Contagion (55 page)

     “We have to wait for morning,” Richard said. “As soon as Twin comes we’ll be off. Besides, I’m too sleepy to drive now anyway.”

     “You’re right,” Terese said as she flopped back. “At the moment I don’t think I could stand the drive either. Not with this cough. It’s hard to catch my breath.”

     “Sleep it off,” Richard said. “I’ll leave the rest of the water right here next to you.” He put the glass on the coffee table. “Thanks,” Terese murmured.

     Richard made his way back to his couch and collapsed. He drew the blanket up around his neck and sighed loudly.

     Time dragged, and with it Terese and Richard’s congested breathing slowly got worse. By ten-thirty Jack noticed that Terese’s respiration was labored. Even from as far away as the kitchen he could see that her lips had become dusky. He was amazed she’d not awakened. He guessed the aspirin had brought her fever down.

     In spite of his ambivalence, Jack was finally moved to say something. He called out to Richard and told him Terese didn’t sound or look good.

     “Shut up!” Richard yelled back between coughs.

     Jack stayed silent for another half hour. By then he was convinced he could hear faint popping noises at the end of each of Terese’s inspirations that sounded like moist rales. If they were, it was an ominous sign, suggesting to Jack that Terese was slipping into acute respiratory distress.

     “Richard!” Jack called out, despite Richard’s warning to stay quiet.

     “Terese is getting worse.”

     There was no response.

     “Richard!” Jack called louder.

     “What?” Richard answered sluggishly.

     “I think your sister needs to be in an intensive care unit,” Jack said.

     Richard didn’t respond.

     “I’m warning you,” Jack called. “I’m a doctor, after all, and I should know. If you don’t do something it’s going to be your fault.”

     Jack had hit a nerve, and to his surprise Richard leaped off the couch in a fit of rage. “My fault?” he snarled. “It’s your fault for giving us whatever we have!” Frantically he looked for the gun, but he couldn’t remember what he’d done with it after Jack’s last visit to the bathroom.

     The search for the pistol only lasted for a few seconds. Richard suddenly grabbed his head with both hands and moaned about his headache.

     Then he swayed before collapsing back onto the couch.

     Jack sighed with relief. Touching off a fit of rage in Richard had not been expected. He tried not to imagine what might have happened had the gun been handy.

     Jack resigned himself to the horror of witnessing the spectacle of a virulently pathogenic influenza wreaking its havoc. With Terese’s and Richard’s rapidly worsening clinical state, he recalled stories that had been told about the terrible influenza pandemic of 1918-19. People were said to have boarded a subway in Brooklyn with mild symptoms, only to be dead by the time they’d reached their destination in Manhattan. When Jack had heard such stories he’d assumed they had been exaggerations.

     But now that he was being forced to observe Terese and Richard, he no longer thought so. Their swift deterioration was a frightening display of the power of contagion.

     By one A.M. Richard’s breathing was as labored as Terese’s had been.

     Terese was now frankly cyanotic and barely breathing. By four Richard was cyanotic, and Terese was dead. At six A.M. Richard made a few feeble gurgling sounds and then stopped breathing.

     34

     FRIDAY, 8:00 A.M., MARCH 29, 1996

     Morning came slowly. At first pale fingers of sunlight tentatively limned the edge of the porcelain sink. From where Jack was sitting he could see a spiderweb of leafless tree branches against the gradually brightening sky.

     He hadn’t slept a wink.

     When the room was completely filled with morning light, Jack hazarded a look over his shoulder. It was not a pretty scene. Terese and Richard were both dead, with bloody froth exuding from their dusky blue lips. Both had started to bloat slightly, particularly Terese. Jack assumed it was from the heat of the fire, which was now reduced to mere embers.

     Jack looked back despairingly at the drainpipe that so effectively nailed him to his spot. It was an inconceivable predicament. Twin and his Black Kings were probably now on their way. Even without the three thousand dollars, the gang had ample reason to kill him given his role in two of their members’ deaths.

     Throwing back his head, Jack screamed at the top of his voice for help.

     He knew it was futile and soon stopped when he was out of breath. He rattled the handcuffs against the brass pipe, and even put his head in under the sink to examine the lead seal where the brass pipe joined the cast-iron pipe below the trap. With a fingernail he tried to dig into the lead, but without result.

     Eventually Jack sat back. His anxiety was enervating, coupled with his Jack of sleep, food, and water. It was hard to think clearly, but he had to try; he didn’t have much time.

     Jack considered the faint possibility that the Black Kings wouldn’t show up as they’d failed to show the day before, yet that prospect wasn’t any rosier. Jack would be sentenced to an agonizing death from exposure and Lack of water. Of course, if he couldn’t take his rimantadine, the flu might get him first.

     Jack fought back tears. How could he have been so stupid to have allowed himself to get caught in such an impossible situation? He chided himself for his inane heroic crusade idea, and the juvenile thought of wanting to prove something to himself. He’d been as reckless in this episode as he’d been each day he’d ridden his bike down Second Avenue thumbing his nose at death.

     Two hours passed before Jack heard the faint beginnings of the dread sound: the crackling of car tires on gravel. The Black Kings had arrived.

     In a fit of panic, Jack repeatedly kicked the drainpipe as he’d done numerous times over the previous day and a half with the same result.

     He stopped and listened again. The car was closer. Jack looked at the sink. Suddenly an idea occurred to him. The sink was a huge, old cast-iron monstrosity with a large bowl and expansive drainage area for dishes.

     Jack imagined it weighed several hundred pounds. It was hung on the wall in addition to being supported by the heavy drain.

     Getting his feet under him, Jack rested the underlip of the sink on his biceps and tried to pry the sink upward. It moved slightly and bits of mortar at the sink’s junction with the wall fell into the bowl.

     Jack twisted like a contortionist to put his right foot against the sink’s lip. He could hear the car come to a halt the moment he pushed with his leg. There was a cracking sound. Jack positioned himself so that both his feet were under the edge of the sink. Straining with all his might, he exerted the maximum force he could muster.

     With a snap and a grinding sound the sink detached from the wall. A bit of plaster rained down on Jack’s face. Unattached, the sink teetered on the drain.

     With another thrust of his legs, Jack got the sink to fall forward. The copper water-supply pipes snapped off at their soldered ends and water began spraying. The drain remained intact until the lead seal gave away.

     At that moment the brass pipe slipped out of the cast iron. The sink made an enormous crashing noise as it crushed a ladder-back chair before thumping heavily on the wooden floor.

     Jack was soaked from the spraying water, but he was free! He scrambled to his feet as heavy footfalls sounded on the front porch. He knew the door was unlocked and that the Black Kings would be inside in a moment. They’d undoubtedly heard the crash of the sink.

     With no time to look for the pistol Jack lunged for the back door. Frantically he fumbled with the deadbolt and threw the door open. In an instant he was outside, hurling himself down the few steps to the dew-covered grass.

     Hunching down to stay out of view, Jack ran from the house as fast as he could manage with his hands still handcuffed. Ahead was a pond. It occupied the area he’d imagined was a field on his arrival the previous night. To the left of the pond and about a hundred feet from the house stood the barn. Jack ran to it. It was his only hope of a hiding place. The surrounding forest was barren and leafless.

     With heart pounding, Jack reached the barn door. To his relief it was unlocked. He yanked it open, dashed inside, and pulled it closed behind him.

     The interior of the barn was dark, dank, and uninviting. The only light came through a single, west-facing window. The rusted remains of an old tractor loomed in the half-light.

     With utter panic Jack stumbled around in the darkness searching for a hiding place. His eyes began to adjust. He looked into several deserted animal stalls, but there was no way to conceal himself. There was a loft above, but it was devoid of hay.

     Looking down at the plank flooring, Jack vainly looked for a trapdoor, but there wasn’t any. In the very back of the barn there was a small room filled with garden tools but still no place to hide. Jack was about to give up when he spotted a low wooden chest the size of a coffin. He ran to it and raised its hinged lid. Inside were malodorous bags of fertilizer.

     Jack’s blood ran cold. Outside he heard a male voice yell: “Hey, man, around here! There’s tracks in the grass!”

     With little other choice Jack emptied the chest of the bags of fertilizer.

     Then he climbed in and lowered the lid.

     Shivering from fear and the damp cold, Jack was still perspiring. His breaths were coming in short gasps. He tried to calm down. If the hiding place was to work, he’d have to be silent.

     It wasn’t long before he heard the door to the barn creak open followed by the sound of muffled voices. Footsteps sounded on the plank flooring.

     Then there was a crash as something was overturned. Jack heard curses.

     Then another crash.

     “You got your machine pistol cocked?” one husky voice said.

     “What’d you think I am, stupid?” another replied.

     Jack heard footsteps approach. He held his breath, tried to contain his shivering, and fought the urge to cough. There was a pause, then the footsteps receded. Jack allowed himself to breathe out.

     “Somebody’s in here, I’m sure of it,” a voice said.

     “Shut up and keep looking,” the other answered.

     Without warning the cover to Jack’s hiding place was whisked open.

     It happened with such unexpected suddenness, Jack was totally unprepared. He let out a muffled screech. The black man looking down at him did the same, letting the lid slam back into place.

     The lid was quickly yanked open again. Jack could see that the man was holding a machine pistol in his free hand. On his head was a black knit cap.

     Jack and the black man locked eyes for a moment, then the man looked toward his partner.

     “It’s the doc all right,” he called out. “He’s here in a box.”

     Jack was afraid to move. He heard footsteps approaching. He tried to prepare himself for Twin’s mocking smile. But Jack’s expectations weren’t met. When he looked up, it wasn’t Twin’s face he saw; it was Warren’s!

     “Shit, Doc,” Warren said. “You look like you fought the Vietnam War all by yourself.”

     Jack swallowed. He looked at the other man and now recognized him as one of the basketball regulars. Jack’s eyes darted back to Warren. Jack was confused, afraid this was all a hallucination.

     “Come on, Doc,” Warren said, reaching a hand toward Jack. “Get the hell out of the box so we can see if the rest of you looks as bad as your face.”

     Jack allowed himself to be helped to stand up. He stepped out onto the floor. He was soaking wet from the broken water pipes.

     “Well, everything else looks like it’s in working order,” Warren said.

     “But you don’t smell great. And we’ve got to get these cuffs off.”

     “How did you get here?” Jack asked, finally finding his voice.

     “We drove,” Warren said. “How’d you think we got here? The subway?”

     “But I expected the Black Kings,” Jack said. “A guy by the name of Twin.”

     “Sorry to disappoint you, man,” Warren said. “You’ve got to settle for me.”

     “I don’t understand,” Jack said.

     “Twin and I made a deal,” Warren said. “We called a truce so there’d be no more brothers shooting brothers. Part of the terms were that they wouldn’t ice you. Then Twin called me and told me you were being held up here and that if I wanted to save your ass, I’d better get mine up to the mountains. So here we are: the cavalry.”

     “Good Lord!” Jack said, shaking his head. It was unsettling to learn how much one’s fate was in the hands of others.

     “Hey, those people back in the house don’t look so good,” Warren said.

     “And they smell worse than you. How’d they happen to die?”

     Influenza, Jack said.

     “No shit!” Warren said. “So it’s up here too. I heard about it on the news last night. There’s a lot of people down in the city all revved up about it.”

     “And for good reason,” Jack said. “I think you’d better tell me what you’ve heard.”

     Epilogue

     THURSDAY, 7:45 P.M., APRIL 25, 1996

     NEW YORK CITY

     The game to eleven was tied at ten apiece. The rules dictated a win by two, so a one-point lay-up wouldn’t clinch it but a long two-pointer would.

     This was in the back of Jack’s mind as he dribbled upcourt. He was being mercilessly hounded by an aggressive player by the name of Flash whom Jack knew was faster than he.

     The competition was fierce. Players on the sidelines waiting to play were loudly supporting the other team, a sharp contrast to their typical studied indifference. The reason for the change was the fact that Jack’s team had been winning all night, mainly because Jack was teamed up with a particularly good mix of players that included Warren and Spit.

     Jack normally didn’t bring the ball downcourt. That was Warren’s job.