by JE Gurley
“I’m assigned to Doctor Henry.”
Ginson whistled softly. “Nice work when you can get it.”
“The general had a word with me this morning.”
Ginson snickered. “Oh, hobnobbing with the elite, are we?”
“He said you’d make a good sergeant.”
Ginson stopped what he was doing and stared at Kyle. “You’re kidding, right?”
Kyle shook his head and held up three fingers in a Boy Scout salute. “It’s gospel.”
Ginson swore softly, “Damn, now I’ll have to work for a living.”
“We’ll still love you, Sarge,” Walters quipped.
“For that remark, you drive.”
He hitched a ride with Ginson in the Humvee rather than walk. By the light of day, the extent of the fire damage to the city wasn’t as visible, but a pall of dark smoke hovered over Miami like a blanket of smothering smog, unperturbed by the morning’s light offshore breeze, making the morning seem more like dusk. The sharp acrid smell of burned wood, melted metal, and the stench of scorched flesh, permeated the air. The runways were a hive of activity as Apache and Blackhawk helicopters lifted off, and heavily armed five-car convoys formed to spread out through the city.
“Any word from elsewhere in the country?” he asked Ginson.
Ginson scowled. “Information is sketchy, but Atlanta is a battle zone. The downtown area, Little Five Points, Buckhead, and Decatur, have been mostly evacuated, but the rest of the neighborhoods haven’t. The Perimeter is the Kill Line. Anyone trying to pass beyond I-285 is shot.”
Kyle nodded. Surrounding Atlanta like a ten-lane ribbon of asphalt, the Perimeter provided a clear field of fire. He felt sorry for anyone trapped within the arbitrary Kill Line, but even sorrier for anyone frightened enough or foolish enough to try crossing it.
“Omaha is as bad as Miami. So is Boston and Houston. I don’t know about some of the other major cities. We’re holding our own here along a line north of 36th Street and east of 27th Avenue south to Coconut Grove. Downtown … well, it’s totaled. There are survivors trapped on the upper floors of some high rises, but it’s going to be a bitch rescuing them. Right now, we’re using the Blackhawks for ferrying troops and flying sorties.”
“It’s nice to see the military has its priorities straight.”
“The plague is spreading damned fast. We’re trying to stop it, but if we get a strong offshore wind …”
“Yeah, I know. The spores will spread all the way across Florida.”
At the hangar, Marli stood outside directing men with carts as they unloaded the trucks. She wore a full mask and respirator like Ginson’s. She glanced in his direction as he got out of the Humvee, but quickly turned and followed one of the carts into the hangar. Inside, the hangar didn’t look the same. Four large white tents took up half the available space. Stacks of crates lined one wall. She directed the soldier pushing the cart to deposit his load beside the other crates. Men were spraying every corner of the building with expanding foam to make it spore proof. Kyle waited until she was finished before approaching her. She set her clipboard on one of the crates.
“I’ve only got a minute,” she warned.
Kyle raised his hands in front of him. “Don’t stop on my account. I’m here to help, but if I’m to be your bodyguard, don’t run off and leave me.”
She stared at him. “I don’t need or want a bodyguard. If you want to help, you can assist Doctor Ozay in setting set up the office.” She pointed to the smallest tent and turned back to her work.
“Where is the quarantine area?”
Her face revealed a mixture of regret and anger. “We won’t be housing any infected here. We’ll work with samples provided by the FEMA quarantine facility at Marlins Park.”
After the earlier fiasco at the quarantine center at the airport in which he had almost died, he didn’t blame her for not wanting a repeat.
“That might be best,” he said hesitantly, not sure of her concerns.
She turned and marched across the room. Slighted but not offended by her brusque behavior, he entered the small tent and found Dr. Ozay, a short, pudgy, older man with thinning gray hair, assembling desks. Ozay might have been a fine doctor, but his skills with a power screwdriver were limited. He cursed as the screwdriver tip skidded across the table leg he was installing, gouging a long gash in the soft wood. Kyle gently took the screwdriver from him.
“Let me do this while you unpack the laptops.”
Ozay looked grateful for the assistance. Kyle was familiar with tools. Almost all the furniture in his apartment had come disassembled from IKEA. He made short work of the desk assemblies. Within two hours, all six desks, chairs, a rack for computer equipment, and a table for the all-important coffee maker, were completed. Doctor Ozay and a technician named John Mavers, connected power cables, computer cables, and telephone cables to each desk. When they were finished, Mavers looked at him, smiling.
“You saved Doctor Henry’s life. Thank you.”
Kyle shrugged. “Right place, right time.”
“She’s very bright, you know, one of the top in her field. If anyone can solve this problem, she can.”
“I hope so.”
“Too bad about Ellis,” Ozay said, shaking his head.
“Who’s Ellis?” Kyle asked.
Mavers answered. “Doctor Ellis was a mycologist. He identified the species infecting everyone. He said it was an old species, not a mutation. The journal found with Roger Curry’s luggage verifies this.”
“Does that make a difference?”
“Oh, yes. Mutations are difficult to control because they can mutate again. An older, established species might be more resilient, but its very stability is a weakness. With the correct antifungal agent, we can stop it.”
Kyle’s spirits lifted. “That’s great news.”
“What Mavers is leaving out,” Ozay interjected, “is that most antifungals are as deadly to humans as they are to the fungal parasite. Destroying the fungus in sito can be achieved. A cure for those infected … that is another matter.”
Mavers nodded.
A soft sigh escaped Kyle’s lips. “So we’re back to square one.”
Ozay sighed. “We will try.” He turned away and stared at the tent wall.
Kyle left Mavers and Ozay in the tent and set out in search of Marli. He found her outside instructing two army technicians in the installation of the tank of scrubbing chemical for the decontamination tent, a small, hemispherical dome just large enough to hold one person. The technicians placed the tank in the proper spot and ran a hose to the dome, which was secured to the frame of the door leading to the reception area with heavy bolts and more of the expanding foam.
“Why there?” he asked.
“We can use the front room as a staging area. Once the interior of the building is sealed and decontaminated, we can move about freely without suits or masks, except in the labs.”
“I’m all for that,” he said.
She stared at him for a moment. “It’s amazing how much one relies on reading another’s facial expressions. Masks make it difficult.”
He returned her stare, feeling slightly uncomfortable by the heat her gaze generated. “There’s still the eyes,” he replied.
“Yes, the ‘windows to the soul’, the poets say.”
“You’d better not look too deeply into my soul. You might not like what you see.”
Her gaze quavered for just a moment, as if she already had an idea of what she might see; then she glanced at the technicians. The moment had passed. Realizing that he had blown his chance to become a little more intimate with Marli, he mentally kicked himself and then asked, “How can I help out?”
She, too, seemed relieved for the reprieve. In a business-like tone, she said, “Would you please help move equipment to the lab tent?”
He spent the remainder of the afternoon methodically moving crates and boxes to their designated destinations, unpacking them, and helping to s
et up equipment. He had no idea what function some of the equipment performed, but his task was simple enough – place it where one of the technicians pointed and move on to the next crate. It was back-breaking labor, but it served to take his mind from the turmoil surrounding them.
Miami was his home, and yet he felt no heartbreak at its ongoing demise. He hoped it was simply that the enormity of it all hadn’t had time to sink in. He hated to think that his years spent dealing with the dregs of society had numbed his ability to empathize with others. People were dying by the thousands, his people, the people he had sworn to protect, but he could do nothing, not even weep. His skills, his weapon, served no purpose in this war, a war against a microscopic spore born on the wind.
Slowly, the stack of crates against the wall diminished and the tents filled with equipment. His back ached and his arms felt as if he had been doing handstands all day, but the exhaustion felt good. It was a clean feeling. A shower would wash away the sweat and the grime of labor, a marked difference from his usual days when even the hottest shower and the most vigorous scrubbing left the stink of the city on his skin and in his nostrils. He sat on the cold concrete floor with his back against the wall, drinking a bottle of lukewarm water, his eyes closed, and his mind foggy from labor. He opened his eyes when he heard footsteps approaching.
“Oh,” Marli gasped, “I thought you were asleep.”
He smiled at her. “Just resting.”
She glanced at the tents. “Everything is almost ready. Tomorrow, we can begin work.”
He nodded as he looked at her. This was the first time he had seen her without a biohazard suit, a respirator, or at least a mask covering her nose and mouth. He noticed the softness of her lips, which had a healthy red glow in spite of the lack of lipstick. Her nose was small and narrow, pert was the word that came to mind. Her face bore signs of the fatigue everyone felt, but he wouldn’t trade it for most faces he had seen in his life. He thought her face almost cherubic in its innocence, not that he knew any of her darkest secrets, but her features remained untouched by the bleakness surrounding them, especially her eyes, which showed signs of defiance. If she harbored doubts about her ability to find a cure, her face revealed nothing.
“Are you staying here tonight?” he asked.
“Yes, it will take hours to calibrate the equipment. The shower isn’t installed, but I suppose a sponge bath will suffice.”
He briefly imagined himself administering the sponge bath. Then he made a show of raising his arms, sniffing his pits, and frowning. “Not for me. I’ll head back to the hotel for a shower and a shave. Hopefully, Ginson can rustle me up a clean uniform to wear.”
“Are you coming back tonight?”
Did her voice sound hopeful? “Sure. You’ve got me for the duration or until Captain Gilbert reassigns me.”
A brief smile flickered on her lips. “That’s good. We can use your assistance.”
He decided to push. “We?”
She blushed. “Okay, Detective, I can use your assistance. I … trust you.”
Not the answer he was hoping for, but it was a start. “Call me Kyle.” He patted his Glock. “This is the only thing I’m good at. I don’t have much to offer as a lab assistant.”
She hesitated. She had something else to say, and he was too tired for word games or dancing around the subject.
“Spill it, Marli,” he urged.
“The military has its agenda and I have mine. At some point, those agendas may clash. I hope I can count on you if that happens.”
“This is my city. I’ll fight for it. If you’re trying to save lives, I’ll be right there beside you.” He nodded his head at the military personnel still moving around the hangar. “These guys might decide to write the city off. I can’t let that happen. Will you?”
“I’ll do my best not to.”
He spread his hands. “That’s all I ask. I’ll run errands and keep you safe. If … if things go to hell in a hurry, I’ll get you safely away from the city, but then I’ll have to come back. I won’t give up Miami. I’m a cop and this city’s my beat.”
Her smile warmed his heart. If he hadn’t been so tired, and afraid of what she might do, he would have leaped to his feet and kissed her. Instead, Ginson walked up. He glanced at the two of them, guessed he had arrived at an inopportune time, and cleared his throat to announce his presence.
“We’re headed back to the terminal for more supplies. Need a lift?”
Kyle cast one last lingering look at Marli before answering, “Yeah. I’d better head back.” Before I do something stupid, like make a play for the good doctor.
7
July 5, Little Havana, Miami, FL –
At dawn, Rita dragged the dead body to the alley; then scrubbed the floor and walls on her hands and knees with soapy water until her back ached. She didn’t stop until every sign of the creature’s foul blood was gone. She tossed the bloody baseball bat in the garbage can out back. Afterwards, she showered with Tomas lying on the floor outside the shower where she could watch him. The water was frigid, but she endured it as the freezing spray washed away the blood and the stink of the creature from her body.
During the night something inside her had snapped. The killing of the demonio had awakened some primal instinct for survival that had lain dormant within all her life. She now felt some small portion of what her father must have felt, to endure six long years in Castro’s prisons, resisting the often brutal ministrations of Castro’s ‘re-educators.’ Ricardo had not returned. She had to face the possibility that her husband may be dead. The thought, once it took root in her mind, spread to her heart, chilling her more than the cold shower. She didn’t have time to mourn. Her son depended on her. She could not be weak. She had to survive if her son was to grow up and experience the freedom for which her father had fought so hard.
Daylight did little to reduce the pall of fear hanging over the neighborhood. The sky was gray, overcast, and filled with smoke. Occasional explosions and gunshots still broke the deathly silence, but the sounds were distant and meant nothing to her. Help was not coming, of this, she was certain. She would have to seek it out. She wrote a hurried note to Ricardo just in case, and placed it on the refrigerator door with a magnet in the hopes that he would yet return. Then she bundled up her baby and set out toward Flagler Street. If she found any help, it would be there, a main thoroughfare. At the last moment, she picked up a photo of Ricardo, removed it from its frame, and shoved it in her pocket.
She moved cautiously through alleys and backyards. Neighbors peered furtively from dark windows, but no one offered her help. Twice, more of the creatures that had once been men appeared on the street, but they didn’t see or smell her and passed her by. They were skulkers of the night and their numbers seemed fewer in the daylight hours.
On Flagler, armed men, not military, patrolled the street as a line of people entered a small market. She took her place in line. When a man spotted her child, he allowed her to move forward several positions. Another man wearing a dirty business suit began to complain loudly, the guard stopped and stared at him.
“You were here yesterday. No more food until tomorrow.”
“You can’t do that. I’m hungry.”
The man’s pathetic whining got on Rita’s nerves. What did he think the others were doing – dining out?
“We’re all hungry,” the guard said. “We have to share to survive. Move along.”
The man was still protesting as she entered the store.
She was shocked to see the store’s shelves were almost empty. People were allowed only a few items each. She chose two jars of baby food and two of canned milk for her child and a box of animal crackers for herself. She offered money to an elderly man behind the counter, but he shook his head.
“We aren’t charging. We’re trying to help.”
“Thank you.”
On the way out, the store owner’s wife, a tall, thin woman wearing a flowered scarf over her nose and mouth,
called her back. She handed Rita a bag filled with sandwiches and bottled water.
“Take this honey. You look hungry.”
Rita was too overcome by the woman’s generosity to speak. She nodded.
“You shouldn’t be out on the streets. It’s dangerous. And cover your face. I heard it’s some kind of disease driving people insane.” The woman reached beneath the counter and pulled out two bandanas. “One for the baby, too.”
Rita took the bandanas and hugged the woman. “Thank you.”
“You had better find a safe place to stay, especially at night.” She glanced outside and scowled. “They prefer the night.”
Rita wrapped the bandana around her mouth and nose and placed the other over her sleeping child. Hoping against hope, she pulled out the photo of Ricardo.
“Have you seen him?”
The woman looked at the photo, and then shook her head. “Sorry, honey, I haven’t.”
Disappointed, Rita went back outside. The guard was still arguing with the man in the suit. The man was becoming more agitated, shaking his fist in the guard’s face and screaming at the top of his voice. The guard warned him to be quiet. Suddenly, the man pushed past the guard and ahead of those waiting patiently in line and ran toward the store.
“Get back,” the guard warned.
The man ignored him. The guard raised his rifle and fired. The man spun, stared at the guard bewildered, and fell dead with a bullet through his back. Two other men dragged his body to the curb. The guard turned to the crowd.
“Stealing, hoarding, or …” he glanced at the dead man’s body, “just being a rude asshole won’t be tolerated. We either work together, or you’re on your own.”
She wondered if the dead man had been someone’s husband or father. It no longer mattered. All that mattered was her child who had not awakened from the shot. She didn’t want to eat in front of hungry people, but it was too far back to her home. She had no reason to return there anyway. She took shelter a few blocks away in an abandoned electronics store. Its contents had been looted and the front window broken, but the office door locked. Once safely inside, she devoured one of the bologna sandwiches and drank a full bottle of water. She was still hungry but decided to make her small stash of food last as long as possible. She didn’t know how long the meager food in the store would last.