Sleep Tight (19 page)

He was no arbovirologist, but as far as he understood, the supposedly established fact within the scientific community that bedbugs could not transmit diseases was hypothetical, nothing more. In fact, bedbugs had been discovered to be infected with MRSA. It was entirely possible that the mutant offspring of bat bugs and bedbugs could carry a new virus.

If it was true, then he had been hunting the wrong species. In many ways, he wasn’t surprised. This new revelation fit what he knew about the Ancient One. Why hide in rodents when he could disguise himself in something even smaller, something even more insidious? Dr. Reischtal thought about the Black Plague, and how all the holy men had blamed rats, when in reality it was the lowly flea that had spread the devastation.

He spoke without looking at the tech. “Please tell me a sample of . . . these organisms has been obtained.”

“Yes, sir. Identified as
Cimex lectularius
, the common bedbug.”

“And was the virus present?”

The tech was silent for a moment. Dr. Reischtal could tell that the tech knew damn well, just as he did, that bedbugs had never been found to transmit any significant virus, unlike say, mosquitoes with malaria or even the West Nile virus. The bedbug was a nuisance; that was all.

Until now.

The tech finally took a breath and nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said in a small voice. “It appears that these bedbugs are carrying and transmitting the virus.”

Dr. Reischtal allowed nothing to show on his face. “Very well,” he said. He pulled out his phone and called Sergeant Reaves. “I want a flame thrower team up on the fourth floor immediately. Everything within Room 417 is to be burned. I want this room erased, do you understand?”

Sergeant Reaves understood.

Dr. Reischtal said, “Every single last patient is now under quarantine. No one is to enter an infected room unless fully protected by a fully enclosed hazmat suit. Contact pest management. I want every common area in this entire building sterilized. Highest priority.” He hung up and turned to the tech. “This information is to be kept confidential until if and when I decide to report this to the proper authorities. Right now, I want anyone who has touched him, anyone who sat next to him, anyone that was in the same room as this man, isolated. Starting with you.”

 

Mr. Ullman finally forced Roger to lock Daisy up in their animal hospitality suite. Apparently, a lot of celebrities like to be seen travelling with their pets, but have no interest in actually taking care of the damn things. The Fin was equipped to accommodate dogs, cats, birds, lizards, pretty much anything smaller than a horse. Roger left her in a crate in a quiet room on the third floor, buried back by the washing machines.

They went back up to the fifth floor to Mr. Ullman’s office. He kept his keys in a small safe under his desk. He spoke quickly; he was due back upstairs to finish giving his statement. “If you think the storage facility has anything to do with this, then have at it, by all means. Investigate to your heart’s content. Just promise me that you can kill these things once and for all.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“I shall expect this key back by the end of the day. If I do not see some results by then, please inform your employer that I will be speaking to the competition first thing in the morning.”

Mr. Ullman ushered Roger out of his office and locked the door behind them. Mr. Ullman headed for the elevators, while Roger went down the stairs, following a hand-drawn map. Mr. Ullman thought it would be for the best if Roger did not take the elevators; there was a chance he might run into a guest or police officer. So he took the service stairwell down until he hit the basement. He worked his way through the kitchens to another service door, which led to another stairwell, dropping another four floors.

He descended the stairs all the way to the bottom. He had to unlock the door, and found himself in a narrow utility hallway. The floor was metal grillwork, and Roger could see that the pavement was wet under the walkway. His footsteps made a hollow, banging noise as he strode down the hallway. He continually had to duck under exposed pipes in the ceiling. He whistled; they must have had a hell of a time moving all the furniture down here.

The door wasn’t quite at the end where the hallway dead-ended in a spiderweb of pipes, but it was close. He fingered the key and checked the padlock. Still locked. A thin layer of dust covered the lock and the door handle. Mr. Ullman was right: no one had opened this door in months.

Roger twisted the key and the lock popped open with a click that sounded unnaturally loud in the confined hallway. He thought he heard a high, urgent squeaking on the other side of the metal door, shrugged it off. It was just water or something in all the pipes. He slipped the lock out of the hole, pocketed the keys, and grasped the cool door handle.

He felt very alone for a moment and felt acutely aware of Daisy’s absence. It gave his chest a quick ache. He promised himself that as soon as he confirmed that the furniture was still secure and sealed, he would take Daisy out to their favorite burger joint, where they let her sit with him out on the back patio. He decided he might just throw caution to the wind and order at least two beers tonight. Heck, maybe three. After the day he’d had, he felt like he certainly deserved it.

He twisted the handle.

The door popped open, showering Roger with debris, the air suddenly full of cotton snow, scraps of fabric, and slivers of wood. It poured over and around him like a soft avalanche. An awful, foul odor followed, and in its own way, was almost more powerful than the shredded wreckage. He instinctively breathed through his open mouth; it was as if a tornado had ripped through a furniture store, grinding and chopping everything and throwing all of it against the door.

He took a step backward, out of the mess, and picked some wiry fluff out of his hair. Much of it was somehow wet, and clung to him. He realized that the moisture was actually rat urine. A dead rat slid out of the stuffing near his feet. He still hadn’t figured out that he had just disrupted a gigantic rat nest until he found a baby rat clinging to his tie.

The thing was smaller than a spark plug and neon red. It looked like some kind of crazy Japanese soft candy. He brushed it away with a gag of disgust, then saw another one clinging to his arm. He could hear it squeal in terror. The cry echoed around him, and he realized that the wreckage was full of baby rats. The shrill squeaks filled the hallway. He swatted them away, stumbling back. He stepped on something that felt like a rotten plum, and when he pulled his foot away, he saw that he had just crushed one of the babies.

An adult rat, a giant covered in coarse black fur, squirmed out of the nest and hissed at him.

His nerve broke completely and with a hoarse shout, he turned and lurched back towards the stairs. His pounding footsteps sent vibrations deep into the foundation of the building, and that, combined with the screaming babies, attracted the rats. They erupted out of the open doorway in a cascade of densely muscled bodies, sharp claws, oversize teeth, and naked, segmented tails.

Roger heard something, and risked a look behind him.

The rats swarmed up the hallway with a speed that sent ice-cold panic shooting through his veins. He cried out and tried to run faster. His only chance was to make it through the doorway and somehow shut the door behind him. There. He could see the door now, and forced himself to not think about the horde that filled the hallway, a cyclone of teeth and claws and rage that roared and snapped at his heels.

He slammed into the door, hands slapping at the handle.

It was locked.

“Oh, Jesus,” he whimpered, digging into his pocket for the keys. He refused to turn to see how close the rats were as his fingers closed over the keys. His hand shook as he jammed the key into the handle. The first key was the wrong one. He fumbled with the next key and they slipped out of his sweating fingers and fell through the metal grille.

He had almost a full second to stare at the keys, lying just inches out of reach on the wet concrete, and then the rats were on him. They hit his left leg first, then his right. He had a very clear sensation of the first few bites, those long teeth snapping together into his flesh, like a prehistoric stapler. Rats scrabbled up his body, biting, clawing, tearing, and agony blossomed in his mind. His knees collapsed, and he fell backwards, head propped awkwardly against the door.

The rats tore into him.

And ate him down to the bone.

 

Dr. Reischtal locked the door to the women’s restroom behind him and put the square package on one of the sinks. Bright florescent lights buzzed overhead, which didn’t hurt, but Dr. Reischtal had chosen this particular restroom because of the full-length mirror next to the paper towel dispenser. He set a bottle of medical lotion and a Mini Maglite on the tray over the sinks. He tested the lock one more time, then began to strip.

He removed his clothes with a methodical resolve, folding them neatly and stacking the items carefully on the sink. First was the lab coat. Then the stiff white button-up shirt, then the white T-shirt. Next came his slacks. His socks. And finally his underwear.

He scrutinized his naked body for a few long seconds. He stepped closer to the mirror. He turned the flashlight on his skin and examined the reflection. He started with his skull, moving quickly through the short bristles of gray hair, checking behind his ears, then down to his neck, his chest. He spent a long time studying his armpits. He poked a finger in his belly button and ignored the bizarre signals from the cluster of nerves inside. That was normal. It was empty, and that was all that mattered.

He slowed down again when he got to his crotch, meticulously combing through his graying pubic hair. Nothing. He continued down his legs, and once he had peered between each toe, he turned and started over using a small mirror to inspect his back. When he got to his buttocks, he bent over and spread his cheeks apart, satisfying himself that no multi-legged horror had latched onto the sensitive skin around his anus.

When he was satisfied that no parasite was lurking on his skin, he opened the square package and unfolded the hazmat suit. After squirting a liberal amount of lotion into his palms, he slathered the lotion across his body, this time working from the ground up. When he was finished, the bottle was nearly empty. His skin shone under the fluorescent lights. He knew that he might be forced to wear the suit for a long duration, and the lotion would help.

He stepped into the hazmat suit and zipped it tight.

Sealed in now and secure, he felt his muscles relax slightly. It wasn’t much, about the same as relaxing your fist just enough to let an excited dog pull its leash through your grip, but it was enough for Dr. Reischtal to take a slow breath and let it out of his nose.

He was safe from the bugs.

 

 

When Sam woke, Ed was driving through an industrial wasteland on the West Side. Sam stretched and checked his watch. He rubbed his eyes and scraped his tongue against his teeth. He found his flask, took a long sip, and passed it to Ed. “Miss anything exciting?”

“Oh, sure,” Ed said. He took a long drink and handed it back.

Sam watched the abandoned factories slide past. “So what’s our next move?”

“Shit. I been driving all damn day and still haven’t gotten any closer to figuring any of this out.”

“Well, hell. We’re goddamn detectives. Let’s detect.”

“You’re a fucking genius. Wish I’d thought of that.”

Sam watched the cracked pavement, weeds, and sagging, abandoned buildings slide past the window for a while. “I’ll tell you what’s been troubling me. Where the hell are the two guys from Streets and San?”

“Cook County General.”

“Right. But why hide ’em away? Why not let us talk to them?”

Ed was quiet for a moment. “It’s the rats. They caught whatever the rats have?”

“But why cover it up? Why lie to us?”

“Something else is going on. Something they want to keep quiet. Whatever this rat flu bullshit really is, I’m betting it’s a hell of a lot worse than they’re telling us.”

“Where are we?” Sam sat up, got his bearings. “Tell you what. Let’s hit that bar where all the Streets and Sans boys hang out, see if we can’t find anybody who works with ’em. Maybe they can give us something.”

Ed nodded his head. “Okay. But it ain’t gonna work.” Despite having essentially the same employer, the City of Chicago, the public workers, the rat catchers, the electricians, the IDOT men, the garbage collectors, all of them didn’t mix much with the first responders, the cops, the firemen, the paramedics. The pay scales weren’t much different, but folks at the bar looked at it as a kind of class issue, and they were proud to consider themselves blue collar. Cops also saw themselves as being blue collar, but for whatever reason, the division remained.

“Maybe so.” Sam shrugged. “Try and convince ’em that all we’re doing is trying to find out what the hell happened to their buddies.”

Ed gave a tired smile. “Sure. Easiest thing in the world, trying to convince a city worker in this town to trust a damn cop.”

“Beats the alternative.”

“And what’s the alternative?”

“Shooting all the assholes in that hospital and making ’em tell us what the fuck is going on.”

 

 

Tommy blinked his way out of a dreamless sleep to find Dr. Reischtal sitting in the folding chair next to the door, quietly watching him. Tommy let his bandaged head fall back against the thin mattress. He wanted to let himself cry. He’d been hoping for a dream of his daughter, just so he could see her face when he slept, but sleep had been thin and elusive.

“I trust you slept well,” Dr. Reischtal said.

Tommy wondered if Dr. Reischtal was making a joke. Probably not. The man gave off the peculiar impression that he had somehow been born without a sense of humor.

Tommy didn’t bother to answer. He didn’t say much these days.

He sure as hell didn’t sleep well. In fact, he wasn’t sure if it could even be classified as sleep, if that’s what you would call passing out from exhaustion for a few minutes at a time, on and off throughout the day. He was still strapped to the bed, for one thing. He had some kind of tube up his ass and a goddamn needle up his dick. The pain in his skull was constant, and with no medication, the dull ache clung to him like a stubborn shadow.

The hospital had been growing louder as well.

Especially at night. Tommy would lie in his bed, listening whether he wanted to or not, as more and more patients were brought to his floor. There was no shortage of screaming, as if demons chewed on their brains. And sometimes, when the doctors finished, giving up in disgust, the undisturbed silence was somehow worse.

Dr. Reischtal rose to his feet, crossed the small hospital room, and loomed over him. He now wore some kind of biohazard suit.

Dr. Reischtal’s cold, clinical eyes studied Tommy. “I still believe you know something. Something that you aren’t telling me.”

Tommy didn’t bother to answer. He watched the almost imperceptible flickering of the fluorescent lights.

“There must be a reason.” Dr. Reischtal continued, as if Tommy was some kind of exotic plant, incapable of communication. “Some reason why you haven’t contracted the virus.”

Tommy’s head hurt. He said, “Must be God’s will.”

Dr. Reischtal drew back as if the virus itself had attacked his faceplate. “Do. Not. Mock. Me.” He placed one gloved finger on Tommy’s right temple, pushing against the bandage where he had drilled into the skull. The pressure increased.

Brilliant red and violet clouds unfurled in Tommy’s vision. The pain made his toes curl, his fingernails dig into his palms.

“I will fill you full of drugs that will render you incapable of movement. Of speech.” Dr. Reischtal did not pull his finger away. “I will paralyze you. I will rob you of everything except the ability to feel pain and leave you helpless on Lower Wacker for the rats to chew on at their convenience.”

Someone knocked at the door. One of the techs stuck his head inside. “The connections have been tested and we are online, doctor.”

Dr. Reischtal withdrew his finger.

Tommy tried not to gasp, and swallowed hard instead.

Dr. Reischtal nodded. “Very well. Notify Sergeant Reaves,” he told the tech. “Mr. Krazinsky is awake.”

The tech said, “Yes, doctor,” and left.

Dr. Reischtal looked back down at Tommy. “While I still believe that you are hiding something, others are convinced that you may be of some assistance in our war. Therefore, if you cooperate, I am willing to grant you limited freedom. We will remove your restraints, for one thing. Perhaps even a telephone call to your daughter.”

Dr. Reischtal saw the look in Tommy’s eyes that Tommy couldn’t hide and gave a thin, emotionless smile. “I will expect your full cooperation, yes?”

Despite himself, Tommy nodded.

 

 

They lifted Tommy off the bed and settled him into a sturdy wheelchair. Tommy was hoping they would remove the damn catheters, but no luck. They used the leather straps on the wheelchair to bind his hands and feet and hung his bags from the IV stand connected to the chair.

All in all, it was a nice change of pace from the bed.

Two techs, both wearing full biohazard suits, performed the task. Sergeant Reaves supervised. He wore a bulletproof vest, a blue surgical mask, and a holster on his hip, but never took the handgun out. Instead, he hung back, said nothing, and kept his hands clasped loosely in front of him.

They wheeled him out, and Tommy was shocked at the amount of movement in the hospital. He’d been listening to the increased activity from his room, but it was quite a different feeling to actually see the change. Plastic still lined the walls, floor, and ceiling. Biohazard suits rushed around, carrying equipment or laptops, or pushing gurneys. Most of the rooms appeared to be occupied.

They pushed him into the elevator and hit the button for the second floor. Tommy shifted in the wheelchair, trying to get more comfortable, and felt Sergeant Reaves stiffen beside him. One hand went to the holster. Tommy tried not to smile. It felt good to make the pricks nervous. He wondered if he might be able to use this to his advantage. The techs affixed a surgical mask over his nose and mouth.

The doors to the second floor opened, and he was pushed out into much brighter light. No more rooms for patients—this was the lab floor. Tommy could only guess at what all the shit was used for. Only a few of the hospital personnel on this floor wore complete biohazard suits. Most only wore scrubs, rubber gloves, and surgical masks.

They wheeled him down the wide hallway. The rooms were mostly open on either side, filled with a dizzying array of medical equipment. They passed a table piled high with what looked like clear garbage bags. As he rolled past, Tommy realized that the bags each contained a dead dog. At the far end, he thought he recognized one, and he said, “Wait, stop!”

The tech, startled by the first words he had heard Tommy say all day, actually stopped.

Tommy stared through thick plastic at Don’s dog, Rambo. It looked like Rambo’s throat had been cut. The top of its skull had been removed, and most of his brain was missing.

Sergeant Reaves gave the tech a hard stare and they were off and rolling again, moving faster this time. They pushed Tommy into a conference room at the end of the hall. The room was empty, save for a large square table and a row of televisions, each tuned to a blue screen. A small video camera on a tripod had been set up in front of the TV. Cables snaked away to a computer in the corner. They left Tommy in front of the camera. Tommy heard the techs leave the room.

Sergeant Reaves, standing as always right behind the wheelchair, said, “Mr. Krazinsky is ready.”

A red light appeared on the camera.

One by one, the televisions blinked into shots of various people in lab coats, surgical scrubs, even a few in biohazard suits. Some of the people appeared to be set up in labs, and Tommy wondered if they were in some other room in the hospital, instead of an office, like the rest. A TV near the top displayed an image of a young man with dark, sunken eyes. A yellowing bandage was wrapped tightly around his head, just above his eyebrows.

With a start, Tommy realized he was looking at himself.

A woman, with glasses and hair pulled back into a haphazard ponytail, sitting behind a dark mahogany desk, spoke first.

“Good morning, Mr. Krazinsky. My name is Dr. Halsey. First off, let me apologize on behalf of some of my colleagues. You must understand the hazards in the hospital there; the risk of infection on a large scale has everyone on edge. Those in charge of this operation feel force is necessary for the safety of the nation. Some of us do not. However, time is short. We need to speak to you regarding the incident at City Hall two days ago. The official report has yet to be released, and reports from the scene are thin to say the least. We need to ask you about the rat.”

Tommy found the camera and stared into the lens. “I’m not talking to anybody until I hear my daughter’s voice.”

Dr. Halsey looked flustered. “Mr. Krazinsky, I can appreciate your situation—”

“I don’t think you appreciate shit, lady.”

Dr. Reischtal spoke up. “Perhaps I can solve this problem.” He was on a TV on the bottom, his biohazard helmet on the desk in front of him. He held up a cell phone, dialed, and hit another button. The digital ringing from the phone popped out of the speakers.

“Ahh, hello?” It was his daughter’s voice.

Tommy took a long shuddering breath through his nose, struggling not to let any tears out.

“Hello. Is this Grace?” Dr. Reischtal asked.

“Umm, yes? Uh-huh.”

“Grace, this Dr. Reischtal. I am your father’s doctor. You father is very sick, did you know that?”

“Ummm? Is my daddy at the hostable?”

Tommy knew that Grace didn’t understand. God only knew what Kimmy had told her. He suspected that Kimmy was in the same room as Grace, probably being coached through her own cell phone by somebody from the CDC team here at the hospital.