“He doesn’t look like Jesse,” Bret said irritably to Sally, then cringed as the bug guy bent over, exposing his plumber’s crack. “God.”
Buster pointed. “Bug guy.”
“Yes,” Bret nodded. “Bug guy.”
“Bug guy sex Bret. Jesse said.…” Buster yelled. “Thank you!”
Over his shoulder, the disgusting bug guy peered at Bret.
She flashed an annoyed smile and through gritted teeth spoke to Sally, “Your son has a big mouth.”
Sally shrugged.
The bug guy cracked his head as he reached for a tool.
“What’s that?” Sally asked.
“Oh, state of the art…probe.” He grinned at Bret.
Bret rolled her eyes.
“This here goes in the wall,” he explained. “I made a small hole and this lets me see inside. Gives that true in-depth look.” He disappeared under the sink again. “Now.…” He grunted. “I’m…oh, yeah. Got a nest. Big one…shit.” He paused.
“What? What?” Bret asked.
He came out from the sink. “I have to pull out some of the wall. That okay? I can’t reach the entire nest. Kind of extends.”
Sally looked horrified. “You have to break my wall.”
“No, no,” He shook his head. “Who ever put this kitchen in put a removal panel over the pipes. Not a problem. Just got to pull it off.”
“Then what?” Sally inquired.
Simply and matter-of-factly he stated, “I kill the nest.”
Sally exhaled. “Go on. Please.”
They stepped back further toward the kitchen wall.
“Play.” Buster kicked out his legs. “Play.”
“Sure.” Sally set him down. “In the other room. Okay?”
Buster took off for the living room.
Bret and Sally waited and watched. The bug guy continued working under the sink. However, it wasn’t the sound of the panel breaking that made them look at each other.
A hiss.
A loud hissing, cracking sound emanated from under the sink.
“What . . . . What was that?” Bret asked.
Under the sink, the bug guy didn’t respond…at first. Then, “Holy Mother of God!” He screamed in horror, and as his body squirmed out there was a thump.
He started to cough, sounding as if he were choking.
“Hey.” Bret inched with Sally. “Are you okay?”
Just as they neared the sink, nearer to the shaking bug guy, the hissing grew loud, and then suddenly, like a river, the roaches scrambled out. There were so many there was no distinguishing a single roach from the thick black mass.
As they screamed, the bug guy scurried out for his freedom. Face purple, he held onto his throat and reached out for help as cockroaches crawled at a rapid pace from his mouth.
They were everywhere. Bret tried not to scream but couldn’t help it. Repeatedly, she yelled out, “Jesse!” hoping her husband could hear the commotion next door. Her hand extended toward the bug guy, and roaches flew up her arm. There had to be fifty. Then others started up her leg.
“Oh, God.” Bret tried flinging them. She felt the pinches, the pain. “They’re biting me.” She shuddered, shook, swept them off, but they just kept coming.
Sally was crying, her hand frantically wiping the bugs from her legs. Bret looked quickly toward the bug guy. He was gone, buried beneath the roaches. The second she heard Sally whimper ‘Buster’, Bret grabbed her arm and they flew to the living room.
The crunching was as bad as the bugs, but not as bad as the scream.
Buster cried.
They made it to the living room; cockroaches crawled up the walls, the furniture . . . everywhere, then the front door swung closed.
Buster ran outside.
Bret cleared the cockroach from her eyes with a shudder of disgust and a swipe of her hand over her face, and out the door she bolted with Sally.
“Buster!” Bret called out. “Jesse! Help!” she screamed as she made it to the porch.
“My baby!” Sally’s voice raised in hysterics. “Oh God, my baby!” Over and over, she screamed it as she raged past Bret, nearly sending her sailing into the porch railing.
Bret turned—a flash of Sally and then…Buster as he ran to the street.
Sally chased him. In hysterics, Buster kept running. The huge gaping hole filled with water was in his path.
The construction workers seemed clueless and Bret cried out, “Someone grab the baby! Get the baby!”
It seemed to happen in slow motion. Like she was in a dream, her legs couldn’t move fast enough to get her off the porch. Her heart pounded, ears burned, as she hurried. Sally was almost there, her hand extended, begging Buster to stop. He didn’t.
Everyone rushed to him. A fireman close by caused a short-lived sigh of relief. Everyone was certain he had Buster. Certain. They even stopped running.
Suddenly, the tiny two year old, almost embraced in the fireman’s hold, sank into the depths of the sluggish water-filled twenty-foot death trap.
Sally jumped in after him.
Both sunk.
All human beings are equipped with the heroic drive. In some, it kicks in automatically. A construction worker had it, and he dove into the pit with all that he had.
Bret was hysterically focused on the lake in the road and never noticed when Jesse emerged from the house. He grabbed on to her asking if she were okay, but her attention was focused on the pit as yet another worker jumped in.
Jesse’s hands were all over Bret, diligently attempting to clear the cockroaches. His eyes never left his wife, nor did he stop brushing off those roaches, despite all that was going on around them. It seemed he didn’t know or care about what was happening at the pit.
“Buster. Sally,” Bret murmured.
Jesse’s hands paused. “They fell in?”
She whimpered. At that instant, her body began to tremble out of control. She thought Jesse was going to leave and join the four others that had leaped into the hole. But the fireman, angry and shouting, drew everyone’s attention. “No more!” he yelled. “Stop.” He reached out and grabbed the arm of another who was heading in. “It’s like quick sand. Can’t you see?!” he shouted. “No one’s coming up or out.”
No sooner did he say that than a set of arms whooshed from the water. They rose high, holding a motionless Buster inches above the level of the ant bath.
Everybody rushed forward.
Then the arms sank. So did Buster.
Silence.
The thick sluggish mixture of ants and mud was still. No sound at all.
***
Bret asked for a Valium. No one had any to give, so she settled for a bottle of bourbon while she sat on her front porch and waited.
The day trudged on, the sky grew dark, and the street was lit by flashing emergency worker lights. They brought in fishing nets to pull through the hole, but it was tedious and slow. Still, she watched.
The kids weren’t allowed to return home. Jesse went down to the school and took the kids to Bret’s mother’s house before returning. It was debatable who was more an emotional mess, Bret or Jesse. Physically, Bret was bad. Her body ached, but the alcohol aided in numbing that.
She couldn’t stop crying. It was like a war zone. The fire department executed a well-controlled torching of Sally’s house. When they went in to help the bug man, the fireman said there was nothing left. After Bret questioned the freakishness of it all, the fireman claimed that cockroaches feed on anything.
Even on a bug man. The bugs got their revenge.
Sally’s husband stayed right at the edge of the hole. Her other two children were taken to a relative’s home. The street was a spectacle. Hundreds came to watch as they dragged the hole. Everyone gasped when they pulled something out. A dog was in there, two cats and many squirrels. There were many rodent carcasses that began to pile up.
“Cigarette?” Jesse extended one to Bret.
She had quit but took it anyhow.<
br />
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Exhausted. What’s happening, Jesse?”
“I don’t know. I think they’re gonna evacuate.”
Curiously, she turned her head his way.
He continued, “Just rumors. I heard the cops talking.”
“I would think if they were going to evacuate, they would have done so. What are they waiting for?”
The loud sounds of trucks caught their attention, and if the street didn’t look like a war zone before, it certainly did after military truck followed by military truck rolled in.
Both Jesse and Bret slowly stood.
Soldiers marched in. The leader pointed, waved and the battalions spread out.
Bret swallowed. “This is frightening.”
“No,” Jesse shook his head. “That’s frightening.” He pointed to a crew of four wearing biohazard suits.
Bret watched as they approached a fireman, and to her surprise, the fireman pointed in her direction.
“Jesse,” she whispered and grabbed on to his arm. The group of military moved their way. “Jesse?”
“It’s all right.” He pulled her into him.
The first of the four walked up the steps, followed closely by soldiers. “Are you Brettina Long?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered apprehensively.
“I’m Dr. Jeffers with the Center for Disease Control.” He gave a nod and two of the armed soldiers moved forward.
“We need you to come with us,” Dr. Jeffers said.
Bret shook her head.
The soldiers reached out for her.
“Hey!” Jesse yelled, and grabbed Bret away.
“I don’t wanna go. Jesse?”
A soldier seized Bret.
“Get off my wife!” Jesse blasted then ensued in a struggle over his wife.
It was a tug of war, one that ended with the quick aim and point of an M-4 directly at Jesse.
“Back off!” The soldier ordered. “You’ll be informed shortly where she’s going. This is for her own good.” The soldier calmed some. “Please back off.”
With eyes that conveyed his apology, Jesse slowly lifted his hands away. “I’m sorry, Bret.” He leaned to kiss her.
They wouldn’t let him. Before she knew it, a damp, cold blanket was flung over her. It covered her from head to toe and she couldn’t see a thing. It was black, confusing. All she knew was that she was being led somewhere, and before long, taken away.
3. THE WARD
The sight of a face can help so much. Bret had to judge only by the voices that spoke to her. She couldn’t see a thing and only knew she had been placed in the back of a truck or van.
“I’d feel much better,” she told them, “if I could see.”
Dan, a soldier who gave his name said, “The blanket is treated. It’s for the best. We’ll be there shortly.”
“I saw this movie, you know.”
“What movie?”
“The Stand.”
Dan chuckled. “There isn’t a virus taking over the world.”
“I feel like there is.”
“Hey, Bret. Can I ask you a question? It’s gonna sound weird but there’s something I need to know.”
“What’s that?” she asked, buried in her black wrapping.
“Are you ‘Divine’?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“I thought I recognized your voice.”
“Who’s Divine?” another asked.
Dan answered, “She’s a DJ on a local station.”
“Shit,” the man said, and then hustled forward.
Bret tried to scope in on the muffled voices. Something was happening. Her being a DJ made a difference, whether good or bad remained to be seen. Who knew?
She thought that maybe having a celebrity status would pay off, even if she really wasn’t a celebrity.
The vehicle picked up speed—as if it wasn’t going fast enough--and the trip to the destination didn’t take long. Ten minutes maybe, then she was rushed from the van, lifted onto a cart, and laid flat on her back.
“What’s going on?” she asked as the cart rushed about.
“Vitals?” a woman questioned, ignoring Bret’s quizzing.
Someone replied to her request. “BP 110 over seventy. Heart rate 72. Respiration normal. All good.”
“Any convulsions?”
“None.”
“Signs of distress?”
“None.”
“Time frame?”
“Eight hours.”
“We’re still good,” she spoke quickly.
“What’s going on?” Bret asked out loud again. “Someone, what’s going on?”
“Shh,” She whispered comforting. “Just bear with us.”
Bret was wheeled away quickly and the cart made sharp turns; to Bret it was like some kind of medical Disneyland ride. Turning, speeding, careening in blackness.
The woman continued the blurting out of questions, “Placements?”
“Four. At quick glance. Can’t be positive.”
“Any count?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
“In here.”
Bret felt the cart slam into something before coming to a halt. Suddenly she was lifted—blanket and all—and lain on another table.
“I need a team STAT,” the woman ordered out. “Nurse, ready?”
“Ready,” another woman said.
“I need this patient out and quickly.”
“Out? Quickly?” Bret questioned out loud. She wanted to scream; her pleas for answers were ignored.
“On my call.”
A pause.
“Now!” she ordered.
The blanket was whipped open and Bret was greeted with a blinding white light. Trying to make heads or tails out of everything, she raised her hand to shield her eyes, to try to see what was going on. Her hands were grabbed and secured without hesitation. In defense, she squirmed over their hold. Everything was happening so quickly that her head spun in confusion. Within a few seconds, she felt the pinch to her thigh. She had been injected with something. The serum moved through her blood with a burning sensation. Her chest immediately felt heavy and Bret gasped for air. The voices that surrounded her slowed down, sounding demonic and fake. Then, just like with the blanket, she was in the dark again. Everything went black.
***
If someone had taken the time to say, “If you don’t come with us for help, you’ll die,” there would have been a lot less resistance and confusion on Bret’s part.
Evidently no one thought the few seconds could be spared.
She was alone when she came to—or so she thought. A white curtain surrounded her bed. There was some dizziness, but she wasn’t restrained at all. Slowly she sat up, swung her legs from the bed, allowed her head to stop spinning, and stood. Sharp pains shot up her thighs, but they subsided. Her face felt tight and slightly numb. Reaching up, her fingers touched upon a small bandage just under her eye.
Not dressed completely, and not caring, Bret reached for the curtain.
She envisioned a nurse’s station, with a few clueless and lunching women there. She quickly realized the slim chance of that when moans carried her way, lots of them. Painful cries, aching groans, wet coughs, they melded like an orchestra of painful music. Bret pulled open the curtain. She wasn’t in a hospital at all, but a warehouse. Huge, white interior, and for as far as the eye could see, cots—filled with patients—lined up throughout the inside.
Her hand gripped the curtain. “My God, this is the plague,” she muttered as her fingers went numb. Controlling her eyes was a difficult task; they began to roll as everything spun. Two women in hospital scrubs rushed her way, but then all went black again to Bret.
***
They counted seventy-two cockroach bites on her body. Seventy-two. Bret didn’t even recall being bit that many times. The nurse informed her that ninety percent of those in the quarantine were suffering from a fatal illness called hantavirus. Pneumoni
a, a SARS-like respiratory illness they acquired through the cockroaches. Cockroaches carry diseases; this particular one was running rampant amongst the rats, and it seemed the violent roaches were finding an interest in the rats as a dining pleasure. Carrying the germ all around, and then infecting those they bit.
Unlike Bret, those ninety percent hadn’t a clue that they didn’t have the flu. She was fortunate; they were able to monitor her, clean and scrub her wounds, and deliver antibiotics. They were hopeful she wouldn’t get ill.
However, hantavirus wasn’t the urgent situation. Again, she was fortunate that through the latest cockroach experience and bites, medical professionals learned that female cockroaches were finding nesting spots…within their bite victims. Laying up to eighty eggs in an area no bigger than a pimple, they’d nest behind their ears, nose, head, eyes and legs. Before the victim could possibly know they were a breeding ground, the eggs would hatch. More often than not, the roaches would crawl into the human body, and make—or rather eat—their way out.
Those unfortunate victims weren’t around anymore to tell their tale.
There were three nesting spots on Bret’s body: One in her eye, another behind her ear, and the last between her fingers. They were able to spot them and remove the nests.
It wasn’t the repercussions of the cockroach bites that baffled her; it was the number of incidents and victims. It made her wonder: A warehouse full of people, most of which were dying? How bad was the cockroach epidemic, and how long had it been going on?
“Less than a week,” Dr. Jeffers explained to her as he sat at her bedside. “This set-up was initiated three days ago. You’re one of the twenty that we expect to release in good health. You’re showing no signs of HV. Of course, tomorrow morning will confirm.”
Bret sighed out in relief. “When do I get released?”
“That remains to be seen.”
“On?”
“You.” Dr. Jeffers said. “You’re the media. The press.”
“I’m a Christian Broadcasting DJ.”
“You reach the masses,” he stated matter of factly. “There are certain things we wish to keep quiet until we can figure this all out. We want to withhold this story from leaking and curb any worries or panics.”
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