Patient Zero Page 13

  “Look.” The voice was Bunny’s. She turned to see him holding up a bottle of water. The label was something bright and geometric, with no clear brand. He was looking at Top, expression grim. “We missed one.”

  “Fuck,” Top said tonelessly. He sounded resigned, as though he had never expected anything better from the world.

  “Does someone want to tell me what’s going on?” asked Kathleen.

  The two men exchanged a look.

  * * *

  Kathleen sat behind her own desk, fuming silently. These people—these strangers—came to her town and refused to answer questions, refused to provide solutions; refused to do anything beyond going through the Taylor house and confiscating half a flat of bottled water. It didn’t make any sense.

  “We’re not from the CDC,” said Dr. Sanchez.

  Her head snapped around. “You said—”

  “We said we were from the government: that was true,” he said. “We belong to a bioterrorism task force, responsible for preventing and intercepting scientific threats to life as we know it. What I am about to tell you is confidential.”

  “People are dying,” she said.

  “You have my profound sympathies, but those people are already dead,” said Dr. O’Tree. “They have been exposed to a biological agent which has caused a normally genetic disorder to become communicable over short distances. The good news is, it can only activate when the exposed person is already a carrier for the gene in question.”

  “The bad news is, there is no cure,” said Dr. Sanchez.

  Kathleen stared at them. Phil spoke first.

  “This is bullshit,” he said. “What is this, a chemical spill? There was something in that water, something that wasn’t supposed to get out, and now you’re making up stories to cover your own asses? You may think we’re hicks here, that you can say whatever you want and we’ll just believe you, but we’re American citizens. We have rights. You can’t just use us for your experiments and expect to get away with it.”

  Dr. Sanchez looked briefly, profoundly, weary. Kathleen found herself wondering how old he really was, how many rooms like this he had sat in, how many suspicious local medical experts had called him a liar because he’d given them information that they didn’t want and didn’t know what to do with.

  She believed him.

  It was a small, terrible realization. Small because it came so easily, at the end of so many other, impossible things; terrible because it meant that she now lived in a world where this sort of thing could be believable, where this sort of thing could be real. This could be her reality. It was not a comfortable thought to have. She would have rejected it, if she thought that she could.

  “What can we do?” she asked.

  Dr. O’Tree looked to her. “You can make them comfortable,” she said. “The normal treatments for galactosemia should slow the progression of the more ordinary aspects of the disease, while the rest continue unabated. You’re going to lose them all. You should accept that now. It will make everything else easier.”

  “If this is in bottled water, there should have been some sort of public notice,” said Phil. “A recall. A health and safety alert.”

  “It’s not only in bottled water,” said Dr. Sanchez. “There are two aspects to this attack. Bottled water, to provide the activation sequences; in this case, they activated the carrier gene for galactosemia. And the groundwater.”

  “What?” Kathleen half stood, alarmed. “It’s in the water?”

  “Without the bottled water, what’s in the groundwater is harmless,” said Dr. Sanchez. “My people will sweep the town and recover all remaining bottled water. We think the biological agent was released accidentally. A storm, a crack in a containment tank—or this town was meant to be one of their testing grounds, and was canceled before it could be activated. Whatever the reason, this is a terrible accident. You have our full sympathies. The CDC is already en route, and they will be able to help you with the care these people need.”

  “How many more cases can we expect?”

  “It all depends on the water.”

  * * *

  There had been six flats of water.

  Top and Bunny had been able to recover five, and the three remaining bottles from the sixth. They had been stored in garages and under the stairs at the church soup kitchen. Top stacked them in the back of the SUV while Bunny looked on.

  “There’s one good thing about all this,” he said.

  “You found something good?” Top asked. “What’s that?”

  “It’s not summer yet.”

  It took a moment for him to catch Bunny’s meaning. He grimaced. “Hell.”

  “Yeah.”

  Summer would bring soaring temperatures and increased water consumption. Many more families would have been exposed, if it had been summer. This was a tragedy, but in July? It would have been a disaster.

  Top put the last of the water into the back and slammed the hatch. “All done,” he said. “We’ll get this home and hand it off to the techies, and then I’m going to take a long damn shower.”

  “Do you think this was the only place?” Bunny asked. “No other leaks?”

  Top looked toward the hospital, where even now Rudy and Circe were trying to make the locals understand that there would be no coming back from this. No miracle, no cure; no chance of survival. The bastards at the Dragon Factory had been too damn good at their jobs.

  “I hope so,” he said. “I really fucking do.”

  The Alabama sun shone down on a red-dirt town, and there was nothing else to say, and nothing else that could be done. Not for the living; not for the dying; not for the dead.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mira Grant lives and writes in the Pacific Northwest, where her home overlooks a large swamp filled with frogs. Truly the best of all possible worlds. When not writing as herself, Mira writes under the name “Seanan McGuire” and releases a truly daunting number of books and stories during the average year. She regularly claims to be the vanguard of an invading race of alien plant people; any time spent with her will make this surprisingly credible. Mira shares her home with two enormous blue cats, a lizard, some very odd bugs, and an unnerving number of books about dead things. She loves horrible diseases and is not always a good dinner companion. Keep up with Mira at www.seananmcguire.com, or on Twitter @seananmcguire. Mira would very much like to show you what lurks behind the corn, but for some reason, the editors won’t let her.

  BLACK WATER

  BY WESTON OCHSE

  “That could be you,” Wheatie said in my ear. “Joe Ledger. Teen heartthrob.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  Yet here I stood at Patton’s Pond, designated make-out spot for Baltimore high schoolers near and far. The only problem was I didn’t have a date. It was just me and Wheatie on stakeout.

  “You know she’s hot,” Wheatie said.

  And she absolutely was. But me being here had nothing to do with Susan Fraily. Instead, me being here had everything to do with Greg Monger—high school star quarterback and professional scumbag. Rumor had it that Greg liked to bring girls to this spot and force himself on them. I hated bullies, and rapists were the ultimate bullies, taking from someone something that they could never return. So when I’d heard Greg was bringing Susan here, I’d decided that maybe this time there should be some chaperoning. Problem was, they were just sitting in the front seat talking.

  “Do you smell that?” Wheatie asked.

  I did smell something … something chemical that tickled my nose. But I didn’t want to be distracted. Any second and the scheming rapist might make his move. I wanted to be ready when it happened. Still, I couldn’t help but ask, “What is it?”

  “Whatever it is, it shouldn’t be here.” Wheatie went over to the water’s edge. “Look here. See the foam? It looks like the water is black.”

  “I can’t look. I’m busy.”

  “No, Joe, I’m serious. You need to see this. Someone’s
been messing with the water.”

  I sighed. Wheatie just didn’t understand the concept of surveillance. “It’s a stakeout, Wheatie. I can’t look now.”

  “Okay, Magnum, P.I. Just don’t come running to Wheatie when you drink this shit and your pecker falls off.”

  I couldn’t stop my lips from curling into a smile. That was actually funny, so I glanced over at the water. “What do you think it is?”

  “How am I supposed to know? I look like Mr. Wizard to you?”

  The sound of a car engine turning over made me return to my vigil, but it was short-lived. Monger put his Trans Am in reverse, then pulled away, the crunch of gravel receding until he hit the main road. He hadn’t tried anything tonight, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try tomorrow night. And when he did I’d be ready.

  The next morning was Saturday, so no school. The weather was still cold, but April was promising to be warmer than March. I spent three hours at the dojo working up a sweat, then went to Luskin’s and unloaded trucks for a few more hours. It didn’t pay much and the hours sucked, but it gave me enough cash to be free from my father.

  After slamming a burger and fries, I met up with Wheatie. His discovery intrigued me. The Pond had always been an idyllic spot. When we were younger I’d fished from its banks. I never caught anything impressive, but it was the fishing that was important. Then when I was older and when Helen was still in my life, we’d swim there. Once we even went skinny-dipping, but I was too embarrassed to look at her and she was too embarrassed to look at me. Now, it was where we brought dates … scratch that … where other people my age brought dates. And it was cyclic. The young get older and go from fishing to kissing. I bet there were some eight- and nine-year-olds who wanted to fish there but couldn’t because of the pollution, and that pissed me off. So the question was, where did the pollution come from?

  It was a chemistry lesson that gave me the idea to go to a swimming pool store and get a water test kit. During daylight, the water looked far worse than at night. Not only did it have a black color in places, but in others it had the telltale rainbow of gasoline, especially near the cattails. I decided to ignore the gasoline and go for the mysterious black water. I was forced to wade knee-deep out into the pond. I’d capped the plastic tube and was about to turn around to leave when I heard a voice.

  “There he is, boys,” came a voice I knew and hated.

  I spun. Where the hell was Wheatie when I needed him? He was supposed to be watching my back and now he was gone, leaving me to confront Monger, the right side of the offensive line, and the running back, Eric Mattis. The size of the two linemen with them was impressive. Each of them was at least two people. For all I knew, they probably ate their way out of their mothers, then ate their fathers. I supposed if I cared about football I’d know their names, but for now, I referred to them in my mind as Thing 1 and Thing 2.

  “The Peeping Tom returned to the scene of the crime,” said Mattis, his voice girlish despite his twenty-one-inch neck—sort of like Mike Tyson on helium.

  They’d arranged themselves in an arc at the edge of the water. I played out five different scenarios, in each one knocking them all down. I wasn’t scared because I knew I could take them, despite Thing 1 and Thing 2.

  “I see you brought your sisters, Monger,” I said.

  This turned all four of their faces red—the quarterback, the running back, and the two linemen.

  I looked past them, hoping to see Wheatie, but no joy.

  Thing 1 and Thing 2 had balled fists the size of softballs.

  “Who you calling a sister?” Mattis asked in his girl’s voice.

  That made me smile, which pissed him off royally. He lunged toward me, but Monger put a hand on his chest.

  “He’s just trying to goad you into something.” Monger eyed the water. “You actually swimming in there? That shit will make your pecker fall off.”

  “Since when did you care about my pecker?” I asked, remembering Wheatie had said much the same thing. I stepped forward and kept walking until I was at the water’s edge. As I approached, they backed away, allowing me to step onto the bank. My sneakers were wet and muddy and didn’t promise a lot of traction. I’d have to be careful.

  “I saw you trying to sneak up on me last night,” Monger said. “I want to know why.”

  I raised my eyebrows and shook my head slightly. “So you wouldn’t rape Susan Fraily,” I said.

  I saw Mattis whip a fist in my direction. I leaned back, grabbed his wrist, and used his momentum to pull him past me, releasing him face-first into the water. The move was perfect, but I felt my feet slipping. In an effort to correct my balance, I brought my head forward—a terribly bad move. One of the Thing 2’s softball hands, which was anything but soft, connected with the back of my head. I dropped like a bag of cement, my face planting in the mud.

  I moved to get up, but felt a boot connect with my ribs. Then another and another. They began singing the high school fight song as they kicked me over and over. All I could do was squirm enough to avoid a kick to the head or groin area.

  Galaxies of pain were born and died every microsecond of their attack. I felt a rib crack. The bones in my left hand snapped. The toe of a boot found my kidney and I knew I’d be peeing blood for days.

  There was a lull in their kicking, as if they wanted to examine the newly pulped being they were creating. I used the opportunity to slide back into the water by twisting to my knees and launching myself. I hit the water on my left side. They ran to the water’s edge, but I pulled myself deeper into the pond, grabbing mud from the bottom as purchase. As polluted as the water was, it soothed my body, reducing the pain to mere explosions instead of the never-ending avalanche it had become.

  “Who you calling a sister?” Mattis howled, dripping black water on the edge of the pond.

  Then they patted themselves on their backs and retreated. Eventually, I heard two cars start and roar away.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  “Where the hell were you?” I asked, each word a jolt of pain.

  “I’m here now, aren’t I?” Wheatie splashed into the water next to me.

  I held up my broken hand.

  “Damn, they got you good.”

  It was two hours before I managed to limp home. I emptied the ice container in the bathtub and got in, turning the cold water on. The ice melted right away, but the cold remained. I stayed that way a long time, then went straight to bed.

  When I woke the next morning, I felt as if I’d been steamrolled by a ten-thousand-pound Zamboni. My father cracked open the door a little after eight. It was Sunday, so he was off and he usually spent the day down at the races, betting on horses. When he saw me, his face fell into something akin to Roosevelt on Mount Rushmore.

  “You were in a fight again.”

  If you call being jumped by four football players getting into a fight, then yes, but I didn’t answer.

  He made no move to come in the room. “Your mom isn’t going to be happy about this.”

  I wouldn’t expect her to be.

  A few more seconds ticked by, then he asked in a monotone, “Do you need a doctor?”

  If I asked for one, he’d get pissed. It’s not as though we could afford one. Then he’d be ragging on me for days, if not weeks.

  “No, Dad. I got it covered.”

  “You sure?” he asked.

  I nodded, gritting my teeth at the pain.

  He began to close the door.

  “Uh, Dad?”

  He stuck his head back in the room. “Yeah?”

  “Did Wheatie stop by?”

  He stared at me for a long moment, as if he were contemplating saying something, but then just shook his head and closed the door.

  I listened through the walls as he began to talk to my mom, probably telling her not to worry.

  The next time I woke the clock said 1:00 and Wheatie was at my side.

  “Brother, you are one messed-up dude.”

 
Wheatie helped me out over the next four days. My hand swelled up like a purple pumpkin, but by day four, it was back to regular size and discolored. I kept it wrapped, applying ice when I could. My ribs were okay, just bruised … as was the rest of my body. I ate by grabbing whatever was available in the fridge. By Friday I was ready to return to the real world, but I wasn’t ready to go back to school.

  My water sample was unbroken. Because it was in my pocket by my groin, it had been protected. So the first place we went after I left the house was the swimming pool shop to have the water analyzed.

  When the nice man behind the counter got the results later in the day, he frowned. “If you’re swimming in this your pecker’s going to fall off.”

  “So I heard,” I said, remembering having to scramble in the water to save myself. I was lucky it hadn’t already plopped to the ground. “What’s in it?”

  “Mostly sodium and turpentine,” he said, eyeing me speculatively.

  “Sodium like salt?”

  He hesitated before responding. “There are different kinds of sodium. My machine can’t tell the difference.” He looked around the swimming pool showroom, then added, “If you want a definitive answer, I’d recommend going to the University of Maryland’s Science Department.”

  I wondered what sodium and turpentine were doing in the water.

  “There were also trace amounts of lead, mercury, and argon.”

  “What could be doing this?”

  The man leaned over the counter and whispered, “Listen, you didn’t get this from a pool. I know. I’m not sure where this is from, but I don’t want any part of this. I recommend you just leave this alone.”

  “Why? What’s the matter?” I asked.

  He gestured toward the readout. “I looked this up. You’ve tied into some black liquor.” Seeing the expression on my face, he explained. “It’s the substance that’s created when wood is pulped in the process for making paper. I made a few calls, including Patton’s Paper Plant, and was told to shut up.”

  “Or else what?” I asked.