for relationships sometimes … oops sorry,” said Hoskins when she remembered Chris’s history.

  “Oh, the pain is gone mostly. We got married too young and my ex was good people, she just didn’t get why I didn’t get a ‘decent’ job.”

  “Yeah, my mom was in earlier and she said it was time to quit play cops and robbers. She doesn’t get it, but you do don’t you?”

  “Sadly I do,” said Chris wistfully. “Look, Hoskins, do you need anything? Pizza, beer, dancing boys …”

  “Well, I have a first name; you sound like a dork calling me Hoskins all the time.”

  “And that name is?”

  “Amber.”

  “I like that. It’s a pretty name. But seriously, do you need anything?”

  “Well, TV is depressing, especially the news, and my head hurts when I try to read. Could you maybe find an audio book or something?”

  “What do you like to read, not romances I hope?”

  “For your information Mister Smarty Pants, I like to read about history, biographies, and good science fiction. Most murder mysteries aggravate me no end because they get so much of it wrong, but really, I’ll listen to anything where the good guys win, I could use some of that right about now.” Amber’s voice trailed off at the end.

  “Tell you what, how about if I read to you instead?”

  “I couldn’t ask that, you probably have lots to do.”

  “Listen, I just watched the Mariners lose again which is the extent of my social life. I would be most honored if you would let me read to you. I have a biography of Theodore Roosevelt that we could start with.”

  “Oh, you even said the name right. Ok, on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You bring that pizza you talked about. The food here is awful.”

  May 9th, Monday, 11:20am PDT

  Connor Strickland was just leaving his 3rd period AP Calculus class and was headed for lunch. He hoped to catch up to Amy Howeland. She had been an item with Jerry Kirkland for the last few months, but Jerry was getting more and more into the druggie clique which Amy didn’t like so she had dumped him. That was good for Connor because he had known Amy since the 4th grade and they had been friends all that time and he thought Jerry was bad news.

  “Hey Amy,” said Connor as he caught sight of her leaving her English class.

  “Hey yourself,” said Amy who was, at seventeen, considered a ‘babe’ with long strawberry blond hair, a slim figure, and a rapier sharp wit.

  “How did you do on your calculus quiz?”

  “Alright,” said Connor. Had had actually aced the quiz but appearing too brainy put a lot of kids off and he was suffering from the teenaged need to belong to his ‘tribe’.

  “Doing anything for lunch?” asked Amy.

  “I am just planning to partake in the magnificent gourmet dining experience thoughtfully provided by the Kennewick School District.”

  “Yummers, how about if I share in that marvelous repast?”

  The two of them had been teasing each other with an exaggerated vocabulary since they were nine years old.

  “Hey Strickand!” shouted a voice from behind the couple.

  “Ignore him Connor,” said Amy worriedly. “He is on something.”

  “He isn’t worth my time,” said Connor as he grabbed Amy’s arm and started walking quickly in the other direction.

  “Strickland, I am talking to you, wussy!” shouted Jerry.

  “Surprisingly enough, I am decidedly not talking to you,” said Connor over his shoulder as he tried to avoid a confrontation.

  “Ain’t I good enough for you and that slut you’re walking with, she isn’t that good a fuck anyway.”

  “Connor, don’t, please,” said Amy pleading with him. She knew he had been going to the dojo with his dad since he was ten and didn’t want to see him in trouble.

  “Kirkland, I have a question for you,” said Connor as he realized he couldn’t get away from this loser. “What do you think would happen if we got in the fight you are so obviously trying to start?”

  Amy was right, Jerry was on something. He really didn’t look good, his skin was pale and he was sweating profusely. He also was unsteady on his feet.

  “I’d kick your ass!”

  “And then what?” said Connor stalling for time. There was never a teacher in the hall when you really needed one. Hopefully, if he kept him talking, the shouting would draw some attention.

  “What do you mean?” said Jerry looking confused.

  “We would be suspended and probably arrested,” said Connor. “That might not matter to you but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life asking ‘do you want fries with that?’ Get a police record and that’s just what will happen.”

  “You’re just afraid to fight me!”

  “Nobody is fighting anyone!” said Ms. Crowley forcefully. She was the English teacher of the class Amy had just left. She looked like everyone’s favorite grandmother and so the commanding tone in her voice surprised everyone save those who had her in class. She had appeared from her classroom door at Jerry’s elbow. Before anyone could do anything, Jerry pulled a flip knife, opened it, and buried it to the hilt in Ms. Crowley’s solar plexus. She was too surprised to make a sound but just slid to the floor as he withdrew the knife. The hall emptied of students amid screams and running feet.

  “Get behind me, Amy,” said Connor as he slipped into a front stance. He still kept his hands at his sides and determinedly open. He was scared of the knife, but still thought he might be able to talk Jerry down or something.

  “Jerry, this is serious, but no one is dead yet. It will get much worse for you if we don’t get help for Ms. Crowley.”

  “I don’t give a shit! I am going to cut you, cut off your dick, and feed it to the slut behind you!” Then he Slashed with the knife, the blade actually catching for a second in Connor’s clothes as he backed away. Connor couldn’t move as freely as he wanted as he tried to keep himself between Amy and that knife.

  “Amy, run! Get someone!” said Connor.

  Amy took off and Jerry lunged clumsily after her.

  Connor side stepped Jerry and tripped him as he passed. Then Connor shifted so he was again between Jerry and the hallway that Amy had disappeared down.

  “Jerry! Stop this!” said Connor. It didn’t help that his voice cracked so it came out in a squeak. He was scared.

  “Scared, momma’s boy?” said Jerry with an eerie light in his eye. “You should be, I see clearly now. This knife will make things right. I can cut you, I can cut anyone I want, and they will run, just like Amy. You want to know why we aren’t hanging out, Amy and me? She wouldn’t blow me or nothin’, but you …” and then he Slashed again at
Connor’s face. Jerry wasn’t as tall as Connor but he was heavier, stronger, and even sick, he moved really fast.

  Connor took the blow on his book bag, the tough canvas cover took most of the blow, but his books spilled out all over the floor. He snap kicked Jerry in the groin and stepped back. Jerry just looked at him and leered at him.

  “You kicked me in the balls and it didn’t hurt. Nothing hurts, watch this,” said Jerry as he stuck his knife slowly through his forearm. You could see now that he had cut himself several times. He wasn’t bleeding very badly but it had to hurt and yet he was just standing there, dripping blood onto the floor and smiling. Connor was now very scared. Whatever Jerry was on was seriously bad.

  “So come on momma’s boy, use that funky foreign fighting shit. Kick me, punch me, I don’t care. Sooner or later, you will fuck up and I will cut you,” and then Jerry cut down low at Connor’s legs.

  Connor countered with a gedan braai sweeping low block and followed it a side thrust kick to the knee. He could hear the bone crack in the knee and it bent at awkward inside angle. Jerry laughed and lunged again.

  Connor was desperate to stay outside of the bigger, stronger boy’s grasp. Jerry’s dislocated knee slowed him somewhat. Connor continued dodging and kicking trying to stay as far from the knife as he could. A lucky snap kick caught the hand with the knife and the blade flipped out of Jerry’s and slid under a locker. Just then, Mr. Leiland, the six foot four inch physical education teacher and football coach came up behind Jerry and clamped him in a bear hug. Mr. Leiland had played for the Philadelphia Eagles for three seasons and tipped the scales a shade over 300 lbs. The intervening years had converted some of it to fat but at 42, he could still straight arm a twelve pound sledge hammer.

  “Whoa son, simmer down,” said Mr. Leiland in his southwest Texas drawl as he picked Jerry up off the ground and held him there. Jerry screamed in rage and tried to kick him with his good leg but Mr. Leiland was the veteran of many school yard scuffles and kept out of the way of Jerry’s awkward kicks. He also began squeezing Jerry and the screams got quieter and quieter as the air left his lungs without replacement.