Warehouse 13: A Touch of Fever

by Greg Cox

  “Excuse me, miss. Can you help me?”

  A bald-headed stranger emerged from the rear of the gym, looking badly in need of Nadia’s services. Hollow cheeks and sunken eyes gave the man’s face a distinctly cadaverous appearance. His papery skin was dry and colorless. He walked stiffly, as though every movement pained him. A tan trench coat was draped over his bony frame. Pete could hear the man’s ragged breathing from yards away. The guy looked like death warmed over.

  Pete thought he recognized the newcomer from the audience before. A bad vibe played chopsticks on his spine. He covered his mouth to avoid catching whatever the poor guy had while still keeping one eye on Jim and Nadia.

  “Sorry, buddy.” He tried to send the stranger on his way. “Now is not a good time.”

  The man kept on coming. “Please, I’ve come such a long way. If I could just have a few moments with Nadia?”

  He grimaced and clutched his gut. Pain contorted his face.

  Pete felt sorry for the guy, who had showed up too late. He lowered the Tesla and took out his badge. “Official business, sir. Please move along.”

  Neither the gun nor the badge discouraged the desperate stranger, who continued to shamble toward them. Watery, bloodshot eyes were fixed on Nadia, like she was the only thing that mattered. Veins pulsed beneath his hairless scalp.

  “Back away, mister.” Pete didn’t want to get rough with some poor sick dude, but the guy wasn’t leaving him any choice. “Don’t force us to have you removed.”

  The weather, which been perfectly calm before, took a turn for the worse. Churning black clouds rolled in from nowhere, darkening the sky. A sudden wind whipped up the candy wrappers and cigarette butts littering the courtyard. The temperature took a nosedive, shedding degrees faster than Gypsy Rose Lee had ditched her veils before they ended up in the Warehouse. The wind chilled Pete to the bone. He shivered beneath his jacket. Goose bumps pebbled his skin.

  “Myka?” He glanced over at his partner. “I have a really bad feeling. . . .”

  She was staring intently at the stranger, who had just stepped into the glow of an elevated lamp. Her eyes widened in alarm.

  “Pete!” She pointed at the stranger. “His hand! Look at his hand!”

  A white kid glove, just like Nadia’s, sheathed the man’s fingers.

  Holy cow, Pete realized. It’s the other glove.

  The one that makes people sick.

  The stranger snarled. Glaring at Nadia, he noticed for the first time that her right hand was bare. “Where is it?” he demanded. “Give it to me!”

  He reached out with his left hand. An invisible force yanked Myka’s arm up. She struggled to hold on to the silver bag containing Nadia’s glove, which appeared to have been seized by a powerful magnetic pull. She grasped it with both hands, fighting against the attraction. “Pete! The glove! I can barely hold on to it!”

  The weather went nuts. The sky turned into a mass of seething storm clouds. Fierce winds nearly knocked Pete off his feet. Airborne dust and grit pelted his face. His breath frosted before his lips.

  The stranger felt the pull of the gloves as well. He spun toward Myka. “You! You have it!” His arm outstretched, he stumbled toward her. “It’s mine! Give it to me!”

  That sounded like a bad idea to Pete. He squeezed the trigger of the Tesla, but the gun only sputtered; Pete kicked himself for wasting its charge on Atlas. The stranger lunged at Myka, who was too busy hanging on to the bag to defend herself. His gloved hand groped for her. That was the bad glove, Pete recalled. It wasn’t going to heal Myka.

  “Stay away from her, Typhoid Barry!” With no time to lose, he tackled the stranger, slamming him into a lamppost. The man grunted out loud. Pete hoped he hadn’t hurt the guy too bad. For all he knew, it was the glove that had driven the stranger crazy—just like that pirate wench back in Charleston.

  “That’s enough, pal.” Pete grabbed the man’s left wrist, holding the bad glove away from him. He had no intention of getting zapped like Myka had back at the carnival . . . or worse. “Cool down and this will all be over in a jiffy.”

  “Unhand me!” The stranger thrashed like a crazy person. “You asked for this!”

  He spit a mouthful of phlegm into Pete’s face. “Yecch!” the agent sputtered. Repulsed, he tried to wipe his face with his sleeve, briefly loosening his grip on the stranger, who proved stronger than he looked. With a burst of manic energy, he tore his wrist free and grabbed Pete’s shoulder with his left hand. A swirling gray haze flowed from his fingers before sinking through Pete’s jacket.

  It was like being hit by a speeding plague wagon. Pete staggered backward, clutching his shoulder. A hot, feverish sensation spread all over his body. His skin threw off heat like a furnace. His head swam and he leaned against the side of the car to steady himself. He coughed hoarsely. His stomach ached.

  What had this creep done to him?

  “Pete!” Myka cried out. “Oh my God, Pete!”

  A few feet away, Jim Doherty tugged on Nadia’s arm. “This is our chance. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “No!” Nadia protested. “Not without my glove!”

  The stranger shoved Pete aside. He advanced on Myka, moving noticeably more smoothly than before. He no longer seemed quite so infirm. “Give me that glove!”

  “Not on your life!” Myka said, even as she clutched the rebellious bag with all her strength. It flapped frantically in her grip, hanging parallel to the ground. Straining against the pull, she managed to take a few steps backward, putting more distance between her and the stranger. “What did you do to my partner?”

  A sneer curled his lip. “Let me show you.”

  Before he could get any closer to her, however, blaring sirens raised a deafening racket. Fire trucks and police cars, their lights flashing brightly, zoomed toward the courtyard. They were only moments away from arriving.

  “Damnit!” the stranger cursed. His gaze darted back and forth between Myka and the oncoming emergency vehicles. He hesitated, obviously torn between his lust for the other glove and the need to escape the authorities. Greedy fingers clutched at empty air. “Not now!”

  A squad car speeding into the yard made up his mind for him. Swearing, he turned his back on Myka and rushed past Nadia and Jim, who scrambled to get out of his way. He raced from the scene, taking the other glove with him. Within seconds he had disappeared into the shadows beyond the gym.

  “I don’t understand,” Nadia gasped. “Who was that?”

  Myka wished she knew. She let out a sigh of relief. The silver bag went limp in her grasp, and she briefly considered chasing after the stranger but decided to cut her losses instead. Pete was leaning against a lamppost, gasping for breath. She needed to make sure he was okay before pursuing the fugitive. They could track down the second glove later. Right now, her partner took priority.

  At least we have Nadia’s glove, she thought. That’s a start.

  “Pete?” She started toward him. “Are you all right?”

  More cars and trucks zoomed into the yard. Spinning gumball lights strobed the scene. The lead patrol car squealed to a stop. Its door slammed open and a middle-aged police officer stomped toward them. A graying crew cut hinted at a military background. His unsmiling face was deeply furrowed. A star-shaped badge identified him as the county sheriff. His name, Pitts, was inscribed on the star. His expression darkened further at the sight of Atlas lying sprawled upon the pavement. He knelt to make sure the strong man was just unconscious before rising to confront Myka and the others.

  “All right,” he demanded gruffly. “Somebody tell me just what’s going on here.”

  Other officers provided backup. Firefighters in full gear hurried to check on the gym, while a paramedic attended to Atlas. The weird weather settled down abruptly. Overhead, turbulent clouds dispersed almost as quickly as they appeared. The frenzied winds quieted. Myka figured that meant that the stranger was long gone. Nature, it seemed, was much happier with the gloves apart.<
br />
  Not that she expected the sheriff to understand that.

  “Agent Bering, Secret Service,” she identified herself, presenting her badge. “Sorry for the excitement.”

  He squinted suspiciously at the badge, then turned to Nadia and Jim. “You two okay?” His voice softened. “These strangers giving you trouble?”

  “Can’t you see? They shot my bodyguard!” Nadia dragged Jim toward the sheriff while pointing accusingly at Myka. “And she stole my glove!”

  Pitts scowled at the female agent. “Is that true?”

  Huh? Myka was slightly taken aback by the sheriff’s tone. What was this all about? She didn’t get vibes the way Pete did, but even she could tell that something was off here. Why was this guy treating her like a suspect?

  “Excuse me, Sheriff.” She tried again to take charge of the situation. “These individuals are persons of interest in a federal investigation. My partner and I will be happy to brief you later,” she lied, “but right now I would appreciate your full cooperation.”

  “Oh, you would, would you?” He sneered at her badge. “How do I know that thing’s not a fake?” A smirk lifted the corners of his lips. “You know, now that I think of it, that looks plenty counterfeit to me.”

  Myka couldn’t believe this. “Seriously?” she asked, not bothering to conceal her growing exasperation. Local authorities frequently gave her and Pete a hard time about invading their turf, and questioned the agents’ involvement in whatever bizarre occurrences were going on, but she wasn’t often accused of impersonating a Secret Service agent. She reached into her pocket and offered Pitts a business card bearing a Washington phone number that was routed directly to the Warehouse. “Feel free to contact my superiors if you don’t believe me, but right now I don’t have time for this.” She started to push past the sheriff and the other cops. “I need to check on my partner.”

  “Not so fast.” He blocked her path. “You’re not going anywhere until we sort this out.”

  Myka found herself facing not just Pitts but several of his officers. Behind her, the alarms in the gym fell silent. A fireman approached the sheriff. “Looks like a false alarm, sir,” the man said. “No sign of an actual fire.”

  “A false alarm, eh? That’s a criminal offense.” He looked Myka over. “You have anything to do with that?”

  “It was all a trick,” Jim piped up, “to lure us into an ambush!”

  “Is that so?” Pitts made up his mind. “I think you and your partner need to come down to the station with me. We take false alarms, and armed robbery, pretty seriously around here.”

  Myka didn’t back down. “Sheriff, you are making a serious mistake. You have no idea what’s going on here.”

  “Listen.” Pitts placed a protective arm around Nadia’s shoulders. “All I know is that this special young lady has helped plenty of good people, including my own boy. That gives her the benefit of the doubt in my book.” He stepped forward and confiscated the silver bag from Myka. “And I’m sure as hell going to believe her before I take orders from a couple of so-called Secret Service agents.”

  “We’re for real and you know it,” Myka said coldly, although she knew she was wasting her breath. This whole encounter made sense now. Just their luck: the sheriff was another member of Nadia’s growing fan club. “You’re obstructing federal agents in the line of duty.”

  “Oh, yeah? Last I heard, the Secret Service didn’t go around robbing innocent people at gunpoint.” He handed the bag over to Nadia. “Here you go, princess. Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ve got this under control.”

  Nadia acted positively overjoyed to be reunited with her glove. “Thank you so much, Sheriff George!” she squealed, the familiarity making it crystal-clear that this was not the first time they had crossed paths. She tore open the containment bag like a crazed toddler on Christmas morning. Traces of purple goo clung to the glove, but she eagerly pulled it back onto her hand anyway. Her fingers flexed inside the glove. She choked up. “Oh, God, that was close. I was afraid I’d lost you forever.”

  Jim tugged on her arm again. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here before anything else crazy happens.” He appealed to Pitts. “Is it okay if we take off, Sheriff?”

  “Go ahead. I’ve got this covered.”

  Nadia gave Pitts a grateful hug before finally letting her boyfriend drag her away. Myka experienced a fully explainable case of déjà vu as she helplessly watched Clara Barton’s glove elude them one more time. Fuming silently, she longed to snatch it back, and even flirted with the notion of going for her gun, but she was frustrated, not crazy. Assaulting several legitimate police officers and firefighters singlehandedly was not really a viable plan. Not even Pete would try something so reckless.

  Pete . . .

  “Pete?” She peered past the phalanx of uniformed police types between her and her partner. From what she could see, he was still on his feet but holding on to the lamppost for support. Maybe whatever that stranger had done to him was wearing off already? He put up no fight as a wary cop relieved him of his Tesla. Myka called out to him. “Can you hear me? How are you feeling?”

  Pitts had other things on his mind. “That’s enough. You two can hold each other’s hands back at the station.” He placed his hands on his hips. “Now, are you going to come quietly, or do I have to break out the handcuffs?”

  Disgusted, Myka reached into her pocket and took out her own cuffs. “Here. Have mine.” She tried to squeeze past the cops again. “Now will you let me check on my partner?”

  Pitts didn’t have a chance to answer. Pete let go of the lamppost and staggered toward Myka unsteadily. A recovered alcoholic, he hadn’t touched a drop in years (at least, not in his own body), but he wobbled like a drunk on a bender. His face was gray. He clutched his gut, grimacing in pain. His agonized groan tore at Myka’s heart. He gasped for breath. Blood trickled from his nose.

  “Myka? I don’t feel so good.”

  He collapsed onto the pavement.

  CHAPTER

  11

  WAREHOUSE 13

  Drip, drip, drip . . .

  In the lonely aisle, observed only by its fellow artifacts, Elizabeth Báthory’s bathtub began to overflow. The crimson spillover, which no longer bore the slightest resemblance to apple cider, streamed down the smooth marble sides of the tub. Viscous red droplets slipped through the metal rods supporting the artifact. Blood fell like rain.

  A shrunken head rested on the shelf below the tub. Its shriveled features were dry and leathery, like old beef jerky. A mop of wild black hair clung to its scalp. Its sooty eyelids were squeezed tightly shut. The protruding lips were tightly pursed. Tiny beads were strung in its hair. A bone pierced its nose.

  A warm red shower pelted the hideous relic. The first few drops of blood seeped between its lips. At first the head did not react, but then the dark, mummified flesh twitched. Stirring upon the shelf, the head rocked backward, turning its grotesque face up toward the falling droplets. It licked its lips. Its eyes opened. Blazing bloodred orbs gazed out at the Warehouse.

  Shrunken lips parted. Piranha-like fangs caught the light.

  The head smiled.

  “UNIVILLE”

  “Howdy, Leena. Beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?”

  Bert the grocer greeted her warmly as he swept the sidewalk in front of his store. Downtown consisted of a single broad avenue that was home to pretty much all of the local businesses. Bert’s groceries shared the main drag with the barbershop, the hardware store, a Chinese restaurant, the drugstore, the bank, the florist’s, a video rental place, a bakery, a doctor’s office, and other small-town fixtures. All were locally owned: the big chains had yet to discover “Univille,” possibly because they didn’t even know it existed.