Sleep Tight (34 page)

He was a hundred yards away from the barricade when they started shooting at the ambulance.

 

There was still a chance, Dr. Menard told himself. Still a chance that the bug hadn’t bitten him. And even if it had, there was still a chance that it didn’t carry the virus. He didn’t believe it, not really, but he still insisted that a chance was a chance, no matter how small. If he lost hope, then what?

He had almost convinced himself that he might not be infected when he felt more movement in the small of his back. He squirmed around, trying to slap back there and rip his lab coat away at the same time. More bugs fell off of his coat and onto his hands. He whipped off the coat and to his horror, saw that a dozen or more bugs were crawling over it.

He screamed then, an inarticulate howl of rage and despair. He slammed backwards into the driver’s seat, trying to smash the bugs. The soft leather absorbed the impact, and the bugs didn’t notice. Several of them crawled down into his pants, travelling down along the crease between his buttocks.

Dr. Menard shot up, jammed his right hand back there, and raked his fingernails up through his butt crack. He scraped up three or four of the bugs the way a snowplow might collect a family of dead possums, but it was over. The bugs had gotten into the bus. They were on the floor, under the seat, crawling across the dashboard, everywhere.

Dr. Menard’s chance was gone.

He pulled the jump drive out of his pocket and stared at it. He’d fought his way through so much to get this information out to the public, only to have it end now. He had half a mind to get out and walk to the top of the stadium and throw the damn thing over the side. Maybe someday, someone would find it and give it to the proper authorities. He figured if he started up to the edge, they might shoot him before he got that far, but what else could he do?

He didn’t even have a phone. And even if he could find one, it wouldn’t help. The jump drive used a full-size USB connector, and Dr. Menard had never seen a phone with a port that large. He sat up straighter for a moment, reaching out to grab the steering wheel. Phones couldn’t take a jump drive, but laptops . . .

He jumped out, ignoring the bugs that still were crawling on him. If he could just manage to find someone with a laptop, one that could connect to the Internet on its own, or maybe even the stadium had their own local Wi-Fi that he could tap into. He couldn’t remember seeing any bags on the prison bus, so he ran around to other side of the closest bus and kicked open the doors.

Somebody growled from under the bus. People were waking up.

Dr. Menard jumped onboard. At first, the bus looked empty. He took another step, bent down, saw the sleepers. They were all either curled up on the seat or had fallen asleep hiding underneath the seats. A lot of them had bags. He started through the bus, testing the satchels and backpacks, weighing them, sizing them up for a laptop.

Dr. Menard had accepted the clear outcome of being bitten. He knew, on an immediate level, that he was infected and would likely die within a few days. Of course, he didn’t truly understand the implications of his death, he hadn’t had the time to sit and contemplate. He only understood that he had a few hours left to make a difference. If he could find a laptop with the right connections, the evidence, all the lists of names, pictures, and even video of the test subjects waking from the deep sleep could be transmitted, and even if he was gone, it could have a lasting impact. He had a catalog of every horrific act inside the hospital, with all kinds of helpful information like names, dates, lab work, and it would crucify those responsible.

He might be dying, but the information could live forever, if he could find the right laptop. He kept dragging bags out from the seats, until he came across one guy who had a laptop in a satchel still wrapped around his shoulders.

Dr. Menard felt the laptop inside, and ripped the strap over the guy’s head. He unzipped it and pulled out the laptop.

The guy started to wake up. He stared at Dr. Menard, blinking furiously, trying to clear his head.

Dr. Menard opened the laptop and almost cried out in relief when he discovered it was already snapping out of its own sleep, powering up and ready. His forefinger slid across the trackpad, clicking on the Web browser. A few blank Web pages sprang out of the menu bar, still waiting for a signal.

“Please, please,” Dr. Menard begged softly.

The owner of the laptop felt differently. He snarled, leapt forward, and slapped the laptop out of Dr. Menard’s hands. They both went down, sprawling down the bus aisle. The movement and noise woke some of the others up. They groaned, whipping their heads back and forth, trying to claw their way out of a sea of bad dreams.

Frustration exploded in Dr. Menard. He drove his knee into the side of the man’s face, knocking him into another seat. The occupant of the new seat moaned in pain. Dr. Menard grabbed at the laptop and scooted backwards. A quick glance at the screen told him the pages were loading. Slowly, but they were loading.

He had a signal.

He snapped the laptop shut and clutched it to his chest. Too many people were waking up on the bus. They were starting to keen and shriek as they swam up to consciousness, only to find unimaginable pain waiting for them at the surface. He stumbled back down the aisle, fighting his way through the outstretched arms until he fell down the steps to the cool grass outside.

He rolled over, and found the field was infested with the walking infected. They were up and moving, but they didn’t understand what they were looking for, only that the loud noises and bright lights were unbearably painful, and they would hack and slash at anyone in their path. Dr. Menard folded his arms over the laptop and held it tight against his chest, then marched forward, eyes only on the driver’s door of the prison bus.

He darted across the narrow space, climbed up into the driver’s seat, and slammed the door behind him. He shot the bolts, locking himself inside. He took a moment to assess the infected lurching about the front of the bus, then put them out of his mind, opened the laptop, and fished around for the jump drive.

 

 

The Man was not happy. “You told us you could handle this, that if we evacuated the city, the situation would improve. But from the reports we’re getting, it sounds as if things are getting worse.”

“I promised no such thing,” Dr. Reischtal said into his phone. No video conference this time—he stood outside one of the many FEMA trailers set up around Soldier Field, staring at the lake. He was not focusing on the president. Instead, he was looking forward to getting Tommy out to the medical lab out on the warship. “I merely gave you my opinion on how best to contain this pandemic.”

“Let’s not split hairs. Not with this much death. I need to know right now what is being done to stop this virus from spreading. As of right now, I have three major airports under lockdown. Those damn bugs have been discovered in luggage on flights from Chicago. Flights from Chicago have been quarantined, and are sitting on runways. We’re running out of time. I will ask you again, what is the next step?”

“The next step has been taken, Mr. President.” Dr. Reischtal didn’t elaborate.

“And that would be . . . what, exactly?”

Dr. Reischtal responded with even less emotion that usual. “I have ordered a chemical agent to be dispersed throughout Chicago, once the soldiers have finished clearing out the rats.”

“What kind of chemical agent?”

“Something that will clean Chicago.”

“Listen, doctor, you either start giving me straight answers or I’ll have my boys on you so fast it’ll make your head spin. You want to be a smart-ass with me, you can disperse aspirin to convicts at San Quentin, you follow?”

“Very well. It is called two-four-five Trioxin.”

“It will kill the bugs?”

“It will kill everything.”

“The virus?”

“It will kill everything.”

“Why the secrecy? Why didn’t we just bomb the bugs in the first place?”

“Two-four-five Trioxin is perhaps the most lethal chemical weapon in our arsenal. It is not available to the Armed Forces.”

“Why?”

“The effects are devastating and immediate. Nothing else we possess is capable of that much power. Kill rate is one hundred percent guaranteed. The only drawback, other than it will kill anything and everything in the dispersal zone without discrimination, is that the half-life is unfortunately, somewhat lengthy. If it becomes necessary to release the agent, Chicago will be uninhabitable for the next five to seven years.”

“What? Are you joking? Who the hell gave you the clearance to use this shit?”

“With all due respect, sir, the president’s authority is not enough to sanction the use of two-four-five Trioxin. That power lies solely with the head of the special pathogens branch of the CDC.”

“You, in other words.”

“At the moment, yes, sir.”

The Man spoke to someone else on his end. “You getting this? Okay, okay. Find wherever they’re keeping it; I want this shit confiscated, yesterday.” He came back to the phone. “Okay, Dr. Reischtal. It’s all over. The evacuation will continue, but I will be starting to pull the troops out. We need them in other areas. As for you, you’re finished. I am officially removing you from this operation. Your replacement will be contacting you shortly.”

“That’s all well and good, sir, but I’m afraid you simply don’t have the authority. I am the one in charge. That is final.”

A soldier burst around the corner of the trailer and stood at attention next to Dr. Reischtal. He didn’t want to interrupt the phone conversation, but the look on his face made it clear that this was an emergency.

Dr. Reischtal was aware of the soldier, but chose to ignore him for the moment. “If you check the laws concerning pandemics, you’ll find that the CDC has a surprising amount of power, and I’m afraid this authority is absolute during times of national emergency.”

The Man wasn’t giving up without a fight. “No, doctor, you are the one that is mistaken. You have no right.”

Dr. Reischtal held the phone to his chest. The Man was still yelling. He turned to the soldier. “Yes?”

“Sir, we have just received word that your patient is missing.”

“My patient?”

“Yes, sir. Tommy Krazinsky.”

Dr. Reischtal hit
END CALL
.

 

 

Huddled against the light post at Adams and Clark Street Ed and Sam and Qween decided they needed a place to hole up for a while, just to catch their breath. The majority of the soldiers seemed to be still working their way through the subways, but Clark was too well lit, so they crept back up to LaSalle and didn’t have much trouble slinking through the shadows. Still, the helicopters were stabbing searchlights down on the dark streets, and Qween and the detectives knew they had to get inside somewhere.

Sam suggested the Chase Tower. Someplace above everything, away from all the shooting. Just down the street, a few blocks away. “Get up high. See if we can’t see anything.”

They made it without incident and found the front doors locked. Qween said, “I can get us in.”

“One of your shortcuts?” Ed asked.

Qween said, “Sure,” and heaved a newspaper vending machine through one of the windows. A strident alarm bleated out of the building and filled the street with its uncomfortable rhythm and pitch. After thirty seconds, Qween said, “Let’s get to it.”

The lobby was big and dark and silent. Lines of bank tellers’ windows and half cubicles fought for space among large poster advertisements for the bank. The ceiling stretched up into the unknown, into the shadows. The whole place was empty.

They decided to take the elevator, just to get as far away from the alarm as possible. Sam hit the top button, and they got off on the fifty-ninth floor.

The elevator bank unfolded into a dining room, filled with spotless tables and chairs surrounded by a stunning view of downtown Chicago. The Chase Tower took up one full city block, bordered by Clark, Dearborn, Madison, and Monroe streets. The deep impression and its endless cement stairs were sunk into the south side, along with Chagall’s
Four Seasons
mosaic. Except for a few buildings popping up that blocked their field of vision, like the big red CNN building, they could see most everything in all directions. They wandered around the perimeter, but still nothing much was happening on the streets.

Back near the elevators, they found a food prep area with a small TV on the counter. It was tuned to a sports channel. They switched around to find the news.

The anchor was saying, “. . . potentially graphic, so parents may want children to leave the room. This raw footage was uploaded less than an hour ago, and again, while we feel it needs to be seen, it could prove upsetting to sensitive viewers.”

They switched to blurry, shaking video, obviously from a smartphone, as someone panned too quickly around an expensively furnished high-rise condo. It must have been shot earlier that day because the sun was shining and downtown Chicago could be seen through the windows. A woman’s voice, tight and shrill, was saying, “And then we started finding them everywhere.” She got closer to the leather couch and reached out to overturn one of the cushions.

It landed on the floor and reddish black bugs spilled out of the seams. The woman squealed and the phone went berserk as she stomped on the bugs. “Everywhere!” The footage spun back around, up the two steps from the sunken living room and into a huge white kitchen. “I will sue this landlord for everything!”

A boy, maybe ten, pointed up at the massive ventilation hood over the stove island. Bugs were crawling out of it by the dozens. Some fell out onto the black cast iron grates.

The woman leapt to turn the burners on. Flames licked the bugs. She hit the exhaust fan on the hood, which slowed the bugs’ descent, but they still kept emerging. The video whipped across the floor. More bugs were crawling out of the heating and air-conditioning vents. Some squirmed out of an electrical socket. Her son had a can of Raid, and bent in front of the camera as he blasted them.