'They — er — they pissed in it,' said Gerry. Tm sorry, Mr. Paston. I did try my level best to stop them.'
Edgar stood still and cast his gaze over the whole wrecked store. The new store-front window, which had been installed first thing that morning, had been cracked. Displays and signs costing hundreds of dollars had been torn down and smashed. Honey and molasses oozed from cracked jars, the contents of cereal boxes were strewn everywhere.
'Who was it?' asked Edgar quietly. 'McManus?'
Gerry looked at the floor. 'They said they'd kill me if I told. I'm sorry, Mr. Paston. I'm so sorry.'
Edgar laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. 'I understand. Well, I guess we'd better call the cops.'
'I would have called them myself, sir, but after yesterday I didn't know whether they'd like it.'
Edgar shook his head. 'It's not a question of whether they like it. It's their job.' He went to the wall phone, and picked it up.
He was in the middle of dialing when he heard someone laughing outside the store. A raucous, mocking laugh. He paused, and then laid the telephone receiver down again. Quickly, making sure that he didn't tread in any debris, he made his way towards the cash-desk, searching in his pants pocket for his keys.
Gerry called, 'Mr. Paston — ' but he ignored the boy, and ducked low behind the counter. He lifted his keys, examined them closely, and picked the right one. Then he unlocked the drawer under the till, and took out a.38 revolver.
Holding the pistol behind his back, he stalked slowly towards the front of the store. He eased open the glass door, and looked out into the breezy night. Across the car-park, close to his station wagon, he saw a huddled group of kids. They were laughing and hooting and horsing around, and he knew damned well who they were. He shouted, 'McManus! Shark McManus!' The kids went quiet, and looked in his direction. He raised the.38 in his right hand, supporting his wrist with his left, and squinted down the barrel. The kids were all close together, and they presented an easy target. Edgar, his voice tight, shouted again, 'McManus! Stand forward, McManus, and get what's coming to you!'
The kids evidently didn't realize that Edgar was holding a gun, because they started laughing again, and jeering. Edgar aimed carefully at the tallest figure in the group, and let out his breath. He fired, and the pistol kicked in his hand. There was a flat, echoing bang. One of the kids fell to the ground, without a sound. The rest of them suddenly scattered.
Edgar, holding his gun raised up, walked slowly across the car park to the fallen youth. The boy was sprawled on his stomach, and there was a wide pool of glistening blood around his head. Edgar hunkered down and examined him. The bullet had hit him in the back of the skull, and must have killed him instantly.
He looked around. The car park was silent.
Gerry, walking on tippy-toes for some reason, came up behind him.
'Mr. Paston — ' he breathed.
'What is it, Gerry?'
'Mr. Paston, you shouldn't have!'
Edgar stood up. 'Shouldn't have? Did you see what these scum did to my store? These are scum, Gerry, and don't you forget it! He tried to destroy my way of life, and the only way I could answer that was to try and destroy his! Don't you forget that, Gerry!'
Edgar was shaking. He still had the gun in his hand, but he didn't know what to do with it.
'Mr. Paston,' said Gerry, miserably. 'This isn't Shark McManus. This isn't his gang.'
Edgar felt cold. He looked down at the boy's body lying on the concrete. The blood kept spreading, and there was no way to mop it up and return it to his veins.
'I don't understand you. He was laughing. They were all laughing.'
'They come around here quite often,' Gerry said. 'They don't mean no harm. I know one or two of them. They come around to the store after meetings, and buy candy.'
'Meetings?' said Edgar numbly. 'What meetings?'
'Boy scout meetings, Mr. Paston. They're boy scouts.'
Edgar stared down at the body. 'Boy scouts,' he whispered, 'Well — what — I mean — boy scouts?
He was still standing by the body when the black and white police car came howling into the car park, lights flashing, and squealed to a stop beside them. The doors opened, and Officers Trent and Marowitz came briskly across the concrete.
They looked down at the body. Marowitz said briskly, 'Is he dead? Has anyone checked?
Edgar said, 'He's dead all right. I got him in the head.'
He lifted his pistol, and handed it silently to Officer Marowitz.
'It appears he's a boy scout.' explained Edgar. 'I thought he was a vandal, and I shot him by mistake.'
Officer Marowitz looked hard at Edgar for a moment, then at the boy's body.
'You shot and killed a boy scout by mistake?'
'That's what I said.'
'In that case,' said Officer Marowitz, with a humorless grin, 'I had better advise you of your rights. You're under arrest, Mr. Paston, for suspected homicide.'
'Yes,' said Edgar. He stepped around the body, and walked towards the police car of his own accord.
Book Two
THE DEAD
One
They had been driving for ten minutes when Adelaide, in the back of the car, said, 'Look!'
Dr. Petrie had already seen the first distant nickers in his rear-view mirror, but they could have been anything — a burning car, or an isolated house on fire. Now, when he slowed the Torino and turned around in his seat, he could see that the whole southern horizon was growing red with flame, and that the city of Miami was ablaze from stem to stern, like a gigantic ocean liner burning on a rippling ocean of sparks.
'Miami,' whispered Mr. Henschel, sitting next to Dr. Petrie, his rifle in his lap. 'That's the whole damned city of Miami.'
'Do you think they did it on purpose?' Adelaide said.
Dr. Petrie speeded up, heading north on nothing but marker lights. 'I guess they might have done,' he said. 'More likely it was looters and arsonists and untended fires.'
They were all very tired. It was well past one o'clock, and the night was into its weariest and longest hours. Prickles was still fast asleep, in Mrs. Henschel's arms, but the rest of them were too tense and too worried to rest.
'I suppose you realize we might have taken the plague with us,' remarked Adelaide. 'I mean, for all we know, one of us might be infected.'
Dr. Petrie nodded, his face illuminated green from the dials on the instrument panel.
'That's possible, but I think it's unlikely. I've been exposed to the plague more than any of you, and I haven't caught it. Maybe I'm just immune. From what we've seen of the plague so far, it strikes very quickly. If we haven't had it yet, I don't think we're going to get it now.'
'Please God.' muttered Mr. Henschel. 'Yes.' said Dr. Petrie, 'please God.'
They drove in silence for a while. It was early Wednesday morning, before the news of the plague had officially been released by the news media, and all their car radio could tell them was that Spanish or swine flu was still causing some fatalities in Miami and southern Florida. When the radio said that, Dr. Petrie looked up at his mirror. He saw the huge columns of fire that distantly leaped and roared from the hotels along Miami Beach, and wondered, not for the first time in his life, how politicians and newsmen could possibly get away with what they did and said.
He was still pondering on this when Mr. Henschel pointed up ahead. 'I see lights. he said tensely. 'Looks like there's a roadblock up there'.
Dr. Petrie slowed down, and they all peered anxiously into the night. Half a mile up the road, they saw the bright glow of spotlights, and a cluster of cars and trucks.
'Where is this?' asked Adelaide.
'Looks like Hallandale.' said Dr. Petrie. 'They must've pulled the roadblocks back a bit.'
'What are you going to do?' said Mr. Henschel. 'If they stop you, you're finished. They won't let you past.'
By now, they had almost reached the roadblock. It was the National Guard, and they had obstructed the highway wi
th trucks and signs. As they approached in their car, a guardsman in combat fatigue stepped forward with his hand raised. Dr. Petrie slowed down and stopped.
The guardsman stayed well away from them. He was carrying a sub-machine gun, and he obviously intended to use it if life got a little difficult. He was only about nineteen or twenty years old, and his thin face was shadowed by his heavy helmet.
'Sorry, folks!' he called out. 'You'll have to turn back!'
Dr. Petrie said, 'I'm a doctor. I have ID. All these people are clear of disease.'
The guardsman shook his head. 'Sorry, sir. We have orders not to let anyone through under any circumstances.'
'But I'm a doctor.' persisted Dr. Petrie. He held out his identity papers and waved them. 'I have to get through on urgent business.'
The National Guardsman stepped forward a couple of paces and peered at the papers. Then he stepped back again, and said, 'Just hold on a moment. I'll get some confirmation.'
They waited for more than five minutes before the young guardsman came back with an officer. The officer was a tough, grizzle-haired veteran who was obviously enjoying his new-found responsibilities.
'Hi.' called Dr. Petrie. 'My name's Dr. Leonard Petrie.'
The officer took a look at their car, and walked around it. Then said, 'My apologies, doctor, but you'll have to go back.'
'Back where? The whole of Miami's on fire.'
'I don't know where, doctor, but I'm afraid that's the order. You have to turn back.'
Dr. Petrie paused for a while. He looked at the officer and the guardsman, standing twenty feet away on the spot-lit highway, and then he turned and looked at Mr. Henschel.
'David.' he said, using his neighbour’s Christian name for the first time ever, 'do you think you can take the boy?'
'Quick?' asked Mr. Henschel, almost without moving his lips.
Dr. Petrie nodded. 'I'll turn, and drive around them. Take the boy first because he's got the most fire-power. Then the officer.'
Quite casually, Mr. Henschel chambered a round and pushed the bolt of his rifle forward. 'Ready when you are.' he said.
Dr. Petrie leaned out of the car window. 'We're just leaving.' he said to the guardsmen, 'We've decided to turn back.'
Adelaide whispered, 'Leonard — please don't kill them. Look at him — he's only a boy.'
Dr. Petrie turned and looked at her. 'Adelaide, we have to. If we don't we're all washed up. There's no other way of getting through. Now just sit still and keep your head down.'
Dr. Petrie released the handbrake, and slowly turned the Gran Torino around. As he did so, Mr. Henschel lifted his rifle and rested it across Dr. Petrie's shoulders, aiming out of the driver's window towards the two National Guardsmen.
'Now,' said Dr. Petrie quietly, as he swung the car around in a tight curve. 'They're off balance — now!'
As the car screeched around them, the guardsmen turned to follow its progress, and as it curved behind them they were momentarily left unprotected, with their weapons pointing the opposite way. Mr. Henschel squeezed off one shot, then another, then another. Dr. Petrie felt the rifle jolt against his shoulders, and one of the spent cartridges rolled into his lap. He kept the car turning in a circle, faster and faster, and as the two guardsmen crumpled to the ground, he forced his foot down on the gas, and steered the Torino straight for the wooden bar that obstructed the road.
With a heavy bang, the car toppled the barrier and skidded off northwards into the night. They heard four or five isolated shots being fired in their direction, but after a few minutes there was nothing but the sound of the car, and the wind that rushed past the open windows.
'Guess they're pretty thin on the ground,' said Mr. Henschel. 'Otherwise they'd have chased us something rotten.'
Dr. Petrie wiped his sweating forehead against his sleeve. 'Nice shooting, David. I think you got us all out of trouble there.'
Adelaide said, her voice quavering, 'We may be forced to do it, Leonard, but we don't have to call it nice.'
Dr. Petrie didn't answer for a while. Then he said, 'I'm sorry Adelaide, but I think we must all be quite clear what we're up against. Until we get clear of the quarantine area, we're going to be treated like diseased rats. Their orders are quite explicit. Don't let anyone through, and if anyone tries to get through, kill them.'
'What do you mean?' Adelaide asked.
Dr. Petrie glanced around. 'I mean quite simply that if we want to survive, we're going to have to behave the way they're behaving. We have to be vicious, and we have to be quick. Don't worry — they won't have the slightest compunction about shooting us.'
Mr. Henschel was reloading his rifle, 'You're right, Leonard. It's them or us. And I don't care what anyone says — I don't want it to be them, if that's the odds.'
The shooting had woken up Prickles. She started to cry for her mother, and they drove in painful silence for a while until Mrs. Henschel calmed her down.
'Mommy's gone for a little vacation,' she murmured soothingly. 'But look — Daddy's here. Daddy's going to look after you now.'
Adelaide said, 'Oh, God. You know, if anyone had told me last week that this was going to happen, I wouldn't have believed them. God, it's like a nightmare.'
Leonard remained silent. It was one thing to explain to the others the need for crude survival, it was quite another to have to actually carry it out. To coldly be prepared to kill.
They were approaching the outskirts of Fort Lauderdale, and so far they had seen no other traffic, and no sign of National Guardsmen. Dr. Petrie, with nothing but marker lights to steer by, had to strain his eyes into the darkness to see if there were any obstructions on the road, and his head was beginning to pound. Adelaide passed him a can of warm Coke from the back seat, and he swigged it as he drove.
The power supply was out at Fort Lauderdale, too. The town was dark and deserted. Abandoned and burned-out cars were strewn all over the streets, and here and there they could make out huddled bodies lying on the sidewalks and in store entrances. A few dim and flickering lights still burned in private houses and hotel rooms, like the lamps of cave dwellers in a primitive and hostile age, but the town was overwhelmingly silent, and from as far away as Route 1 they could hear the sound of the Atlantic surf.
Not far from the beach they saw a large building on fire, with dim gray smoke rising into the velvety night sky. Mr. Henschel guessed it was the Holiday Inn Ocean-side. There were no sirens, no fire tenders, and no one seemed to be attempting to put the blaze out.
Like travelers through a strange dream, they drove up North Atlantic Boulevard close to the ocean. Through the darkness, they could see the white breakers of the polluted sea. They were all exhausted, and they said very little. Prickles had gone back to sleep, and was snoring slightly. Mrs. Henschel said it sounded as if she had a cold.
'Just so long as she didn't catch plague from Margaret,' said Adelaide. 'That would be great, wouldn't it? Margaret getting her revenge from beyond the grave.'
'Adelaide,' said Dr. Petrie coldly. 'She's dead and that's that.'
Adelaide was silent for a while. Then she said, 'Okay, I'm sorry.'
Just before dawn, they stopped the car by the side of Route 1 near Palm Bay. They laid out blankets on the ground, underneath a scrubby grove of palm trees, and slept.
As Dr. Petrie lay there, feeling the hard stones of the dry soil under his blanket, he heard insects chirp, and the occasional swish of a passing car. The plague had left many survivors, but those who had somehow managed to avoid infection were trying to get out of Florida as fast as they could. What none of them yet knew was that plague was breaking out all along the coast of Georgia and the Carolinas, as tides and currents washed a thick black ooze of raw sewage on to the beaches.
He had two hours of restless dozing, filled with weird and terrifying dreams. The sky was light when he opened his eyes. Mr. and Mrs. Henschel, Adelaide and Pickles were all still asleep. Dr. Petrie lifted himself on one elbow, rubbing his aching eyes, and
looked around.
They had company. Beside the car were two unshaven National Guardsmen in uniform and helmets, their eyes hidden behind mirror sunglasses. They were both carrying automatic weapons, and neither looked in the mood for friendly banter.
'How do,' said one of them laconically. He was chewing gum in ceaseless circles.
Dr. Petrie nudged Adelaide, who was lying snuggled up against him. She stirred, and opened her eyes.
The guardsman stepped forward, and looked around their makeshift encampment. 'You folks travelin' north?'
Dr. Petrie didn't answer. Mr. and Mrs. Henschel had woken up now, and they blinked across at him in silent bewilderment.
'It's kind of inadvisable — travelin' north,' said the guardsman, pacing around them.
'Is there a regulation against it?' asked Dr. Petrie.
The guardsman chewed gum for a while. 'Nope,' he said eventually. 'I don't reckon there's no regulation against it.'
'But it's inadvisable?'
'Yep. That's the word. Inadvisable.'
'Well… what do you advise us to do instead?'
The man shrugged. 'It ain't up to me to advise you to do nothing. What you do is entirely your decision. Is this your car?'
'It belongs to a friend.'
'You able to prove that?'
'I don't think so. He's dead. He died of the plague two days ago.'
The guardsman walked slowly back to where his friend was standing.
'Any of you folks sick, or infected?'
'I don't believe so.'
'How about that little girl? She don't look too bright.'
'She has a cold, that's all. A summer cold.'
'Is that right?'
'I'm a doctor. I should know.'
'You're a doctor, huh? How come you ain't helpin' out someplace, 'stead of sleepin' rough?'
Dr. Petrie said, 'I was helping in a hospital in Miami. Last night, it was burned to the ground, along with the rest of the city. There isn't much I can do there now.' The men were not interested.
'Nope,' said the one with the gum, 'I guess there ain't.'
Plague Page 16