Grim Fever

by R Scott Mather

  “Where will the kids go?”

  She sniffles. “Monica said she’ll take them in.”

  “Do you talk to Monica often?”

  “I do. She got me the gig teaching technology to the kids on the reservation.”

  Lindsay told me that before. I should have remembered.

  “She called me,” Lindsay says, “but she was crying so hard she couldn’t get the words out, so she had to tell me about Frank through a text message.” She crunches on a handful of almonds, losing herself in thought.

  I don’t dare interrupt her.

  A few minutes pass without her saying a word. I open my mouth to ask another question about Frank, but she leans her elbows on the table, an intense rigidness across her face.

  “I’m not sure what feeling is stronger,” she says, “Sadness about losing Frank or hatred for Wade Linford.”

  “They go together, don’t they?”

  She nods. “I’ve never been a vengeful person. But I want to see that bastard pay for this. Not just for Frank, but for all the people he’s killing with that poison.”

  “He’s a cockroach. You think he’s dead, but there he is, crawling out from under the rubble.”

  “Well, someone needs to smash him with a boot.”

  This is a side of Lindsay I’ve never seen. Her feelings are justifiable, but it’s such a surprise coming from her.

  “I wonder if there’s anyone Ron can call.” Lindsay’s cop brother-in-law saved my life and nearly lost his doing so. “I’m sure there are jurisdictional issues, but the Spokane police department must have contacts on the reservation.”

  Lindsay shrugs. “I’m sure Kristin will tell him.” She folds her arms across her chest. Her eyes go steely. “An investigation will take forever. How many more tribal members are going to die between now and then?”

  I don’t like where she’s going with this.

  “I want to track that son-of-a-bitch down myself.”

  “Let’s just give the situation time to simmer before we—”

  “No, Chad.” She looks up at me without lifting her head.

  Death glare.

  “Can I use your laptop?” she asks through gritted teeth.

  I grab my laptop from the living room and set it in front of her. She types and clicks for a few seconds, then frowns. “The FATE Facebook group is private now.”

  FATE, Freedom Against Tyrannical Establishments, is Wade’s anti-government group that held a protest a few months ago. We looked it up on their Facebook group to find the time and location.

  “I guess they’re being more careful after the violence broke out at their last rally.”

  Lindsay cocks her head to the side. “Are you kidding? They welcomed the violence. It was free advertising for their,” she does air-quotes, “movement.” She taps at the keyboard again. “I’m going to make a fake profile and join.”

  I’m as curious as her to see what they’re up to, but we can’t go too far with this. Not after the ruckus last time that got me injured and Lindsay nearly arrested. I watch Lindsay work with a nervous bubble inflating in my gut.

  “How does this sound?” she says. “Jim Toole, relocated to Spokane from Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. Contractor, divorced, Patriot, Second Amendment advocate, God and Country.”

  “Sounds legit. But what if they check your previous posts? Won’t they know it’s a bogus account?”

  “If they ask, I’ll say my account was closed for inflammatory posts, so I had to create a new one.”

  “Jeez, have you done this before?”

  She smirks.

  Several minutes and hundreds of keystrokes later, Lindsay stands up. “It’s done. Jim Toole just requested membership to FATE’s private group.” She turns the laptop screen toward me.

  Jim’s avatar is an illustration of a bald eagle clutching a rifle in its talons.

  “Nice. What now?”

  “We wait until an admin approves or denies Jim’s request.”

  “All right. I’m hungry. Do you want some—”

  A crack of thunder booms so loud I could swear it came from inside my skull. A flare of brilliant white light outside is followed by every light in the house going dark.

  The rain is a steady drizzle. Dark gray hues coat everything like the earliest moments of the day before the dawn sun creeps over the horizon. The computer screen illuminates Lindsay’s face, her eyebrows scrunched together as she reads. She hasn’t spoken a word since the power went out.

  “What?” she asks, catching me mid-stare.

  “Nothing. Just wondering when they’ll accept the request.” I look away.

  I gaze out the window and reflect on Wade and realize two of the last four people I’ve infected have survived. The two inmates are dead, but Lindsay and Wade are still alive. I thought Lindsay made it because we got into the hospital early. And because she’s a fighter. But I keep tripping over my thoughts, stumped that Wade Linford is still breathing.

  The virus must be mutating. The time between symptom outbreaks used to be a consistent four weeks, but lately, it’s been sporadic—eight days after infecting Lindsay, five weeks after Wade, then only three weeks after that. It’s wreaking havoc on my schedule.

  “I just got a message,” Lindsay says. “Dwight Basker wants to know why I’m interested in joining the FATE movement. Or, rather, why Jim Toole is interested.” She looks at me over the computer.

  “What are you going to say?”

  She speaks as she types. “I want to associate with like-minded patriots.”

  “I like it.”

  She taps a key and stares at the screen.

  I stand up and walk around the table to see the screen. An icon of three blinking dots appears. Ten seconds later, the reply comes through.

  Welcome abroad!

  “I guess that means we’re in,” Lindsay says.

  “Or we’re being sent to another country,” I say.

  Lindsay rolls her eyes and sighs. She clicks out of the messaging app and opens the FATE group page. She scrolls through the posts. Most are shared memes about tyranny and various videos that appear to be shot from cell phone cameras. She scrolls back to the top, where a pinned post reads:

  Attention Patriots! This week’s meeting is still on! Newly added Patriots, click HERE for the location.

  Lindsay clicks the link, which opens a Google map location. “This is the middle of nowhere,” she says.

  “Zoom out a bit.”

  She does, and the location pin lies about twenty-five miles west of Spokane.

  “Huh,” Lindsay says. “That’s just about half-way between here and the reservation.”

  She zooms in as far as Google allows. The meeting place is between three rectangular buildings, the property surrounded by trees.

  “Is that residential?” I ask.

  “Maybe. It’s pretty far from any of the major roads. Or any other properties. And those buildings don’t look like houses.”

  I point to the screen. “This one looks like a garage. Three cars parked next to it.”

  Lindsay points to the biggest building. “Think this is where they make their meth?”

  “That’s my guess.”

  Lindsay goes back to the Facebook page and scrolls to the Upcoming Events section. “The meeting is tomorrow at six p.m.” She looks up at me, her jaw set and her eyes unwavering. “I’m going.”

  I don’t want to argue with her, but that’s insane. What does she hope to accomplish? Wade’s dangerous, and if FATE meets where he deals his drugs, that’s even more dangerous.

  “What?”

  “I…what do you mean, what?”

  “Your face. You look like you’re about to say, ‘That’s a bad idea, Lindsay.’”

  “Well, that is a bad idea, Lindsay.”

  She shakes her head and stands up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “The bathroom. Is that okay?”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  She stomps past m
e and out of the kitchen.

  I can’t let her go to that meeting, but it’s not my place to tell her what to do. Maybe I can reason with her.

  The toilet flushes and the sinks runs for a few seconds. I wait for Lindsay to come back to the kitchen, but from the foyer, she says, “I’m leaving.”

  “Wait!” I dash around the corner to the foyer.

  Lindsay holds her hand on the doorknob and raises a disinterested eyebrow. “What?”

  “You can’t...I mean, it’s not safe to go there. Those guys are lunatics.”

  “I’m not going there to pick a fight, Chad. I’m just going to see what they’re up to. If there’s anything I can give to Ron to speed up an investigation.”

  “If they catch you…”

  “They won’t catch me.”

  “I hate the idea of you going there.”

  “Why? Because I’m a helpless woman?”

  “No, I’ve seen you kick guys’ asses. It’s not that. I just don’t think Wade is above extreme violence if he finds someone sniffing around. And who knows if everyone in his stupid group is in on the drug operation.”

  “I’m going.” She turns the knob and swings the door open. The rain has let up, but the world is still gray.

  “Are you going to tell them you’re Jim Toole?”

  Lindsay stops. She sighs and looks over her shoulder. “Come with me.”

  Damn it, that backfired. “Lindsay…”

  “I am going. With or without you. I’ll come up with some bullshit story if you don’t.” She turns and hustles toward her car.

  I hate this.

  “Fine. But only to look around, all right? We’re not freaking CIA agents.”

  “I’ll pick you up at five-fifteen.”

  “All right.” I shake my head. This is not going to end well, but I know she means it when she says she’ll go with or without me.

  Lindsay gives a little nod and opens the car door.

  “Hey.”

  She stops and looks over the car at me.

  “I’ll drive. A Subaru might look a little out of place.”

  13

  A fight broke out at the prison today. Not a riot but a handful of inmates who acted out on their differing views over what must have been quite an important topic. My shoulder, still not a hundred percent from an incident a few months ago, absorbed the brunt of the impact with the cement floor. I had an inmate restrained, but an acquaintance of his thought it would be fun to shove the two of us. I landed shoulder-first on my right side, and the inmate tumbled on top of me. I’ve had ice on the shoulder since I got home an hour ago, but it’s still throbbing like there’s a rave going on inside my AC joint.

  My phone buzzes. I expect Lindsay since she’ll be here in half an hour to pick me up for this evening’s FATE meeting, but it’s another unknown number. My head swims in anxiety. I don’t think going to this meeting will be anything but negative. She says she only wants to see what it’s about, won’t do anything but observe. I want to believe her, but I’ve had a twitchy stomach all day, and it’s gotten worse since I’ve been home from work.

  Water sloshes outside as a car drives past. I peek out the kitchen window—still gray and wet, with no sign of letting up.

  My phone buzzes again. It’s Lindsay this time. “Hello?”

  “You don’t have to come,” she says, monotone.

  “I want to.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Well, it’s not the most romantic date, but it’ll do.”

  Silence.

  Chad, you dummy.

  Lindsay coughs.

  “Sorry.” I clear my throat. “Seriously, I want to go with you.” I feel the need to protect her, but Lindsay is one person who does not need protecting. Hell, she’s more likely to save me if things go south. “I want to help you get justice for Frank.”

  She blows out a stream of air. “All right. I’m on my way.”

  The sky rumbles just as the call ends. Fitting.

  I can’t extend my right arm without my shoulder screaming in fiery agony, so I hold the wheel one-handed. Lindsay leans against the passenger door, elbow on the armrest. We’re both wearing the same outfits we wore to the FATE protest—me in a camouflage shirt and a red USA trucker hat, Lindsay in Wranglers and a red USA t-shirt. She hasn’t spoken since we left my house, and the uncomfortable silence in the truck and the choruses of guilt in my mind remind me of our ride to the hospital when I first infected her.

  After several empty minutes pass, Lindsay stirs. “Just because we’re doing this doesn’t mean we’re getting back together. Got it?”

  Dagger. In. The. Heart.

  “I know.”

  She stretches her legs in front of her, adjusting her jeans. “These things are so tight.”

  I open my mouth to say something about how good they look on her but think better of it and bite my tongue. The GPS guides us through farmland thirty minutes outside of the city. Small houses dot the landscape, most of them at least a mile from the nearest neighbor. Mailboxes on the road mark the start of long driveways that lead to modest homes surrounded by massive property lots. The area is remote but not desolate.

  Sometimes I think it would be wonderful to live outside of town, detached from society. Before, with Leanne, I would have never dreamed of living outside of a big city. Pittsburgh had every amenity we could ever need. Bars, restaurants, shops. Places we would meet up with friends. But that life is gone, replaced with a lonely existence.

  I deserve to be alone.

  “It’s really soggy out here,” Lindsay says, breaking me from my pitiful thoughts.

  The ground is saturated. There’s nothing but mud, soaked grass, and puddles in every direction. I hope whatever turnoff we need to take is more road and less muck.

  “Do you ever think about McNulty and Choi?” Lindsay asks.

  “Yeah. I wonder every day if Choi—or whatever her name is—will pop up out of nowhere.” Choi shot Lindsay’s brother-in-law cop in the shoulder seconds after he saved my life. The doctors said he was lucky the bullet struck where it did. He lost some blood, but there was no lasting damage. “Has Ron said anything about them?”

  “Nope. Choi vanished like a ghost. He hasn’t heard anything back on McNulty, and he doubts he ever will.”

  “It’s freaky. I’m kind of scared to find out who they’re working for and why they used the CDC as their cover.”

  “Wherever they’re from, I want no part in it.”

  I exhale like I’m blowing out birthday candles. “Have you been getting calls from an unknown number?”

  “No. Why? Have you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you answered?”

  “No. I keep thinking it’ll be Choi.” I let out a pathetic laugh. “It’s probably a telemarketer or something.”

  “Yeah.” Lindsay doesn’t elaborate any further.

  The GPS pings, showing our next turn. I slow the truck and scan for the road, but I can’t see it.

  “There it is—was,” Lindsay says.

  I hit the brakes, then back up. The driveway is hidden among a grouping of trees. And it’s unpaved. Great. I turn onto the road, and my tires churn through the thick mud chowder.

  “For the record,” Lindsay says, “my Subaru would make it through this.”

  She doesn’t say it jokingly, but I grin anyway.

  We chunk our way along the muddy road toward a cluster of structures and pull into a circular gravel lot centered between the buildings. No other vehicles are around except for a rusty tractor and a seventies-era pickup truck with missing wheels and doors. The first building looks like a portable trailer, similar to what would house a foreman’s office at a construction site. Next to that lies a rectangular building that resembles a barn with a green tin roof and sliding barn doors. Adjacent to that building sits a small cinderblock structure with a matching green roof and a roll-up garage door big enough to drive my truck through.

  “Where is everyone?�
� Lindsay says. She pulls out her phone. “Dang it.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t have any service out here.”

  I check my phone. No bars.

  Lindsay slides her phone into her pocket. “I wonder if they canceled the meeting because of the rain. I should have checked before we left.” She leans her head back on the headrest and draws circles on her palm, her tic whenever she’s anxious or in deep thought.

  I turn the truck around.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Leaving.”

  “Wait. Let’s check it out.”

  My gut twitches and electric pulses radiate on the back of my neck. “I don’t know. I don’t think these are the kind of people who would take snooping around their stuff lightly.”

  Lindsay opens the door and slides out of the truck.

  I guess we’re snooping around then.

  I turn off the truck and get out. I glance down the long driveway. No one is coming, but my tension doesn’t ease. I spin and examine the environment. Trees surround the entire property. The driveway is the only way in or out.

  Lindsay walks up to the portable-office-looking building and peeks into the windows.

  “What do you see?”

  “Couches and some chairs. A desk. Looks like a couple of mini-refrigerators. Beer cans all over the floor.”

  I glance at the muddy road again. Empty.

  Lindsay moves on to the largest structure. She tugs on one of the barn doors, but it doesn’t budge. She walks around to the other side.

  I walk around my truck and step into a puddle because that’s my luck. Damn it.

  Surrounded by trees, anything could happen at this site, which makes it the perfect spot for a militia to produce meth. I survey the largest building. It looks sturdy. And then I see something that knots my gut. Crap. “Lindsay, come here.” I try to emphasize urgency without shouting.

  She glares at me.

  “Please. Come here.”

  She grunts and walks over to me.

  “Don’t look now, but there are cameras on that building.” I check out the other two structures, but neither has visible surveillance. “Only that big one has cameras. There’s probably something in there that’s worth—”