by JE Gurley
“Hey, don’t I even get a comb for my hair?” he demanded of the technician. He ran his fingers through his tangle of curly brown locks to make his point. The technician ignored him and secured the door with a heavy zipper. Kyle noticed that the zipper couldn’t be reached from the inside. “It’s going to be a long couple of days,” he said, and sat down on the edge of the cot to wait.
The first few hours of his quarantine were the hardest. He paced the small cubicle until he tired, and then yelled at his keepers until he was hoarse. They ignored him as they did the other clamoring patients decrying their forced confinement. His hosts had taken his cell phone and his notebook from him, along with all his personal items. He passed the time counting technicians, trying to identify them individually through their sterile suits from their walk and their mannerisms, but quickly became bored. He was too keyed up to sleep, and the tasteless meal they finally provided, did little to satisfy his appetite. He tried to identify its contents, but finally gave up, deciding that the CDC had an entire department dedicated to creating tasteless cuisine from inanimate objects, rather than from meat or vegetables. For all he knew, the food and his itchy jumpsuit had come from the same source.
Time seemed ethereal. He had difficulty distinguishing night from day. The banks of bright lights remained on continuously. His internal sense of time failed him. With no watch, he guessed at the time, dividing it arbitrarily into days and nights by periods of sleep. He knew it was an inaccurate system since he slept only when the urge overcame him, and then only for a short time. His hosts served bland meals at irregular intervals, delivered through a small airlock in the cubicle wall. He ate the nondescript food despite its lack of taste, simply to occupy his time. There was no privacy. All bodily functions were performed in full view of any interested party. The humility of sitting on a cold metal chamber pot curtailed his bowel movements. Once each arbitrary day, he passed the container of wastes through a small double-sided partition at the rear of the cubicle. He felt the urge to fling feces at the sterile plastic walls like a caged monkey, but imagined his keepers would not look kindly upon such a wanton display. A container of water arrived at irregular intervals, which he used for drinking and for washing his face. His keepers did not allow him to shower. Luckily, the filtered air in his cell kept the odor to a minimum.
His forced isolation deepened his foul mood. He was stuck inside a plastic bubble while the city outside might be tearing itself apart at the seams. His life had been placed on hold on a whim of the CDC. With no one to talk to but himself, conversation turned to introspection. Would his absence even make a mark on the world? His date with that cute lawyer’s assistant, Saitha, would have to wait, but he doubted she would wait long before finding someone else to favor with her attentions. His fellow officers on the Special Investigation Squad tolerated him, but his frequent undercover operations and newcomer status had not garnered him any close friends. Even his old colleagues in the Midwest District office had broken off close ties, feeling that his transfer to the SIS was tantamount to abandoning them.
By what he assumed was the third day of his captivity, eleven of his fellow patients had begun to show signs of infection, pacing their tiny cubicles while screaming, or tearing at the thick plastic with their teeth and fingers. Their face, which had previously been muted with fright and suppressed anger, became masks of wild rage, instantly attacking the suited technicians with the ferocity of caged beasts. One-by-one they disappeared through a set of double doors at the rear of the tent, strapped ignominiously to gurneys. He didn’t inquire about their destination, hoping that he didn’t soon discover their fate firsthand.
He began watching his fellow confinees closely, searching for the first tale-tell signs of infection. Some paced their tiny cubicles like caged animals, constantly mumbling to themselves as if conversing with someone via their missing Bluetooth. He couldn’t tell if this was one of the first signs of the fungus infection, or simply a withdrawal symptom of modern man’s infatuation with constant instantaneous communication. A few sat quietly, as if meditating, submitting themselves to their confinement with stoic humility. These, he envied. He had never been an adherent to the philosophy of fate, that some things were preordained and man could do little to change them. Acceptance of his present condition and submission to it were two different things. He couldn’t leave, but he didn’t have to like it.
After a while, he began to distinguish the subtle point at which the fungus began stripping away the thin veneer of civilization to which all people cling, that façade of superiority that separates humans from the animals. In his profession, he had intimate contact with the scum of the earth and knew that veneer to be very thin. In some, the normal signs of agitation grew more intense, more uncontrolled, until rage burst to the surface. The quiet ones were the most surprising. There was no visible tipping point. They retained their serenity until exploding into violent outbursts. In the end, both types met the same fate, carted out through the double doors.
Slowly, his fear began to subside. So far, he suffered no symptoms other than restlessness. His mind remained clear. He restrained the urge to pace, to avoid a hypo of whatever drug the technicians administered to their unruly charges, though he knew they could easily administer any drug of their choosing in his food or water. He was familiar enough with Homeland Security protocol to know that in a crisis, his individual rights were nonexistent. He kept his mind from his plight by considering the facts of the case.
Fact One – the CDC had known about Curry’s existence or someone like him before the manager had phoned the SIS. They had been searching for him or someone from Belize. The only way they could know this, was if something had happened in Belize to attract their attention. He had heard nothing on the news before his incarceration, which meant that officials were suppressing the information.
Fact Two – somehow, they had missed Curry at the airport. That meant that they weren’t properly prepared. They weren’t aware that Curry was Patient Zero. He had slipped through their hands and spread the infection to Miami, and through his contacts to other parts of the country. If not for the murder at the hotel, the police would not have even known of Curry’s presence. As it was, they had lost two precious days.
Fact Three – the police had blown it big time. The first officers to arrive at the hotel had searched for the assailant unaware that it was Curry, but had failed to search the roof, a costly mistake, a two-day mistake.
Fact Four – he had to get back on the case. Curry had been his murder victim, even if his killer was a mushroom. There was something about investigating a crime, sifting through mounds of evidence, and apprehending the culprit that triggered an endorphin reward in his brain. It felt good to solve a crime. That’s why he had become a cop. It certainly hadn’t been for the pay or the social status.
Fact Five – Doctor Marli Henry was smoking hot. Even through her plastic facemask, the curve of her lips and her high cheeks marked her as sensuous. Her face, framed by the red of her suit, lingered in his mind during his captivity. He had little else to dwell on. He would enjoy seeing more of her, provided he lived, of course.
He got his wish when Marli, as he now considered her, rather than Doctor Henry, returned carrying an armload of papers and an I-Pad. She wore a skirt and blouse beneath a white lab smock, and a simple cloth mask covering her mouth and nose instead of the uncomplimentary red suit. He noted that he had been right about her curves. They were luscious. He was delighted to discover that she was a redhead. He liked that. Redheads had spirit. Her green eyes complimented her deeply tanned skin. Beautiful and intelligent, two characteristics that he had found in short supply in the low-life circles he had lately been traveling.
“Good to see you again, Doctor. Have you come to release me?”
She went to the rear of his cubicle and inserted the material she carried into the small opening. “Here is a list of passenger manifests and destinations. If you want to help, see if any of these names appear on
multiple flights.”
He noted the manifests. Most were flights from Miami to other hubs across the country and flights out of those hubs. “It’s a little late for this now isn’t it? I expected this two days ago.”
She said nothing as he read her face. She hid her emotions well, but he detected a mixture of regret and shame. “You didn’t want to bother me in case I turned,” he said.
After a few seconds, she nodded. “I need your help.”
“Okay.” He walked the few paces across his cubicle and sat on his cot. “I’ll see what I can do. How much longer will I be here, provided I don’t turn fungus head?”
“Fungus head? Oh, I see. Not much longer.”
She turned and left. It only took him a few minutes to realize that the I-Pad she had provided was a simple notepad with no internet connection. She wasn’t ready for him to have contact with the outside world. It did allow him to learn that his incarceration had lasted fifty-six hours so far. It had seemed longer. Bored and eager to have anything to take his mind off his predicament, he began poring over the material. All too quickly, he discovered numerous names that appeared on two or even three flight manifests, potential carriers of the plague across the entire country. She must have known this already. He was familiar enough with make-work to realize that she was attempting to fulfill her pledge without letting any real information slip. He added a long, nasty note to her with his summary. He hoped she read it.
3
July 4, Little Havana, Miami –
Rita Hernandez lifted the edge of the pulled blinds and stared through the window at the empty street outside her home. It was eerily quiet now, but just a few hours earlier, a dozen mad people had raced through the neighborhood turning over garbage cans, smashing car windows, and attacking anyone on the streets. She had watched in horror as her sixty-one-year-old neighbor, Maria Domilo, had been savagely attacked and killed. The old woman’s body still lay on her front doorstep. No one had come to move it. No one had dared leave the safety of their homes. There were no working streetlights. The power had been off for over forty-eight hours. She had no idea what was happening in the city or if the craziness was confined only to her neighborhood. The people she had seen were not gangs, or an invading army. By their clothing, they were ordinary men and women, postal carriers, waitresses, and mechanics, people she had seen and interacted with every day who for some unimaginable reason, had gone terribly insane.
A haze of acrid smoke drifted down the street from a burning auto at the end of the block, but Rita suspected the smoke came from more than one source. The skyscrapers on the eastern horizon were backlit by a reddish glow that was not the moon. She had never before seen the city so dark and silent. The skyline known as the White Wall was now a row of darkened tombstones. At a whimper from her one-year-old son, Tomas, she dropped the blinds back into place.
“Hush, Tomas,” she whispered gently, “I’ll feed you.”
She took the last jar of baby food from the kitchen pantry, and she was almost out of canned formula. The milk and food in the refrigerator had spoiled when the power had shut down. All she had eaten in two days was cheese sandwiches and cold soup. The stove was electric and she was afraid to build a fire to heat the soup. The darkness frightened her as much as the uncommon silence, but showing a light to draw the crazies frightened her more. The batteries of the flashlight in her emergency hurricane bag were dead. She should have checked on them regularly. Ricardo would know where fresh batteries were, but she did not. She also did not know where Ricardo was. It had been a full day since he had left in search of help. After hours of waiting and staring out the window, she now feared for his safety.
Little Tomas sucked hungrily at the spoon as she fed him the last of the mashed carrots. She didn’t know what she would do next.
“Pobricito,” she cooed, “Papa will return soon.” But in her heart, she wasn’t as certain.
Before the power had gone off, the television had warned people to remain calm and to stay indoors, but had given no specific reason for the emergency. She had heard shots fired, seen the fires. Where were the police? Where was the army? Military helicopters had passed by overhead. Why had someone not come to rescue them? Her father would have said that the authorities didn’t care what happened to poor Cubanos; that the rich white neighborhoods would come first on their list in times of trouble. He had arrived in Florida aboard a sinking fishing boat during the 1980 Mariela Boatlift, when Fidel Castro had emptied Cuba’s prisons and jails. Her father had been an activist in Havana, and continued his attacks on Castro’s regime in Little Havana, but he had soon grown weary of the economic disparity between cubanos and gringos in Miami and began a neighborhood employment agency. Her father was now dead, but his agency lived on. Rita worked there five days a week, or she had until a few days ago. She didn’t know if anyone still manned the telephones or if anyone sought work.
At the wail of a police siren, she stopped feeding Tomas and raced to the window, but the patrol car did not even slow down. It continued down the street and around the corner, turning south onto 8th Avenue. The sound quickly faded. She spotted movement in the shadows across the street in Riverside Park and hoped it was Ricardo, but it wasn’t. It was two more of the crazy ones. They moved furtively, their motions jerky and exaggerated. They raced quickly from spot to spot, and then stood and turned in circles as they sniffed the air. She grabbed the baseball bat leaning against the wall, her only weapon, and held her breath as they crossed the street. To her immense relief, the pair disappeared into the alley.
The telephones no longer worked and she had no cell phone. She didn’t know who she would call if it did. Her Uncle Manny? He lived in Hialeah with his wife and three children. He probably had problems of his own. Father Domingo? The church was two blocks away and the priest was an old man. A light flashed briefly in a window across the street, as if someone had peeked out. At least everyone in the neighborhood wasn’t dead or had fled.
She returned to feeding her son, softly singing a tune from her childhood, Arruru mi Nino. The words and the melody of the children’s lullaby calmed her nerves, just as it had as a child when the skies were stormy and her mother had sung it to her. When her son had finished eating, she held him tightly to her breast as she walked around the room singing to him. Soon, his eyes closed. She placed him in his cradle and resumed her watch by the window.
There had been no fireworks this Independence Day, no parades, just fear and confusion. For all she knew, it could be the end of the world. She brushed back a lock of long, black hair from her thin but attractive face. It hung limp and lifeless. She hadn’t washed it in three days. She wished she could shower, but the water was cold, and she was afraid to leave Tomas alone. What had happened to Ricardo? A drop of water rolled down her cheek. She fought back the tears, but it was no use. She covered her eyes with her hands and sobbed deeply until her shoulders shook. She was twenty-five-years old, a new mother and a new wife. Her world was slowly unraveling around her. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this. If only she was frightened she could cope, but with everyone too afraid to leave their homes, the horror became unbearable. If Ricardo didn’t return soon, she would have to take her son and seek help. To whom could she turn? Where could she go?
She fell to her knees beneath a wooden crucifix her father had brought with him from Cuba and began to pray aloud. Her prayers were earnest and from her heart. She trusted God and he would not let her down. Soon, a sense of solace fell over her. The fear fell away like a discarded shawl. God would see her through this terrible ordeal.
A pounding at the door interrupted her prayer vigil. She quickly rose to her feet and rushed to the door.
“Ricardo?” she yelled as she threw open the door.
It was not her husband. It was a man, his shirt soaked with blood, his face smeared with it. For just a moment, she thought that he was injured, seeking help. Then she looked into his eyes and gasped. He had none. He stared at her through a purp
le mass of wet filaments clinging to his face. His face was a rictus of feral anger and loathing. His chest heaved and his expelled breath stank of mold and rot. His breathing sounded as if he inhaled and exhaled through a wet sponge. He was no longer a man. He was a creature, a demonio, a demon from hell. A small squeak emerged from her throat. The creature cocked its head to one side as if listening, and then sniffed the air and growled. Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest that she imagined the creature could hear it. She eyed the baseball bat a few feet away. She took one tentative step toward it, and the creature cocked its head in her direction. From the next room came a whimper, as Tomas stirred in his sleep. The creature zeroed in on the sound and raced across the room. In fear, and with strength of will she did not know she possessed, she picked up the baseball bat and attacked the loathsome creature from behind.
Her first blow was poorly aimed, bouncing harmlessly off the creature’s shoulder. Now, it focused its attention on her. It crouched, tilting its head from side to side like a bird. She had played softball with Ricardo. She was not very good at it, but she remembered what he had told her – keep a firm grip on the bat, keep her eye on the ball, and swing hard. The creature lurched at her. Her second swing was more deliberate, as she aimed at the creature’s head. She positioned her feet slightly apart for balance, and put all the muscle in her arms and shoulder into the swing. The ash bat connected with a loud crack. The creature staggered sideways and fell against the wall. Before it could regain its feet, she rushed at it and fell upon it. Delivering a flurry of blows to the top of its head, she screamed in anger and in fear as her arms worked feverishly, rising up and down with the bat. When she stopped, exhausted, the creature’s head was broken open like an overripe melon, its brains and another jelly-like substance coating the bat. The wall, the floor, her hands, and her face were covered in blood. The stench was overpowering. She gasped, dropped the bat on the floor, and staggered as her knees buckled. She caught herself on the sofa before falling over the corpse. She had not killed a man, she reassured herself, but a demonio, but her heart was still heavy. The creature resembled a man, had once been a man. Had she sinned? She dismissed the thought as irrelevant. It didn’t matter. Her son was safe. She was safe. She starred down at the bloody body on the floor of her living room.