The Cured (2 page)

“Well, do
something.
”

“I could pull forward into the other lane, but I don’t want to hurt her.”

“She obviously doesn’t feel the same way. I think she killed that other guy.”

As if to emphasize Randall’s point, the woman began slamming her head into the windshield. It cracked as she knocked herself unconscious and rolled off the hood and onto the shoulder of the road. Henry didn’t waste any time. He pulled forward into oncoming traffic. The other cars were too busy rubbernecking at the accident to pay attention to him and they crawled toward him. He steered the car quickly into the side street and took off.

“What the hell
was
that?” Henry asked.

Randall shrugged. “Just crazy road rage. Drugs probably.”

“But what about all those people at the hospital? They looked like they’d been in fights too. Or that woman who bit you this morning? Do you think they were exposed to some chemical or something?”

“I can’t think of a chemical that would do that. Besides, why would it get released here? It’s not like this is a major airport hub or anything. I don’t think we’re high on the priority list.”

“Do me a favor and turn on the radio, maybe we can find some news.” The traffic was lighter as they moved farther from the hospital. Henry headed for Randall’s house. The receptionist clicked on the radio and scanned the channels. Bright, jarring holiday music jumbled in with static or dead silence. Randall scowled.

“They’re all on those looping feeds for the holiday.”

“Try AM then. There has to be somebody on.”

“I’ll just check online. There’s no need to be medieval about it.” Randall smirked and fiddled with his phone.

“I can’t exactly look while I’m driving,” said Henry, somewhat nettled. “Look, we’re here, I’ll just check at my house. Do you want some help getting inside? Or do you need me to call your doctor?”

Randall shook his head. “No, I’m okay. Do you think we should call the police about that guy in the road?”

“I think we should call the police about Dave hitting a crazy woman over the head with a chunk of glass. But they don’t seem to be responding. I don’t know what’s going on, but it must be some pretty bad shit. When it clears up in a few days we can come forward and tell what we know. For now–” A giant crash came from a neighbor’s house and Henry instinctively flinched. He glanced at Randall with concern. “For now, we should make sure we’re safe and ready in case whatever is happening spreads.”

Randall nodded. “Thanks for the ride,” he said, opening the car door.

“Listen,” Henry called after him, “You got a way to get out of here if you need to?”

The receptionist gave him a dismissive wave. “Yeah, I’m fine, my girlfriend’s got a car. I’ll see you after the holidays I guess.” He walked into the house and Henry began reluctantly to back out of the drive.

I always hated that guy,
he thought,
but I hope nothing happens to him.
He scanned the fuzzy AM band with one hand as he drove. He could take his pick of angry preachers predicting the end of days, but that was about it. He was profoundly depressed to realize that he wasn’t sure whether they were the normal broadcasts or something special cooked up just for the current situation. He flipped back to FM and mostly ignored the constant stream of jingling bells and children’s voices, waiting for the five-minute news snippet that came on at the beginning of each hour. But it never came. Not even the cheerful ski report looped from that morning. Just more music and canned commercials.

Three

The parking lot of Henry’s small apartment building was empty.
People are still at work. It’s still early,
Henry thought. But where were the extra cars? The stay-at-home dad in 3C? Mrs. Krandall, the landlady? There were always one or two in the lot, even at odd times. Henry’s chest cramped as he began to panic in earnest.
Shopping. Christmas shopping. That’s all. Calm down,
Henry tried to take a deep breath as he pulled into his parking spot. He sat for a moment, trying to rationalize the events of the day and failing miserably. A choir began singing
Silent Night
on the radio. He reached for his keys just as a lump of porcelain hit his windshield. He jerked backward in surprise. It was a doll, it’s shattered limbs rolling out of its velveteen dress and its curly wig flying away. The head, unbroken and hollow, rolled to a stop and looked at him through the window, its glass eyes glittering the reflection of the cracked windshield. There was a roar from above him echoed by a thin wail. Henry leaned cautiously forward as the choir sang about “Love’s pure light.”

A window a few floors up was a jagged wreck of sparkles. The thin wail came again and dragged itself into a shriek and then stopped. Henry twisted the key so hard it almost snapped and he leapt from the car. It was Mrs. Palmer, it had to be. He was pretty sure it was her window and the old lady was crazy about her dolls. Henry ran up the stairs until he got to her door. It hung open, the top hinge ripped out of the wall, the frame a splintered, raw white.

“Mrs. Palmer? It’s Henry Broom, from upstairs,” Henry stepped in and immediately felt the cold air from the broken window. “I heard some trouble and I came to see if you’re alright.” The hallway smelled like fresh snow and there was no answer. Henry suddenly realized how alone he was. There was a cane leaning against an end table in front of him. He grabbed it and realized it was too light to do anything. Still, it would have to do. He inched down the hallway. “Whoever is in here, just leave. I’ve already called the police and I’m armed,” he bluffed, his voice too shaky to be convincing. The hallway opened into the living room. Henry gave it a quick glance. The little fake Christmas tree was tipped over in front of the television, its tiny lights still blinking their cheerful, plastic colors. Several of Mrs. Palmer’s dolls were lying on the floor, limbs askew, their little, cold bodies slowly being lined with snow blown into the window. The others looked at him from their shelf, each glass eye reflecting the manic twinkle of the fallen tree. The curtains shifted and caught on Mrs. Palmer’s easy chair as they blasted apart in the cold wind, but nobody was in the room. Henry turned toward the small kitchen. A ceramic crock pot lay on its side on the floor under the humming florescent light. The glass lid was shattered and floating in the brown puddle of steaming beans that had spilled from the pot. The refrigerator door hung open and it tilted slightly forward as if someone had tried to pull it over. Henry gingerly stepped around the beans and glass, trying not to slip. He tipped the refrigerator back and shut the door so that it wouldn’t fall. He noticed a set of long silver scratches in the dark finish of the table as he passed back into the hallway, but Mrs. Palmer didn’t have long fingernails.

Henry crept slowly toward the bathroom and bedroom. He pushed the bathroom door slowly open with the end of the cane and tensed. It was dark and windowless. He reached one hand in and groped for the light switch, wincing with every soft thud of his hand on the wall. It wasn’t there. Henry held his breath and stepped in and reached up, finding a cord. The light turned on but the fan was louder than he’d expected. He jumped a little as the clear shower curtain rippled in the sudden breeze. There was no one there and the room was clean and undisturbed. He took a deep breath and headed for the bedroom.

Henry could hear low voices from behind the closed door. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but they were too even, too calm to be real. He nudged the door open a crack until he saw the bedside television tuned to a news station. It had fallen from the dresser and lay, flickering, on it’s side. Henry opened the door further and inched his way inside. Mrs. Palmer’s top dentures smiled up at him from the carpet. The porcelain teeth were tipped with pink and the floor around the denture was dark and wet. Henry shuddered.

The closet’s flimsy door panel rattled and he jumped. He took a step toward it, raising the cane as if it were a heavy wooden bat. “Mrs. Palmer?” he whispered. There was no answer except the ongoing stream of calm reporting from the television. Henry glanced around him quickly and then looked back at the closet door. “Mrs. Palmer, it’s Henry,” he whispered a little louder, “I’m going to open the door now, please don’t be frightened.” The cane was still raised over his head. He let go with one hand and wiped the sweat that was rolling into his eyes. He gripped the cool ceramic door knob.
This is really stupid Henry,
he thought,
Just get out of here and call the police.
Henry glanced back down the hallway toward the living room. It was still empty. There was a sad wail from behind the closet door. Henry knew he wasn’t leaving. He turned the knob, holding his breath at the same time. He slowly pulled the door open between himself and whatever lay behind it, tensed and ready to slam it shut again if he needed to. Henry took a deep breath and peered around the open door. With a yowl and a sharp hiss, Mrs. Palmer’s siamese cat sprang at him. Startled, Henry brought the cane down without knowing what he was doing. The cat was faster than him and darted off down the hallway toward the living room. The closet was empty. Henry sagged against the door. He wondered whether he should search the rest of the building for Mrs. Palmer or just hole up in his own apartment until the police came. The reporter’s voice broke through his thoughts as he caught his breath.

“– are saying that the hospitals are jammed with victims who have been brutally beaten and the police are answering calls as quickly as possible but there are just too many attacks to answer them all. Emergency services are stretched to the breaking point. We managed to talk to a physician this morning before the last wave of attacks.”

Henry closed the closet door and walked over to the television set. He righted it as the camera focused on a haggard doctor in disheveled scrubs. He was slumped into an office chair and talking to an interviewer.

“Can you give us any information about what is going on?”

“We are seeing lots of injuries today, both from violent attacks and to a lesser extent, from household accidents.”

“Why so many?”

The doctor shrugged. “I’m not a sociologist or law enforcement. Holiday pressure maybe? You might want to try the doctors in the psych ward instead. Although they’ve been awfully busy today too.”

“But they must have something in common. People have been attacking each other. Not just their enemies, but perfect strangers and loved ones as well. And when questioned they don’t respond. This has to be more than seasonal blues. Could a chemical cause this type of reaction? Have we been hit by a terrorist attack?”

The doctor rubbed his temples. “I don’t know, I’ve never seen anything like it. None of the toxicology screens are showing any type of unusual drug or chemical in these people’s systems– at least, none in common. The only thing that seems to be a common thread is that the ones who have had household accidents are all running a very low-grade fever. Our labs haven’t come back yet on that, but it’s December. People are inside a lot. They have colds, they’re going to run a small fever. Look, whatever it is, it’s not a terrorist plot, okay?”

“What makes you say that?”

The doctor scratched at his chin uncomfortably. “I don’t want to cause a panic,” he said directly to the interviewer.

“Don’t worry, we’ll edit it out,” lied the reporter.

The doctor pulled a few pieces of paper from his desk. “This, whatever this is, has been coming for a few weeks.” He held up one piece of paper. “This is an email from a colleague in India. His hospital has been overrun for a week now. Same results, low-grade fever coupled with clumsy accidents and the rest victims of brutal attacks. All he’s been able to find are some early stages of a weak strep strain and a few instances of flu. Nothing more.”

He waved another paper. “This one is from my brother who is on vacation in Venezuela. The police there are overwhelmed, they’ve told tourists to stay in their hotels for the time being. My brother got a piece of bad fish and went to the local hospital to see a doctor and he was turned away because they had too many patients.”

The doctor unfolded the last sheet. “This one is a copy of the front page of a French paper. There was a minor fender bender on a busy street about three weeks ago. It turned into a riot, leaving over 200 people hospitalized and 40 dead. Whatever this is, it’s everywhere.”

“You were looking for these incidents. Why?”

The doctor leaned forward and slowly took off his cap, crumpling the cloth between his fingers. “Look, one of my old med school buddies brought his girlfriend in a few weeks ago after she cut herself on a piece of glass. I stitched her up and didn’t think much more about it. Later that day, he called me and told me to keep an eye out for anything unusual, like a spike in accidents. That I should do blood work if I saw it. I asked him what I should be looking for and he just said, ‘it’s probably nothing, but you’ll know it when you see it, I hope.’ And then we were disconnected. But this guy was panicked. And he isn’t someone I’ve ever known to lose his cool. So I started watching my patients and watching the news. That’s the only reason we’ve done blood tests on any of these people.” The doctor collapsed backward into his seat. “Look,” he said squinting at the reporter, “I don’t want to cause a panic, you can’t air any of that. I don’t know anything for sure yet. I just thought someone else should be watching out too.”