The Gemini Virus
Authors: Wil Mara
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.
For Tracey. Always, for Tracey.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to extend my deepest gratitude to the many terrific people who gave of their time and considerable talents to assure that this book hit all the proper high notes. First and foremost, to my wife and children, without whom my world would possess neither light nor beauty. To Melissa, for her boundless patience, riotous good humor, and perfect editorial touch. To Tom, for his immovable faith. To Miriam, for her masterful juggling of the details. To Matt, for some great relief pitching. To Marty, Elinor, and Robert, for their priceless “tech support.” To Jane and Patti, for their early comments and suggestions. To Edward “Doc” Block, for being forthright enough to make me see that the first few titles really were awful (“Virus Mutatus?! Uh, no—that sucks.”). To Robbie, for one helluva good quote. To Scott and Andy, because I gotta slip them in there somewhere. To Janet and Mark, and also to Tony, with genuine appreciation. And, of course, to my continuing readership.
CONTENTS
Prologue: A New Illness in Three Parts
PROLOGUE
A New Illness in Three Parts
Monday, September 24
Ramsey, New Jersey
DAY 1
Bob Easton prided himself on his health; always had. It made him feel just a little bit superior to everyone else, especially the smokers, the drinkers, the dopers, and the guys who ate eggs and bacon for breakfast, pork roll for lunch, and spare ribs for dinner. They were all fools. The human body was a temple, and you didn’t desecrate the temple.
He watched his diet to the point where he drove his wife, Bernice, out of her mind. He inspected everything before he put it in his mouth, brooded over “Nutrition Facts” charts, and could quote
Men’s Health
articles from memory. He also exercised—a brisk jog every morning at precisely five thirty, followed by a short calisthenics regimen in the makeshift gym in their basement. His friends either made fun of him or were openly jealous. Nevertheless, he vowed to keep it up until he was no longer able, which he prayed wouldn’t occur until he was in the Centenarians Club. That was his goal—three digits. And his physician, Dr. Petralia, thought he had a decent chance of making it. “You never get sick,” Petralia said during the last checkup. (Easton had two per year, religiously.) “And it’s not easy to die if you don’t get sick, right?” Sitting on the cold exam table in his blue paper smock, Easton smiled and nodded.
That’s right—no sickness, no death. And I don’t get sick … ever
.
Except he was sick now. He was very sick.
* * *
The biggest mystery was how it happened in the first place. He had personal policies designed to protect against illness. One was to avoid others who weren’t feeling well. If he heard someone coughing at the plant, he’d send them home. (As a floor manager with seniority, he could do this.) If someone blew their nose more than once in a restaurant, he’d leave. He also avoided schools and day care centers; they were bacterial playgrounds. This led to several fights with his oldest daughter, Kelly. She lived nearby and couldn’t always pick up her two sons, who were in first and third grade respectively. Yet she knew not to contact her father even in an emergency. He wouldn’t go near a public restroom. If he had no choice, he’d stand a foot back from the urinal and wouldn’t flush. (If he had to take a crap, he’d wait until he got home, no matter how dangerous it was to his intestines.) He also used a paper towel on the doorknob when he went out. Nothing, in his opinion, was more vile than a public-restroom doorknob. He had a recurring nightmare about being forced to lick one.
So how did this happen?
The fever came first, stirring him from a deep sleep. He stumbled out of bed, dizzy and disoriented, and collided with the bathroom door because he didn’t realize it was closed. This awoke Bernice, who asked if everything was all right. He grumbled something unintelligible, and she drifted away again. When he flicked on the light switch, the glare exploded with such intensity that the pain in his head ballooned until it felt like his skull was cracking open.
He dug through the medicine cabinet because he believed there was a thermometer in there somewhere. He couldn’t locate it and thought about asking Bernice for help. Then he decided to forgo the inevitable sarcasm that would surely follow. He continued searching through the standing army of outdated prescription bottles, over-the-counter medications, travel-size containers, skin creams, and body lotions, and finally found it inside a repurposed Tupperware container that was also home to an old comb (with loose strands of hair still in it, he noticed), a pair of scissors, and several dental tools of questionable origin. He retrieved some cotton balls and a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and then sanitized the thermometer beyond reason.
After setting the tip under the wet flesh of his tongue, he pressed the back of his hand against his forehead. He knew this was no way to gauge a fever, but he did it anyway. The heat was something close to nuclear.
I’m on fire!
He felt around in different places.
I’m cooking inside my skin.…
He inspected himself in the mirror and saw a face that was deeply flushed, the cheeks bright red. It was like looking at someone else.
The thermometer beeped and Easton looked. Then he wish he hadn’t.
102.5°F
.
He took it a second time, and it went up to 102.7 degrees F. Some crazy voice in the back of his mind said,
When you get to a hundred and three, sell!
I’ll call Petralia at nine and get in there first thing. Meanwhile …
He sorted through the over-the-counter meds, found nothing for fevers that hadn’t expired, and settled on a washcloth soaked in cool water. Then he eased back into bed, where Bernice was snoring away like a sailor. His heart pounded in the stillness, and he began feeling the aches for the first time—neck, elbows, fingers, and knees.
Like an old man on a park bench,
he thought,
throwing bread crumbs to the birds
. He slept fitfully for two hours, was barely able to move when he awoke, and stayed there in his flannel pajamas feeling grossed out by the heat and sweat of his own body.
My
sick
body,
he thought with a mixture of depression and irritation.
Bernice initially responded, as he expected, with dumbfounded astonishment. She stood at the foot of the bed studying him, apparently in search of some sign of deception. Then, utilizing the gifted insight that he always found infuriating, she said, “You don’t look so good.”
“I appreciate the penetrating diagnosis.”
“Should I call your doctor?”
“I’ll do it. Please get me the phone.”
It was going on seven thirty at this point; too early for Petralia to be in the office. Still, Easton got the answering service to make the first available appointment. His heart sank when he was told by the operator that “Doctor P” was away on vacation in Greece and wouldn’t be back for another two weeks. She asked if he would like to make an appointment with Dr. Fisher instead. Easton considered it briefly, then declined. Ol’ Doctor P had been his man for the last twelve years and knew his body better than anyone. He wasn’t about to start fresh with some kid whose diploma still had wet ink on it.
Bernice, in the baby blue nightgown that Easton thought of as part of the
Golden Girls
Collection, shuffled to the doorway and stopped. Her eyes were nearly bulging with timid astonishment; she could not remember the last time her husband had been unwell.
“What time is your appointment?”
“He’s not there today.”
“He’s not there?”
“He’s on vacation.”
“Oh…”
Easton sat hunched over on the bed’s edge, hands bunched together as if in prayer. Around the edges of his closely shorn silver hair, tiny beads of sweat had formed.
“I’ve, uh … I’ve got to go to ShopRite and get something.”
“Isn’t there anything in the cabinet?”
“No, I didn’t see anything for fevers that was still good.”
We haven’t had anything for fevers since the kids were here,
Bernice thought. That seemed like an eternity.
“Do you want me to drive you?”
He could sense the concern in her voice, and it softened him. He gave her a sideways glance and smiled. “No, but thanks. I’ll be okay.” He finished with a quick wink, which he knew she always loved. She smiled back.
In truth he felt worse than before, and if anyone else were offering the lift, he would’ve taken it without hesitation. But no one, in his opinion, was a lousier driver than his wife; he’d just as soon go on roller skates. No, this was something he had to do himself.
When he took the first step out of bed, the room spun. He leaned against the dresser for support. Perfume bottles clattered against one another; two brushes tumbled to the carpet. When Bernice stepped in to help, he held his hands up and assured her he was fine. A small voice told him he was, in fact, quite a long way from fine. Nevertheless, he struggled into jeans and a sweatshirt.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought over-the-counter medication, and he was overwhelmed by the array of choices. Sudafed, Robitussin, Mucinex, Vicks … antihistamine cough and cold suppressant, nondrowsy nasal decongestant, multisymptom expectorant … coated caplets, liquigels … day and night, extended release … original flavor, orange, cherry …
“You gotta be kidding me,” he muttered before coughing into the crook of his arm. It was wet now, phlegmy. He settled on something with the words
FEVER REDUCER
and
COLD AND FLU
. That sounded reasonably close.
“Oooh, you look awful, Bob,” the woman at the register said as she inspected him over her half-moon glasses. Her name was Doris Whittenhauer, and she was the Gal Who Knew Everyone.
“Thanks, Doris. I feel awful, too.”
“Are you sure this is the right stuff for what you have?” She waved the box in the air.
“Do you
know
what I have?”
“No.”
“Okay, then.”
He coughed again, so violently this time that several heads turned.
Whittenhauer leaned back with a grimace. “Seriously, I think you should call your—”
“I already did. He’s on vacation.”
“So go to whoever’s covering for him.”
“I just might,” he replied, and now he meant it. Yes, Fisher was just a kid, but Easton could swear his condition had diminished even in the brief span since he first walked in.
Something’s not right.…
