Wetherspoon’s arms were crossed in front of his chest, his face impassive, unblinking. He looked like the ruler of some ancient land.
“It’s for the best, Joe,” the Old Man said. “You’ll thank me when this is over. There are some secrets bigger than people like you and me. If one person’s going to try and confront those, it might as well be an old man who’s past his prime. Go home and care for that pretty wife of yours and the kid you have on the way. No reason to get yourself wrapped up in all this.”
“That’s a hell of a thing to say,” I said. “A goddamned hell of a thing to say.”
I turned and walked out of the office, slamming the door behind. As I walked down the hallway, I heard Wetherspoon’s voice calling out to me. But I kept going, all the way up the stairs.
The Old Man knew something. But he wasn’t telling. Wetherspoon himself could have something to do with the rash of deaths. He was always at the hospital. He had access beyond that of any other person at Saint Almachius, except for maybe the Kraken. And his old, cynical brain was probably going senile, perhaps insane. Perhaps even criminally insane. I banged through the third-floor door, not stopping, muttering half-formed curses under my breath that weren’t in any human language. My mentor could be behind it all. Shiro Ishii, indeed. Just a pseudonym to throw off the rest of the unassuming medical staff.
But nothing would deter me. I would get to the bottom of it—all of it. As I picked up my keys and Atman from the desk, I was already making plans. I would check up on MacGruder, I would re-examine the bodies of the people who died the night after the shooting before they were taken to the incinerator. I would go over the Kraken’s head, maybe call the Bureau’s regional administrator and demand a special investigator. I’d check the records and call Lanza. I would get answers. I’d make my voice heard. I took off my coat and hung it on the hook. I straightened my tie in the reflection from the computer monitor. I could handle this.
But first was lunch. I had promised to meet Lanza down at our usual haunt, the Lenni Lenape Automat Diner, on the western stretch of the ultrahighway. Earlier that morning I had regretted even making the plans, since my patient list was long, and I had pledged to make it home to Mary in time for dinner. But now my thoughts brightened at the prospect. I could bring Lanza in on the investigation. My best friend, at the very least, would help me.
* * *
“No, I won’t help you,” Lanza said, thwapping the packet of InstaSweet, then tearing a corner and dumping it into his cup of coffee. “You can’t. We already have an investigation into it. If I let you do that, we’d get in each other’s way.”
“Jesus, Zo,” I said. “It’s not like I’m going to steal evidence or hide whatever I find. I just figured…”
“No—absolutely not,” Lanza said. He sipped his coffee, shaking his head, looking all around the diner. “Joe, that’s like you allowing me to do brain surgery.”
“Almost all the cranial laser procedures are automated through the O.N.K. It’s actually one of the easiest jobs nowadays…”
“The answer’s still no.”
We sat in silence. The Lenni Lenape was filled with seniors fitting pieces of toasted tofu into their wrinkled mouths and sipping delicate cups of tea. Bleary-eyed waitresses strode around with purpose, hurrying patrons along, filling cups with hot liquids every few minutes in an endless cycle. Every so often they’d check a screen, then go up to the automated wall, push the big green button next to one of the foggy windows, take the dish out of one of the automat compartments, and bring it over to the customer. A line of TVs near the ceiling showed the President of the United States of America. “Her mouth moved, but the voice of a pundit from one of the networks talked over her speech.” It broke to a commercial for the ridiculous Atman Four gadget that everyone was waiting for.
Two teenagers were at the next table over from us, separated by a glass partition about two feet high on the table: a redheaded girl and a boy with piercings in his face, both obese. They were obviously skipping school, drinking neon fluids with straws, their Atmans beeping with alerts. I felt a deep twang of sentimentality looking at them, thinking of our own days playing hooky.
“What do you want to do today?” said the girl. The boy looked down at the beeping Atman in his wrist. His nose rings and earrings jangled on his head. Thirty seconds passed. “What’d you say?” the boy said. More beeping. The girl looked down at her Atman, hit two buttons, then looked up at him.
“I said, ‘What do you want to do?’” Both machines beeped, making a strange harmony.
“I don’t know,” the boy said, gazing into his Atman, smiling.
“I guess we could have another Xtreme InstaBoost,” the girl said, nodding. Both Atmans rang.
They both pushed buttons furiously, captivated, numb smiles filling their faces as they stared down at their screens.
“Damned kids,” Lanza said, shaking his head, burning his lips on the coffee. “It’s not like when we were teenagers. They’re not shoplifting from supermarkets or having sex in cars. Now they’re hacking bank accounts and taking toilet-cam shots of their friends.”
“The obese ones have heart attacks on the street, get their diabetic feet amputated. It’s really sad,” I said, nodding in agreement. “So—anything on the hospital deaths on your end yet?”
Lanza looked at him.
“Joe,” he said, “you know I can’t give out classified information while an investigation is pending. However, a piece of pecan pie might convince me to talk—strictly off the record.”
I glared at him.
“You’re a crooked cop, you know that?” I said, pushing the pie button on the menu. “Now just tell me—has your crack team of toilet inspectors come up with anything?”
“Officially, no,” Lanza said, accepting the pie slice from the waitress. “But I can tell you—the powers-that-be have been strangely quiet.”
“The powers-that-be.”
“Yes,” the cop said. “Normally when it comes to investigations like this, in a hospital, there’s a whole bunch of oversight from the Bureau of Wellness, down to every detail. That’s been the case ever since the Purge. But they haven’t even made contact on this one.”
“What’s your expert cop opinion?”
Lanza raised a forkful of pie to his mouth.
“I’d say it’s something big,” he said. “Maybe the Bureau of Wellness or even the FBI is onto something, and they need to keep everything quiet until they can spring the trap at the right time. The only thing I’ve ever seen like it were the Intifada crackdowns in Newark a few years ago. But…”
“But what?”
“But it’s never been this quiet. They’ll always at least let us know something’s going on—a wink and a nod, something like that. This time, nothing.”
I tipped the last of my coffee back. I swiped my Atman on the menu interface to pay the bill, then stood from the table.
“I have to get back to the hospital,” I said, staring down at my friend with a sullen frown. “But I need help, Zo. Old Man Wetherspoon is the only one who knows what’s going on—and he ain’t talking.”
Lanza looked up at me and sighed. He set the fork down on the bare pie crust. He stood, donning his cap.
“I hate that look, you know,” Lanza said. “Ever since we were kids, you’ve always sulked like that when you don’t get what you want.”
We walked toward the exit.
“Then just give me what I need,” I said.
We pushed through the door, me and then Lanza. We stopped just outside the door, Lanza sucked on his nicotine inhaler. I cracked open an energy stick and snorted in one huge pull. The sun seemed to wobble brightly in the sky, maybe another mirage from the smog.
“Alright,” he said, exhaling. “I’ll see what I can get from some of the other detectives. It’s not going to be easy. I’m not directly involved.”
We walked to the lot.
“Anything would help,” I said.
Standin
g by the police car, lost in our own thoughts, the reverie was broken by the digital blip of the police radio.
“Officers in the area—we have Code 810 at the Pinefield Manor apartment complex,” the man’s crisp voice said. “Neighbors reporting a hazmat situation in the residential buildings. Unknown agent has sickened at least one hundred. Immediate quarantine required. Riot response teams on standby.”
“Pinefield Manor—that’s the big complex off the ultrahighway,” I said. “That’s where Old Man Wetherspoon lives.”
“Sounds like I might see you later,” Lanza said. He opened the door to his cruiser. “Listen—I’ll get you something right after we deal with this. Most of the time these Code 810 hazmat calls turn out to be a burning bag of dogshit on somebody’s front stoop, nothing more.”
We shook hands, formally stiffening ourselves in case anyone was watching. I got in my own car and sped back toward the hospital. A few miles out, I called Betty Bathory. She picked up on the third ring.
“Joe? Where you been? Have you heard?” she said.
“I had lunch with Lanza. We heard something over his radio,” I said. “How bad is this?”
“The worst,” she said, breathless. “There’s probably going to be a quarantine. A hundred patients in one apartment complex. So the doctors and nurses are going there with the whole nine: NBC suits, masks, decontamination, triage tents, all of it.”
“Do they have any idea what it is?”
“Not at all,” she said. “But someone’s been posting pictures on Amicus, and it looks like some of these people have swollen lymph nodes in their necks and armpits.”
“You’re kidding,” I said. “You know, that’s the main symptom of—”
“Yes, Joe, even nurses had to study microbiology in school,” she said. “And before you ask me how the hell bubonic plague pops up in an apartment complex in New Jersey, all I can tell you is nobody knows anything yet. Just get here—and get ready for a shitstorm.”
“Be there in five.”
* * *
The hospital entrance was still, quiet. I felt like I was creeping up on another disaster, but I plunged once more into the breach. Stash and Stanislaw, the security guards, calmly waved to me, the waterfall next to their desk trickled. The first hallways were empty, and I almost relaxed. But once I reached the emergency room at the other side of the hospital, it was like an alien world burst open before me. The chaos was more frantic by far than it had been a few days earlier; perhaps because now the nurses and doctors frantically stuffing medical bags with bottles and syringes and gauze and surgical masks realized their own lives were at stake this time. I found Betty shoving a tarp into a bookbag.
“Betty,” he said.
“Here Joe, pack this stuff,” she said, gesturing toward a pile of mixed devices, medicines, and supplies. “The Kraken said we’ve got twenty minutes before the buses leave.”
“Betty, why aren’t the feds taking the lead on this? I thought this was the kind of thing the Bureau was supposed to handle with its agents.”
She stopped, mid-movement, ran her hand through her hair, trying to pull it into its normal ponytail. But she hit a snag and yelped.
“Come on, Joe. We all know they’ll step in and take all the glory once the work’s done. But they don’t do anything until we deal with it first.”
She walked off, straightening her hair, and I started to stuff the sack. But halfway through, I pulled out my Atman, and called home.
“Hey, hon,” Mary said. “Just getting out of the gym. How’s your day going?”
“Pretty normal, aside from an outbreak of the Black Death.”
“Please tell me you’re kidding,” she said.
“It’s crazy, I know,” I said, pinching the corners of my eyes. “We’re setting up a quarantine around an apartment complex. The same one Wetherspoon lives in—remember that time we had dinner at his place?”
A pause. Silence on the other end. I could feel her weighing my words carefully.
“It’s probably not a big deal. We’ll take precautions,” I added. “I wanted to let you know I may just be home a little late.”
Another pause, as she weighed what she was going to say.
“Okay,” she said. “I understand. Just be safe. And get out of going, if you can.”
“Bubonic plague isn’t my idea of fun, Mary. I’ll keep my distance as much as I can,” I said. “Love you.”
“I love you too, Joe. Be careful.”
We hung up. An electronic chime sounded from overhead. Ten minutes before departure. I could only vaguely recall the hazmat training seven years ago, because it was the impossible contingency—the one never supposed to happen. The return of a scourge from centuries before, right here in America. I quickened my movements, grabbed an NBC suit, the spare cotton swabs and syringes, and stuffed it all in the knapsack. A fresh set of scrubs, a surgical mask and cap, and paper booties. I didn’t know what else we’d need. I searched around the nurses’ station looking for anything else I may have forgotten. I rummaged through the medicine bin looking for some extra penicillin, maybe some morphine, just in case. But I saw only a candy bar, which I snagged instead.
“Hurry up, Barnes. You’re holding up the first bus.”
I turned and the Kraken stood there. She was looking down at her Atman, eyes half shut, mouth open, scouring the tiny screen.
“Just double-checking things, Suzanne,” I said, stuffing an extra bottle into the bag without looking at its label. “Any idea what we’re dealing with?”
“Looks like an outbreak of bubonic plague, maybe a few hemorrhagic fevers, some sepsis,” she said, tapping into her Atman, as if she was ticking items off a list of Biblical scourges. “As long as we follow protocol, there won’t be a problem.”
I stared at her for a second. She looked up, an inscrutable look on her face.
“But be careful, Dr. Barnes,” she said. “We’ve never had one of these calls before at Saint Almachius. I want to make sure everything goes smoothly so we keep in the good graces of the Bureau. No telling what they’ll do if we let it spread or kill somebody important. They could even cut our funding.”
I nodded, turned, then walked down the hallway with the sack over my shoulder. The goddamned hospital funding—that’s what mattered to this woman. She was a menace, a tumor within the bowels of the hospital. I clenched and unclenched my fist around the strap of the bag and fought the urge to turn back and scream in her face.
But instead, I silently boarded the long bus. The stairs creaked as I climbed in—it was actually a repurposed yellow schoolbus with peeling paint, a holdover from the Purge’s slash-and-burn days—and I sat across the aisle from Rothenberg and McDermott, the trauma surgeons.
“Aye, this is a new one,” said McDermott, wiping his brow with a white piece of cloth. “Why in the fuck would they send a trauma surgeon on this call? If there’s another Intifada ambush in Newark, who’ll mind the store? The allergists? Those two oafs at the security desk? Can they man the scalpel, for fuck’s sake?”
“Relax, Paddy,” Rothenberg said. “You know they’ll call in relief from Clara Maass. We’ll get this fixed up as quickly as we can, and we’ll be back in time to finish our shifts. It’s only a small outbreak. Isn’t that right, Barnes?”
The bus thumped hard as it went over a speedbump, and a nurse near the front of the bus fell into the aisle. The lines of medical personnel rocked like we were on a ship in a squall-churned ocean. I shook my head at Rothenberg.
“I don’t think a natural outbreak of plague is possible in this day and age.”
Silence.
“It can’t happen. Not unless someone put it here,” I added.
McDermott dabbed at his head with the hanky. Rothenberg scoffed.
“Get off it, Barnes,” he said. “There’s no one on Earth who would willingly spread plague around just to kill some people at a no-name apartment complex in the suburbs.”
I turned and narrowed my eyes at my
colleague the hotshot surgeon.
“Stuart, even with the worst sanitation standards in America—say in the Intifada-occupied zone of Newark—an accidental outbreak of plague is impossible. It hasn’t happened in hundreds of years. This is not a natural outbreak. I bet they’re bringing us in to investigate as much as to stop it from spreading.”
“Investigate? Who needs to investigate?” Rothenberg said. “If you’re right, let’s just keep it simple: save as many people as possible, starting with ourselves. I’d like to avoid anything worse than the flu.”
The bus bounced along, axles and panels groaning and shuddering. No one spoke as the ultrahighway passed by. The medical staff on the bus watched the advertisements flickering faint in the daylight air alongside the stream of traffic, which moved quickly. A few minutes later, the bus slowed, exited, and made two quick turns into a garden-apartment complex. The brick rows of buildings opened into eight separate courtyards, each punctuated by a few small stoops leading up to doors cordoned off in yellow tape, which rapped and twirled in the summer breeze. Everything else was silence. The bus made its way to the end of the road, which ended at a small shed lined with shovels, rakes and other tools. A plastic tent was set up to the side of this maintenance house. The bus stopped and the doctors and nurses all filed out, hauling their bags and equipment like a varsity team before a big playoff game. I was the last one off.
“Line up, everyone,” Betty said, waving a bullhorn. We all followed her to the back of the tent. “Joe, you and the rest of the personnel get your suits on, and the nurses will come inspect it before insertion.”
She walked away, hollering at a clutch of nurses.
“Aye, I’d show her insertion,” McDermott said, nodding, elbowing his colleagues.
“Oh yeah,” Rothenberg said, making a strange motion with his fist. The two of them grunted in agreement. It was like listening to primates.
“Can we focus here, guys?” I said, rolling my eyes at them. “We’re dealing with a deadly contagion that once wiped out half of Europe, for Christ’s sake.”
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