Sleep Tight (24 page)

 

Dr. Reischtal hated meetings. They gave everybody the illusion their opinions were important. That they had some kind of right to be included in making decisions. Especially the slob, Dr. Menard or something. Dr. Reischtal didn’t care if he was one of the top vector-borne virus men in the country. He seemed to still think that he was part of a team.

And he wasn’t the only one. Dr. Halsey had actually had the audacity to challenge his decision regarding Krazinsky, in front of the others, no less. Dr. Reischtal promised himself that she would pay for that deliberate breach of protocol. Once this current situation had been resolved, she would never again work on anything at the federal level.

The insubordination was spreading. Instead of following their orders, some of these doctors seemed to think it was their duty to “think outside the box.” Dr. Reischtal would like to rip out the fingernails of whoever had come up with that asinine phrase, but he had to admit, even he found himself using it on occasion. Nevertheless, it was beyond him why these doctors and scientists couldn’t simply do what they were told.

It was time to remind them who was in charge.

“I would like to begin by clearing away any misconceptions.” Dr. Reischtal glared around the table. Everyone had stopped talking and stared at his biohazard suit when he strode into the room. No one was sure right off if they were supposed to be taking such extreme precautions outside the patients’ rooms. They were dressed in scrubs, mostly because they hadn’t had a chance to change.

Dr. Reischtal drew it out, knowing he had their full attention. “You were brought here because you are expert virologists. To decipher this organism, we need your full cooperation, and that means—”

Dr. Menard raised his hand. “Is this a test or something, doctor?” He gestured at the hazmat suit.

“I can assure you this is no test. For myself, the suit is a necessity. If you do not feel that is it necessary . . . that is your decision.”

“What are you not telling us?”

“You are being told everything you need to know. Now, as I was saying—”

Dr. Menard held his hand up again, like a kid in fifth grade who has to go to the bathroom. “Need to know? What does that mean? You mean to say that you have information that you won’t tell me?”

“Possibly. I am providing you with the information that you will find important. Is that clear?”

“Not really. What information?”

“I can assure you—”

“We’re all dealing with a drastic virus here. Something that’s dangerous as all hell. If you know anything else, you are obligated to let us all know. So, is there any news on Mr. Krazinsky?”

Dr. Reischtal fixed Dr. Menard with an ice-cold stare. For a moment, all anyone could hear was Dr. Reischtal’s metallic, amplified breathing. “Tell me, Doctor . . . Menard, is it? Tell me, Dr. Menard, is it customary to interrupt your superiors out west, or wherever it is you are from?”

“I just want some straight answers. I—and I think I speak for many of us here in this room—we’re sick and tired of all the limited information and clandestine bullshit around here.”

“I concur,” Dr. Halsey said. “What about the original patient, Mr. Wycza? What is his status? I am hearing reports that his door is locked.” She clicked her pen as if it were a weapon.

Dr. Reischtal drummed his gloved fingers on the table. Rather than face a full-scale mutiny, he decided to pacify the usurpers. For now. For later, he had methods of dealing with troublemakers like Dr. Menard and Dr. Halsey. And if they would not listen to reason, there was always a solution to be found in Sergeant Reaves.

“Very well,” Dr. Reischtal said. “Mr. Krazinsky is resting comfortably. As for Mr. Wycza, I regret to inform you that he passed away earlier this evening.”

“Why were we not notified? Who is doing the autopsy?” Dr. Halsey demanded. “I would like to observe.”

“There will be no immediate autopsy. The remains are far too infectious and the room is contaminated beyond measure. My team will be responsible for all postmortem investigations.”

Dr. Halsey muttered under her breath, “This is absurd.”

“If there are no more interruptions,” Dr. Reischtal continued, “we now have a timeline for the virus. Mr. Wycza was the first living host that we were able to examine. We also have a fairly accurate timeline. Once infected, estimates place the host’s life expectancy at approximately ninety to one hundred hours.”

“Four days. Jesus,” Dr. Menard said. “Is Mr. Krazinsky displaying any symptoms yet?”

“Mr. Krazinsky’s symptomology does not follow the usual pattern, no.”

“Then why the hell do you still have him on a floor with a known contamination?”

“I believe he is a carrier.”

“This virus has shown zero inclination to simply ride along in a host. It is destroying every single infected patient in this hospital as we speak. And yet, you insist on keeping an otherwise healthy, non-infected patient within close contact with other patients.”

Dr. Reischtal placed his hands flat on the table. “Do you not understand that this individual had more contact with the infected rat than Mr. Wycza? By all logic, the virus should have spread through his system like wildfire. Why is it that the disease ravages anyone else that gets close, but Mr. Krazinsky has remained untouched? There are many, many unanswered questions about this man.”

Dr. Menard frowned. “There are many, many unanswered questions about your methods, doctor.”

Dr. Reischtal struggled not to draw his hands into fists. “I would suggest, Dr. Menard, that you choose your words carefully. It appears that you are obsessing over a single individual that may hold valuable clues to a virus with the power to wipe out the other three million human beings in this city, if not the entire country. We are on the precipice of an outbreak the likes of which this world has never seen. That, Dr. Menard, is my responsibility.” He saw no reason to discuss how insects were transmitting the virus. It would only serve to muddy the waters and distract them from focusing on a way to defeat the virus. He would leave the decision on when to reveal the truth to the President, and deal with the fallout at that point. If these people were beyond saving when that happened, then so be it.

His gaze swept the room. Even through the plastic faceplate, his stare held an almost physical impact. “I would encourage my fellow doctors to, if you feel I am in any way failing in my capacity as special investigator to unknown viruses, please, by all means, speak up. Voice your dissent.”

The table was silent. Dr. Menard tried to meet everyone’s eyes, but no one would look up from their notes. Even Dr. Halsey placed her hands in her lap, endlessly twisting her wedding ring.

“I believe you stand corrected, Dr. Menard,” Dr. Reischtal.

Dr. Menard met Dr. Reischtal’s glare. “Intimidation may achieve results, but it is temporary and has many unanticipated consequences. Remember that. In the long run, the truth will come out. It always does. This entire operation is a farce, for chrissakes.”

Dr. Reischtal said, “I will not tolerate blasphemy. Watch your language.”

“What?”

“As a man of science, you may find matters of faith contemptible. I, however, do not.”

“Goddamnit!” Dr. Menard pounded on the table. “Explain yourself! You are putting every single one of us at risk, not to mention the rest of the population of the city. You need to be held accountable.”

Dr. Reischtal spoke slowly, carefully enunciating each word. “This is your last warning, Dr. Menard. I will not tolerate any more dissension on this team. I sincerely hope you understand.”

“Or what? Or what? Is that a threat? You’ll sic your attack dog on me? Huh? Your shadow?”

Sergeant Reaves, leaning against the wall near the door, did not change his blank expression. His eyes, dull and lifeless, stared out at the room, focusing on nothing and everything at the same time.

Dr. Menard said, “We’re not fooled. These soldiers, they’re not part of the U.S. Armed Forces, so who are they? Who do they work for?”

Dr. Reischtal picked up the conference room phone and said, “Please escort Dr. Menard from the property.”

Dr. Menard stood and it became clear that he was a fairly large man. “What if I decide not to leave? What are you going to do, shoot me?”

Sergeant Reaves remained motionless.

“Only if you make it necessary.” Dr. Reischtal gave a thin smile.

The doors swung open. Two soldiers stood at attention. Behind them, the hallway was filled with more soldiers. Dozens and dozens of them. The entire line bristled with the black muzzles of assault rifles, as if the men were a single organism, a spiked, heavy metal caterpillar.

The two soldiers entered the room, split apart, and came to rest on either side of Dr. Menard. He refused to acknowledge them. Instead, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, put one between his lips.

Dr. Reischtal said, “Dr. Menard, I certainly hope you understand there is absolutely no smoking in this facility.”

Dr. Menard mumbled around the cigarette, “Blow me.” The soldiers walked him out.

Dr. Reischtal spread his hands, swept his gaze across the room one more time. “I certainly hope everyone can appreciate how crucial our work is here. If the virus spreads any further, this situation could be nothing less then the end of times.”

 

Sam was just about to say, “Let’s go get a drink,” when the door rolled up on the loading dock once again, and a large man in a white lab coat stepped outside. The door rolled shut behind him. He looked up and down the street for a moment, lit the cigarette clamped between his teeth, and ambled south.

Ed and Sam exchanged glances. Ed nodded and twisted the key. He hit the gas and pulled up alongside the large, shaggy man. Sam had the door open and his pistol out before Ed had even stopped. “Chicago PD. Get in the car.”

The man gaped at them, cigarette halfway to his mouth. “I’m sorry, what?”

Sam said, “Shut the fuck up and get in the car.” He opened the back door.

The man looked up and down the deserted street as if seeking any witnesses, then climbed in the backseat with Qween. Sam kicked the door shut and jumped back into the front seat. Ed headed south in a short squeal of rubber.

Sam twisted in his seat to face the big man and found that Qween already had a straight razor buried in the guy’s straggly beard, pressed firmly against his throat. The big man was holding his chin so high the top of his head brushed against the ceiling of the Crown Vic.

“You just sit still now, you hear?” Qween said.

Sam had no idea where the hell she’d been hiding a straight razor. “Easy, Qween. He’s not going anywhere, are you, pal?”

The big man’s stare went from Qween to Sam to Ed, then to the buildings whipping past. Ed hadn’t slowed down yet; the car was approaching fifty miles an hour as it roared through the empty downtown streets.

“Suit yourself,” Qween said and slipped the razor back into the folds of her cloak.

The big man swallowed. Sam could tell he wanted to touch his throat to see if it was bleeding or not, but fear kept his hands frozen in his lap.

Sam said, “What’s your name?”

“David Menard.”

“You a doctor?”

“Yes. Dr. David Menard.”

“You work at that hospital.”

“No. Yes, well, I mean, I don’t know how to—”

Sam tapped him sharply on the forehead with the barrel of his pistol. “I want some straight fucking answers, you got me? You try to lie to me one more time and I’ll let my girl here cut your balls off.”

“I wasn’t lying! Swear to Christ, I’m not lying.”

“Let’s hear it then.”

Dr. Menard talked so fast that at first, it sounded like the babbling of one of the speed freaks they would occasionally confront in an interrogation. “I was working there, yes. Me and others. The CDC brought us in to work with their team. I study viruses, that’s my real job. This, this was something—I got a call in the middle of the night, telling me to pack up. Hopped on a plane in Sacramento, and they flew me out here. Next thing I know, we’re studying a new virus. From the little bit I’ve been allowed to see, parts of three floors, I do know this. There are a large number of seriously ill patients back there and God help us if there’s any more.”

“Why?”

“If this spreads, we’re . . . over. I’ve never seen anything like this. Nobody has seen anything like this. This is . . . this virus, they don’t even have a name for it yet.”

“How do you catch it?”

“We don’t know exactly. Based on the information we’ve been given, it appears that close proximity to a rat that is carrying the virus can be a source of the infection. It is certainly present in the rat saliva, much like rabies.”

Ed and Sam glanced at Qween. She ignored them.

“But that doesn’t explain all of the cases,” Dr. Menard said. “Many of the initial patients were homeless individuals, and therefore, we had to assume that because of their lifestyle, contact with a rat was certainly possible, if not likely, since the infected rats have shown to be quite aggressive. But within the last twelve hours, the number of patients that presumably would have no reason to be near a rat skyrocketed.”

Sam interrupted, “Just exactly how many patients are in there now?”

Dr. Menard shook his head. “I don’t know. Fifty. A hundred. Two hundred? I’m sorry. Dr. Reischtal, he’s in charge, and he kept all records classified.”

“Why?” Ed asked.

“I have no idea. Look, I don’t know what to say. We just started two days ago. Nobody has had any sleep.” Dr. Menard rubbed his face. “All we know is that it appears to be fatal in every case of infection.”

“What are the symptoms?” Ed asked.

“At first, apparently nothing. The patients sometimes fall into a deep sleep, when they awake, they often suffer extreme discomfort on the surface of the skin.”

“What kind of discomfort?” Ed asked.

Dr. Menard gave a heavy sigh. “They itch,” he said, meeting Ed’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “It must be awful. We have been observing patient after patient claw at their skin until they bleed. Back in my grad school days, I worked with addicts going through withdrawal, serious stuff, and I never encountered anything like this. And then, at some point, they begin to act . . . irrationally.”

“They get violent as fuck,” Ed said.

Sam glanced at Qween again, hearing the screams from the homeless shelter.

Dr. Menard nodded slowly. “Yes. Postmortem examinations of some of the bodies, people that had been shot and killed by the police—after the attacks, you know—they have revealed some clues about the damage the virus causes, but not nearly enough. The problem is, we have gotten so few specimens with undamaged tissue, it’s been impossible to tell what the effects of the virus actually are.” He gave a hollow laugh. “One guy got hit by an SUV. All that was left fit into a box this big.” He held his hands about two feet apart. “What little we do know is that it appears to attack the amygdala. You’re familiar with the term, ‘amygdala hijack’?” He caught the blank looks of the other three. “Okay. ‘Road Rage.’ I’m sure you have encountered this in your jobs. There’s an overwhelming sense of fury, when someone just snaps.”

“Sounds like a few domestic disputes I’ve seen.”

“I would imagine so, yes. But this, this is something else. Increase that fury by tenfold. Maybe fifty, a hundred. This is all such guesswork at this point. We need literally years of research before we’ll know anything for sure. Anyway, as far as we can tell, the virus seems to travel along the peripheral nervous system and it shoots straight into the limbic system of our brains, specifically the amygdala. They’re two little buds, tucked away deep inside your head. If you were to drill straight through here and here”—Dr. Menard pointed at his right eye and right ear—“you’d find it at the intersection of those lines. The amygdala is one of the oldest parts of the brain. It controls emotions like fear and anger. You’ve heard of ‘fight or flight,’ right?”

Ed and Sam nod.

“The lizard part,” Sam said.

“No. You’re thinking of stuff like keeping your heart going, breathing, blood in your brain, that kind of thing. This is a step higher on the evolutionary ladder. The amygdala dumps tons of adrenaline and cortisone into your system, so you can run. Fight. Take action, whatever. The thing is, there’s no direct connection between the prefrontal lobe”—Dr. Menard tapped his forehead—“and the amygdala. The body doesn’t want to waste any time thinking about what it should do when it’s in danger. It has to react. Immediately. And that’s the problem here. The virus attacks the prefrontal lobe. We don’t know why. Maybe it likes the taste. It multiplies astonishingly fast, wiping out your ability to think with any reasoning or logic. Meanwhile, while it is destroying the prefrontal lobe, it is attaching itself to the amygdala, causing the body to go into overdrive.”

“So it’s driving people crazy,” Ed said.

Dr. Menard gave a slow shrug. “I guess you could say that, yes. It is literally driving them mad with fear. With the amygdala going berserk, and the prefrontal lobes being chewed up and spit out . . . the infected are unable to stop themselves. They’re unable to think logically. And so they lash out. Violently. A lot of times, it’s sound that triggers the rage. Like with rabies. In the later stages, the virus attacks the rest of the body, causing massive internal bleeding. You’ve heard of the Ebola virus? It literally liquefies your insides. Ebola and rabies are similar, in many respects.”

“Where did it come from?” Sam asked. “Why did it show up in the rats?”

Dr. Menard shook his head and shrugged again. “It is believed that an infected bat escaped from an animal smuggler at O’Hare and somehow passed the virus along to the rats.”

Sam and Ed exchanged a look.

“All we know is that it appears to move slower in rats. They can survive for a month or two, sometimes three. We don’t know why it takes more time with them. Humans . . . it takes only three, four days.”

Ed whipped through streets, unusually quiet in the night hours, heading north. Dr. Menard, still anxious and unable to stop talking, said, “I can’t get the beginning from Poe’s story out of my head.”

Nobody said anything for a moment. “I don’t know about you two,” Sam said, nodding at Ed and Qween, “but I’m a proud product of the American public school system and I don’t have a goddamn clue what you’re talking about.”

Dr. Menard said, “Poe. Edgar Allan. You know him.
The Tell-Tale Heart
. Surely you read it in high school.”

Sam shrugged.

Dr. Menard cleared his throat. “‘True!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad?’” He quoted haltingly from his memory. “‘The disease had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad?’”

For a long time, nobody said anything else.

Eventually, Sam stared out the window, chewing on a new piece of gum, said, “I still say sooner or later it all comes down to the lizard part.”