Plague

by H W Buzz Bernard

  “Y’all gonna need something stronger than a Coors,” he said. He smiled, his gold teeth suggesting caution lights at a dangerous intersection. He leaned across the bar and whispered, “You do have the money, don’t you?” A warning cloaked as a question.

  Richard fingered the shot glass, tried to meet Cozy’s one-eyed gaze with an unblinking stare of his own, and shrugged. “What do you think?” He downed the shot. He hoped there was a Wells Fargo branch nearby. He was out of cash. He hadn’t counted on having to buy an illegal handgun.

  “I think y’all are a little ol’ pigeon that’s fluttered into a falcon’s nest,” Cozy said. He pointed at the empty jigger. “’Nother? Like to keep my big tippers happy.”

  Richard declined. Halfcock stumbled by, mumbled for him to sit tight, and went out the front door. His companion disappeared in the opposite direction. Presumably they had instructions to pull sentry duty.

  After fifteen minutes, a man built like Popeye on steroids loomed through the front door, his bulk eclipsing any sunlight that tried to sneak in behind him. He stood in place for a moment, a penumbra of menace outlining his massive frame. No one shouted at him to “shut the goddamn door.”

  “See ya,” said Cozy, as the silhouette lumbered in Richard’s direction. There was no doubt who it was. The man’s head, the size of a prize-winning pumpkin, was topped by hair the hue of rust and bound into neat dreadlocks. The leathery folds of skin that enclosed his freckled face lent him the appearance of a Shar-Pei puppy with five o’clock shadow. He heaved his body onto a stool next to Richard. “Hear you been asking about a man called Leatherhead,” he said.

  “I’m guessing I don’t have to anymore,” Richard responded.

  He studied the new arrival. The man’s large green eyes shimmered with an ironic hint of merriment, although it probably was something else; perhaps the reflected assurance of someone who knew he had the upper hand, thought he’d found an easy mark. A falcon with a pigeon in his nest.

  “So, shall we get down to business?” Leatherhead said. “I understand you wish to conduct, shall we say, an unsanctioned transaction?”

  Richard nodded.

  “My compatriots were worried about your, uh, capitalization.” Leatherhead’s voice, soft and controlled, carried the undertones of something hidden and malignant.

  “They needn’t be, and you needn’t be.” But I am.

  “Ah. Well then, what might you be looking for? High end? Serviceable? Economy?” Leatherhead signaled Cozy, who arrived promptly with a Coke.

  “High end would encompass what?”

  Leatherhead sipped his beverage. “Inventory liberated from municipal and federal law enforcement agencies. Top quality. Guaranteed. Untraceable, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “We can talk S & W, Beretta, SIG. Any preference?”

  “You’re the expert. I defer.”

  “I’m honored by your confidence.”

  Leatherhead turned on his stool to survey the handful of customers in the dingy tavern. His scan completed, he nodded, as if certifying to himself the identity of the clientele. “A businessman can’t be too careful,” he said. “It’s a shame. So many white-collar crooks around these days.”

  He swirled the Coke in his glass, then watched the resultant cyclonic vortex. “Well, what would I recommend? I suppose as a solid citizen I should urge you to buy American. Smith & Wesson, for instance. But for more bang for the buck—pun intended—I think you should consider a SIG-Sauer P228. Swiss-German craftsmanship. Weapon of choice for the British SAS, U. S. Navy SEALs and FBI. Exceptionally reliable. Very safe. You can carry it with a round chambered and bring it into action as fast as any revolver.”

  Richard smiled. Leatherhead had just cast the first line, fishing for big bucks. “You said you guarantee your merchandise?”

  “Certainly. Nothing in writing, you understand. But then, I’ve never had a dissatisfied customer.”

  “Any dead ones?”

  The pupils in Leatherhead’s eyes narrowed to microdots. The flesh near his ears turned crimson. He slammed the bar with an open palm, a slap that reverberated throughout the room. Heads turned. Richard cringed. And Leatherhead guffawed, a booming laugh that rimmed his eyes with tears. “Sort of like, if the parachute doesn’t work, bring it back for a refund?” he managed to choke out.

  Richard finished his Coors in three swallows.

  Leatherhead’s laughter degenerated into breathless pants. “I should hire you for my customer service department,” he said.

  “A preferred customer discount would suffice.”

  “Ah. Yes. Well, you’re interested then?”

  Richard nodded.

  Leatherhead leaned in close. “Three thousand dollars. A brand new SIG-Sauer P228. Untraceable. Two 13-round magazines. One hundred rounds of ammo.”

  Richard drummed his fingers on the bar. An act. “What happened to my preferred customer discount?”

  “Ten percent. Twenty-seven hundred.”

  “Twenty-seven hundred? Why not just mug me? You’ve got the manpower.”

  “I’m not a thug. I’m a businessman with overhead, risk premiums and profit margins to consider. Twenty-five hundred. Final offer.”

  “Five hundred.”

  “Pardon me?” Leatherhead’s grip tightened around his Coke. His knuckles went white. “Pardon me,” he said again, “did I miss the fucking prefix?”

  Time to step out on the ledge, Richard thought. “No, you didn’t. And neither did I. Maybe next time, Mr. Leatherhead. Thanks for your time.” Richard slipped from his stool, nodded to Cozy and strode toward the exit. He held his breath as he approached the door. Maybe he’d underestimated Leatherhead. Maybe Leatherhead was calling his bluff.

  He slowed and looked over his shoulder. Leatherhead, ignoring Richard, chatted with Cozy while simultaneously punching in numbers on his cell phone. Richard muttered a soft curse. He’d blown it. Now what? He pushed through the door into the brilliance of the afternoon, fumbled for his sun glasses. Halfcock, standing in front of him, blocked his way.

  “Man wants to talk some more,” Halfcock said, phone to his ear. “Go back.”

  A half hour later, Richard and Leatherhead closed the deal at $825. Now all Richard needed was the money.

  “Sorry,” Leatherhead said, “no credit cards or checks. Just adds to the overhead, you understand.”

  Richard said he did and stood. “Need to find a bank,” he explained, “a Wells Fargo.”

  Leatherhead closed one eye and cocked his massive head at Richard.

  “You don’t think I carry around that kind of cash, do you?” Richard said, forcing confidence into his voice. “You’re a businessman. You understand.”

  Leatherhead snorted. “Promptness would be appreciated.” He nodded at Halfcock. “My associate will accompany you. Please be so kind as to give him your cell phone. He’ll return it when your mission is complete. Like I said, a guy trying to make an honest living can’t be too careful these days.”

  “I fully understand,” Richard said. “Your associate, I presume, can direct me to the nearest branch.”

  “Three blocks,” Leatherhead said. “I’ll expect you back within half an hour.”

  Halfcock leading the way, the two men strode through the enervating midday heat to the bank. Richard withdrew $1000 from his personal account, and the men returned to Ollie’s.

  The exchange, cash for weapon, took place in a rear booth while Halfcock and his buddy stood guard outside. Richard and Leatherhead shook hands and Richard departed, the P228, clips and ammo wrapped in pink tissue paper on the bottom of a Victoria’s Secret shopping bag.

  Even though he wore dark glasses, the searing afternoon sun forced Richard to squint. Sweat drenched his underarms and threaded down his forehead from benea
th his Braves cap. He clutched the shopping bag close to his chest and plodded toward the motel, glancing frequently behind him, more wary now, more cognizant of his surroundings.

  He was only mildly surprised when he spotted Halfcock about a block behind him, walking in his direction, trying hard to maintain a steady course, a challenge for his liquor-infused body. Richard increased his pace. Halfcock brought a phone to his ear. Undoubtedly his compatriots were out and about. And undoubtedly they were going to try to repossess Leatherhead’s property—former property—and anything else they could find. No way.

  He reached a traffic light, waited until just before the signal flashed red, then sprinted across the four-lane street. Farther down the avenue, a raucous chorus of horns caught his attention. A dark-colored sedan made an illegal U-turn, bulling its way into oncoming traffic. The driver flashed an upraised middle finger at his detractors. Richard pivoted to look for Halfcock. Leatherhead’s lackey stumbled along the curb on the opposite side of the street, looking for an opening in a steady stream of cars and trucks. He interrupted his task to glare at Richard.

  Richard jammed his left hand into the shopping bag, feeling for the gun but knowing it was useless. The ammo remained boxed.

  Pain—sudden, violent—struck him, shooting through both shoulders, but burning his already-wounded one with particular intensity. “Damn,” he yelled. Powerful hands vise-gripped his upper arms and dragged him backward off the sidewalk into a dark foyer.

  His heels bumped over a threshold. A door, nothing more than boarded-over shattered glass in a frame, slammed shut behind him. Only two narrow shafts of light from outside knifed through the darkness as he disappeared into an urban crevasse.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  SOUTH METRO ATLANTA

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 23

  Richard guessed he’d been shanghaied by two individuals. Two distinct voices grunted and cursed as he was wrestled into the interior of the building. Hurting badly and disgusted with himself for fixating on Halfcock and failing to watch his rear, Richard put up only a token struggle. Resigned to his defeat, he raised a white flag.

  Okay, guys,” he said, “take it.” He stopped resisting.

  “Take what?” one of his captors said.

  “The gun.” What else would they be after?

  The grip on his arms relaxed. “Don’t do nuthin’ violent, man. We gonna let go your arms now.” The voice, rough and rumbly, smacked of something from the projects.

  Wallet. They want my wallet. “In my pants,” Richard said. He didn’t care about the SIG-Sauer, cash or credit cards. All he wanted was to keep his life.

  “In your pants what, dude? You ain’t gonna take a dump, is you?” A muffled snicker.

  “No,” Richard said.

  “Good. Look through the crack in the door.”

  “What?” Richard attempted to turn around, but was pushed forward.

  “The door.”

  “Through the crack?”

  “You hard a hearin’?”

  Richard put his eye next to where a tiny beam of light leaked in. “All I see is traffic. And Halfcock.” Standing guard outside.

  “The dark blue Caprice? Easin’ along next to the curb?”

  “Yeah?” The car that had made the illegal U-turn.

  “’Lanta plainclothes, man. They real interested in y’all.”

  “Plainclothes cops?”

  “No. Plainclothes transvestites, Whitebread.” A second voice, higher pitched, more articulate than the first.

  “Who the hell you be, man?” The first voice again. “Whatcho do the cops be eyein’ you? Mr. Leatherhead don’t want his merchandise fallin’ into no wrong hands. You a babe in the woods, you is. You never even spotted those guys.”

  “Cops?”

  “Jeez-us, yes, cops.” The other speaker. “They been on you like flies on shit ever since you walked outta Ollie’s. Well, turn around. Mr. Leatherhead requested we see you safely back to wherever you be stayin’. Least we can do for a valued customer. Though I doubt we’re ever gonna see your pale ass again. Mr. Leatherhead figures you got a short life span.”

  Well, Mr. Leatherhead may be right. Richard expelled a long, slow breath and turned to face his invisible captors cum saviors. All he could see were white teeth. Two sets. One level with his own, the other, shorter. They were in an abandoned building, that much he knew, probably a crack house. The dead air reeked of rotting food and dried excrement. “So, now what?” he asked.

  “So now we get you and your new purchase outta here and lose the cops. Where you stayin’ at?”

  “James Street Motor Hotel.”

  A pause, then: “Thought you white boys could do better than that. Okay, bro’s out back with some nice wheels. He’ll drop you there. Come on.”

  The two men led him down a black hallway. Something large scurried over his foot and squeaked.

  “Don’t be steppin’ on Mickey.” The voice from the projects.

  “It was bigger than Mickey.”

  “Mickey’s been snortin’. He just think he big.”

  They reached the end of the hall. The shorter man cracked open a door and peeked out. Light flooded into the darkness, illuminating a floor littered with empty hypodermics and discarded condoms. The man turned and motioned Richard forward.

  “Nothing but the best for our clients.” He pointed at a gold 7-series BMW idling in the alley. It sported wheels that probably cost more than Richard’s Mini. “Walleye will have you back to the Ritz in a jiff.”

  “Keep your head down, Homey,” the larger man said. Then more softly: “Babe in the woods.”

  Back in the motel, Richard sequestered the SIG behind a loose air vent grill, then showered until the water ran cold. The grime washed away, he launched a determined effort to connect “tent” to any major ongoing or upcoming events in north Georgia. He leafed page by page through an Atlanta-Journal Constitution, but found no obvious matches: no circuses, carnivals, Boy Scout encampments, Civil War reenactments, hip-hop festivals or Oktoberfests (even though it was August). He considered other possibilities. Golf tournaments and automobile races often employ hospitality or VIP tents, but none was being held in or near Atlanta. Oxygen tents: hospitals. Stupid. “Shit.” He threw the newspaper onto the floor.

  He walked to the window and looked out. It was close to four p.m., and the Friday rush home had begun. The street below already had lost a battle to an artery-choking cholesterol of cars and trucks. Vehicles feinted and darted as they fought to gain mere inches of precious pavement. Mostly they sat and idled, spewing a sordid flatulence of exhaust into the pale orange afternoon. A delivery van double-parked next to the warehouse across the street enhanced the congestion.

  Humid air laden with gasoline and diesel fumes leaked under the door. Richard switched the air conditioner on high. It clattered in protest and mounted a doomed effort to challenge the miasma—only a portion of it industrial—that permeated the room.

  NORTH METRO ATLANTA

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 23

  Dr. Arthur Willand, the ER physician at North Georgia Regional Hospital, was beyond pain. Finally. Mercifully. In one last, lucid moment he understood the disintegration of his internal organs was virtually complete. The explosions of bloody diarrhea and vomiting had ceased, the nonstop hemorrhaging, ended. Nothing remained for his body to slough off. The virus, he knew, had colonized everything but his soul.

  He recognized only dark and light. But he also sensed someone he loved nearby. He drew a shallow breath, knowing it was his last and cursed himself for not having blown his brains out earlier. The agony he’d gone through had been far greater than any man should be forced to endure. If there were a worse way to die, he couldn’t imagine it.

  He felt a hand grip his, tighten, tremble.

  He thought he heard a
small cry. His wife’s? His?

  He exhaled.

  SOUTH METRO ATLANTA

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 23

  Richard switched on the TV to catch the evening news. The image, distorted and vertically stretched, made the reporters look like Coneheads; but the sound was fine. A sense of alarm dominated the broadcast. A wave of palpable concern had broken over Atlanta, a nascent tide of panic. Rumors were rife about a sudden ratcheting up of security at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, and at Turner Field where the Braves played baseball; about the activation of National Guard units and the movement of active-duty military units into the city.

  There seemed to be no answers to a myriad of questions. Was a terrorist attack feared? If so, was the threat-level about to be raised? Was all the activity somehow related to the shooting at BioDawn? To the grenade attack at Diamond Cutters? Why were municipal and state government spokesmen being so vague?

  The television scene switched from the anchor desk to BioDawn’s parking lot. A man identified as Dr. Dwight Butler from the CDC appeared on-screen. He fielded questions from an aggressive wolf pack of correspondents.

  “Dr. Butler, we understand you entered and investigated some sort of illegal laboratory in BioDawn’s facilities. Could you tell us what you found?”

  “Only that a highly secure lab was in a place where there shouldn’t have been a highly secure lab,” he answered.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that research and development requiring government authorization and oversight, yet having none, was being carried out there.”

  “Was the work of a biological nature?” The pack of reporters elbowed and jostled one another, closing in for a kill.

  The doctor hesitated, seeming to look for guidance from a cadre of officials standing near him. None of them offered to intercede. “We’re still attempting to determine that,” Dr. Butler finally answered.