Sleep Tight (9 page)

 

Dr. Reischtal found that he was unable to pray. He peered out at the night through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the top floor of the Cook County General Hospital. From dusk until dawn, the stars and sky were extinguished, blown out by the lights of the city, revealing nothing but a dull orange haze and the occasional landing lights of aircraft preparing to land as they approached O’Hare from the east. Light pollution. What an innocuous name for something so subtly sinister.

Without stars, he found the words to his Lord fell uselessly back to earth, unable to bridge the vastness of the universe. He felt trapped, smothered with the sick light. The idea that this may be a sign, that this shroud of false light could herald the end of days had occurred to him more than once.

The body in the freezer two floors down made this idea a frightening possibility.

Viktor’s trail, as far as the bats were concerned, had gone cold in Yekaterinburg. They knew he was a poor student and his father was an unemployed laborer, crippled with debts. The motive for smuggling animals was easy enough to understand. Whether he would have returned to Russia or simply stayed in the U.S. was unclear.

The bats had come from all over the world. The bodies of the bats, including the parasites, had been dissected in the laboratories at Quantico. They had recovered eleven bats, nearly all from the critically endangered list, and thirty-seven internal and external parasites that ranged over four different species, including three from Viktor’s own body.

All showed the beginning stages of the disease.

Eleven bats. One empty pouch.

And so, despite protests from his colleagues in the CDC who were more interested in saving a few pennies for their precious budgets, Dr. Reischtal had convinced the board that Viktor was just the beginning.

The virus would reappear.

And when it did, it would explode with a vengeance.

The special pathogens branch had quietly moved into the top three floors of the Cook County General Hospital, displacing patients and staff alike. It wasn’t difficult. Cook County General had one of the worst reputations of not only Chicago but the country. The big joke in Chicago was that if you were taken to General, you were lucky to leave with all your organs. A few years back, there had been a huge scandal. Several top administrators had been convicted on providing kickback bribes to ambulance companies in return for bringing accident victims to the General, even if other hospitals were closer. The place was crowded, understaffed, and most of all, underfunded.

Other hospitals may have been better suited to Dr. Reischtal’s requirements, but despite better facilities and more specialized doctors, Cook County General had one element that the others did not. Location. The only hospital located near the absolute center of the city, it filled an entire city block between Madison to the north, Wacker to the east, and Monroe to the south. To the west was the Chicago River; it had been built next to the river in the aftermath of the Great Fire in 1871.

The original building had been torn down in the late sixties, and in the same spirit that would echo some of the progressive architecture designed to serve the public throughout Chicago, the building was designed as a squat, segmented cylinder, twelve stories tall. The floors were staggered, spinning out from a central radius, providing decks shaped like stingy slices of pie, like a tight circular staircase, outlined in flowers shrubs, and small trees when the building was young. The trees died within two years, and ivy had taken over. Leafy strings hung from every surface in the summer and fall, as if the pie slices had gone rancid and mold had crept over every surface.

At first, the administrators were reluctant to simply hand over control of their hospital to the CDC. However, a large donation from the federal government had bought enthusiastic cooperation. The top floor consisted primarily of conference rooms and offices. The next two floors contained various oncology wards. The patients had been moved without explanation or warning to either Northwestern Memorial or Rush University Medical Center on the West Side.

Most of the equipment had been moved to other parts of the hospital, leaving empty, sterile rooms. Dr. Reischtal’s precise footsteps echoed though the bare halls and rooms as he paced, waiting. He could not sleep because he could not pray.

So he paced.

And waited.

 

 

The walk to the CTA Red Line subway station at Balboa only took six minutes for LaRissa Devine, from leaving her classroom seat to thrumming down the subway steps. If she was lucky, and the train was running late, she could catch the 10:37 and get home to her mom, grandmom, and three siblings and be in bed by 11:30. She needed all the sleep she could get. The manager at the El Taco Loco branch knew damn well that she was one of the few employees he could trust completely, and needed her to get there early to start the prep work.

When she wasn’t selling tacos and burritos that made a mockery out of Mexican cuisine, LaRissa was a student at Harold Washington City College, and her night class had just finished. She carried a heavy backpack; she always took every assigned book to every class. Her notebooks were filled with nearly every word out of her teachers’ mouths, and color-coded with neon highlighters. Post-it notes stuck out of the pages like some kind of medieval defensive castle architecture. She never missed a class.

She knew that some of her classmates whispered among themselves, wondering if she had some kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder. She didn’t care.

She slipped her card through the automated gate in the subway station and pushed on through. It was late, and no one was in the booth. She went down another flight of stairs. The escalator that rolled upstairs was frozen. It had been broken for almost two weeks.

She walked to the center of the station and sat on a bench, taking off her backpack and sinking gratefully against the wall. She was exhausted, but kept her eyes open. This time of night, it was better to sit where you could see anyone approaching you. The Balbo and Roosevelt subway stations were the end of the line for the whites, and the beginning of the line for a lot of blacks. This borderland effect could sometimes lead to trouble.

Anybody who said that Chicago wasn’t segregated wasn’t paying attention, or they were full of horse manure. They’d never ridden the Red Line south of Jackson, that was for sure.

Another reason her backpack was so heavy was because LaRissa carried her cousin’s U-shaped bike lock in the outside pouch. And it wasn’t just for looks. She had no problem jerking it out and using it if any fool was dumb enough to try and mess with a studious black girl. Tonight, though, was quiet. She thought for a moment about whether she could take out her biology homework, and thought tonight it might be okay. Sometimes she worried if she looked vulnerable if someone saw her with her face in a book. Since most of the shooting and problems took place when the weather turned much hotter, she thought it would be okay. She wanted to get a head start on her homework.

She did not put in her earbuds. She wanted to keep her ears wide open, and looked up from the text often to make sure she was alone. She did not, however, check under the bench.

The bugs came bubbling through the cracks where the concrete floor met the tiled wall like clotted oil escaping from a pressurized pipe. They had smelled her breath from inside the wall, and it was nearing time for another molt. Obeying an instinct older than man itself, they surged up the wall, looking for a chance to feed. Their excitement released pheromones that signaled a food source, and more bugs flooded to the surface.

LaRissa scratched her ear absentmindedly. She couldn’t wrap her head around how these protein chains were supposed to function, but her report was due next week, and she would just as soon start stripping than wait until the last minute to start the paper.

By the time she looked back down at the book, it was too late.

The bugs were already flowing up her legs like some sticky, viscous liquid. They poured over her shoulders from the wall, slipping inside her collar. She screamed then, and her cry bounced off the concrete and tile of the subway station, but no one heard except the rats.

She jerked to her feet, hands flailing at the bugs, but it was like trying to swat snowflakes away in a blizzard. Her backpack fell on the concrete with a thud. She spun, slapping her chest, her neck, her hair. The bugs were everywhere.

LaRissa stumbled forward, feeling them invade her mouth as she kept screaming. The momentum carried her to the edge of the platform. Bugs crawled up into her nose, across her eye sockets, tiny legs struggling to find purchase on the slick surface of her eyeballs.

She kept spinning, flailing, until her left foot stepped off into space and she tumbled over the edge. She landed facedown, arms outstretched. Her right hand flopped against the third rail. Electricity rocketed through her, jerking and sizzling her small frame.

The lights in the subway station dimmed for a moment, then returned to normal.

Smoke curled gently from the body. The bugs that had survived the electricity dropped off and shuffled away, not liking the taste of cooked blood. The rats however, did not mind, and started gnawing at the body.

They had eaten most of her face and torn into her stomach, dragging her entrails across the wooden cross ties between the steel tracks when the next southbound train roared into the station. The driver was half asleep, and did not spot the body on the tracks until it was too late. He hit the brakes, but the train’s momentum carried it across LaRissa’s corpse. Over the scream of the brakes, he felt, rather than heard, the wet crunch that split the body into five pieces. He stared at a single drop of blood on the window and trembled for a moment, then vomited over the controls.

Within half an hour, the station was full of emergency personnel, cops, and equipment. The light and noise drove the bugs back into the darkness, back into the cracks in the wall, until it was as if they had never existed.

 

Qween Dorothy moved her great bulk ponderously up the sidewalk, using her shopping cart to split the relentless waves of people that flooded downtown at lunchtime. The bloom had worn off of summer, and now people wanted to get out, grab food, and retreat back into their air-conditioned offices as quickly as possible. The sticky heat even had people thinking back wistfully to the chill of winter.

Something moved in a canvas bag atop her cart.

Head down, she stared out at the scurrying workers through heavy-lidded eyes. They all seemed to be moving at accelerated speeds, like one of those chase scenes in old movies where the characters are all moving in fast motion. Sometimes, if she’d had enough gin, and she was feeling low enough, she wondered if somehow she inhabited a slightly different time and space than the rest of humanity. She lived in a world where time moved a half second slower, and her atoms vibrated to a slightly different rhythm, rendering her invisible to everyone that surrounded her.

But that was just pure foolishness, she would scold herself the next day. She had enough troubles and she didn’t need to be adding bullshit science fiction yammering to her load. She sure as hell didn’t want to end up like the babbling head cases that wandered along Lower Wacker, gibbering wildly and pointing to empty spaces in the air.

No, sir. Qween Dorothy might be a lot of things, like homeless, an unrepentant alcoholic, and a firm believer in Jesus Christ, but there was nothing wrong with her mental faculties, thank you very much.

Everybody went through bad times. You endure them. Got no other choice. ’Cause things will get better eventually. Just like the old blues songs said.

For the most part, she was quite content. She had freedom. Lot of folks couldn’t say that. A clock told them where to be and when. Always rushing somewhere. She’d been in a few places where the people always pooh-poohed her ideas on being able to sit outside and breathe the fresh air. Those were the same people who assumed she wanted a damn bath. Even though Dorothy tried her best to follow the words of Christ, these people tried to shove their own version of religion down her throat. And of course, those were the same people who tried to take her bottles of gin away.

No, thank you.

No,
fucking
thank you.

The humid summers didn’t bother her. She knew places to stay where the wind cooled her in the summer and where it was warm in the winter, places where skyscrapers vented billowing clouds of tropical heat. The rest of the time, the world was hers. And she had her friends, some in the regular world of nine-to-five jobs, mortgages, and clocks, and some who had fallen or jumped through the cracks and ended up living on the other side of that regular world.

The canvas bag moved again. It twitched.

Nobody noticed. Qween Dorothy knew it wasn’t because she was invisible, as reassuring as that might be. The uncomfortable, real reason was that people simply didn’t want to see her. Their gaze slid around her and her cart like oil over a light bulb.

She pushed her cart across Washington, ignoring the light. Brakes squealed and horns split the air. She paid little attention to all the racket. The last time a cab driver had gotten impatient and nudged her cart with his taxi, knocking it over and spilling her possessions into the street, she’d hauled the little bastard out of the car and kicked him until she got too tired.

Most of the homeless in the Loop didn’t bother with a cart. It was easier to just leave their stuff under whatever ledge or overpass they’d claimed; pushing a cart across the wildly uneven asphalt and concrete of downtown was too much work. At least, this was the tendency of the folks that were truly homeless.

The Loop was also flooded with imposters jangling paper coffee and soda cups at passersby, pretending to be destitute, but they actually had a hot meal, a soft bed, and a family waiting for them after a day of panhandling in the streets. She didn’t have much patience for the pretenders.

The frauds had learned the hard way to avoid Qween Dorothy at all costs.

She continued north on Clark, and the sidewalk that bordered City Hall grew wider. The crowds grew thinner. She left her cart near the revolving doors and unscrewed the bolts that secured the back wheels to the frame. She didn’t like to leave it out on the street if she could help it, and taking off the hockey-puck-sized wheels seemed to deter most thieves. Without the wheels, to move the cart, you had to damn near carry the whole thing. You couldn’t easily grab anything inside either. Everything was wrapped in two separate tarps and anchored with ropes and bungee cords. She told herself not to get her hopes up and tucked the wheels into her cloak.

She adjusted her plastic Viking helmet, grabbed the twitching canvas bag, and went into City Hall.

Qween Dorothy knew the eyes of the two policemen at the metal detectors, not to mention the cameras, were locked on her as soon as she pushed through the spinning doors into the cool darkness. The younger cop looked like he’d just as soon club her and dump her ass back on the street. She’d seen the older one before. He’d been patient with her requests, and even if his eyes betrayed his bemusement, at least he kept a patronizing tone out of his voice.

The corridor was crowded. City employees, young couples searching for the County Clerk for marriage licenses, a few listless protesters, and self important politicians who tried to look busy while casting glances around to see if anybody recognized them, clogged the metal detectors. She ignored everyone except the two cops and stepped up to the desk, surreptitiously depositing the bag on the floor, between her feet and desk.

“Afternoon, Qween,” the older one said.

She clasped her hands and smiled. Without the cloak, the horns, and the All Stars, she might have been a kindly old lady on her way home from church. “Good afternoon”—she squinted—“Officer Nabor.”

“What can we help you with today, Qween?”

“Well, sir, I’ll tell you. You folks know me. You know I been here a long time. Seen lots a things. I’m telling you right now, there’s some bad things going on.”

“Bad things, Qween? Like last time, maybe the time before? When you were yelling about the city?”

Qween frowned. “I be lett—I
was
letting off some steam then.” She found her smile. “Punks be stealing from me, moving into my spot. Fuck—
messing
with me. I was down here trying to get the city to do something different then.”

Officer Nabor knew this. Today he understood Qween Dorothy was trying very, very hard to be polite. “Okay. So what’s different today?”

“Rats are dying, Officer Nabor.”

The young cop snorted.

“And this is a problem . . . how again?” Officer Nabor said.

Qween tried to be patient. “Have you seen the river? I counted fourteen dead rats in it. Last week I saw over twenty-five in one day.”

“Okay.” It was almost a question.

“When’s the last time you saw that many dead rats? Where you been? Ain’t you seen the subways?”

“We drive to work,” the young cop said. “Free parking.”

“You need to go down there. See for yourselves what’s happening.”

Officer Nabor leaned on the desk. “I’m sorry, Qween, but I’m just not following you. Dead rats. So what?”

She stared at him for a moment. “If you ain’t never seen this many dead rats before, why you suppose they be dying now? What you suppose is going on under this city?”

Officer Nabor shrugged.

“It’s like a warning. A sign. I dunno, gotta be some scientific name for it.”

“You mean like a portent?”

She considered this. “Maybe,” she said slowly. It was hard to tell if he was mocking her or not. If she couldn’t get them to understand that something was dead wrong, she wasn’t sure how to convince them. The suspicion was creeping back. She’d come in here, trying to get the Man to listen. She should have known better. She realized she was being stupid. Must have been drunker than she thought earlier in the morning. The peace was beginning to wear off. Without thinking, she touched the side of her cloak, just enough to brush the bottle inside her down vest, just enough to double-check it was still there.

Both officers saw the change in her face. It was like watching the side of an iceberg slough off. It started in almost slow motion, then caught speed, until gravity took over completely. The kindly old woman on her way home from church was gone. Qween Dorothy’s street face was back with a vengeance. She tried to smile again, and the effect was chilling. This time the young cop touched his canister of pepper spray much the same way Qween had reassured herself.

“If you two dumbass dog dicks ain’t smart enough to see that I be trying to
help
y’all, that ain’t my problem. I got me a meeting with the mayor.” She wrapped the cord that tied the bag shut around her wrist and moved briskly for the elevators.

The cops were in front of her in a heartbeat. Officer Nabor had his hands up, palms out, still trying to resolve things amicably.

“Now, Qween, let’s not take this too far,” Officer Nabor said. “The mayor’s a very busy man, and I don’t think they’re gonna fit you into his schedule. I’m sorry, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Well, I know what to tell
you
. You get the fuck outta my way.”

“We can’t do that, Qween. You know that.” He moved to take her by the arm. “Let me help you back outside, get you on your way.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ touch me.” She jerked her arm back, dragging the bag with it.

“What’s in the bag, Qween?” Officer Nabor asked. “Please tell me you don’t have a rat in there. You can’t bring that in here. Rats carry disease.”

“No shit, you dumbass cracker.”

The younger cop pulled the pepper spray loose, anxious to try it out.

By now, the confrontation had attracted a crowd. Behind Officer Nabor and his young partner, Qween could see more cops coming out of the elevator, no doubt sent by whoever was keeping an eye on the cameras. They were never going to listen. She hadn’t really believed that she would have gotten in to see the mayor, but she had hoped that someone would have at least written her complaint down.

Well, if they weren’t going to listen, then she was going to have to get their attention another way. She pulled the cord free in one smooth motion, and dumped the rat on the floor.

The young cop didn’t hesitate. He brought up the pepper spray, and blasted Qween in the face. She stumbled back, and the cop stayed with her, arm extended, spray canister still inches from her face.

At her feet, the rat was still alive. It blinked and shuddered, confused in the sudden light. Officer Nabor jumped back, exhaling harshly. “Whoa, whoa there.” The rat took off, scurrying into the shadows under the benches that lined the walls. Everyone screamed and scattered.

The young guard took his eyes off Qween for a half second to watch the rat get away, and Qween whipped her left arm over the cop’s, trapping it in the long cloak. She drew back her right fist, fingers tight over the shopping-cart wheels, and clocked him square on the jaw. He tried to pull away, but she still had her cloak wrapped around his extended arm. She hit him again. His knees buckled.

Officer Nabor turned from the rat and tried to separate the old woman from his partner. By now, the rest of the cops had reached them, and together, they pulled Qween off the young cop.

Three men wrestled her to the floor. As she lay panting under their weight, she turned her head, feeling the cool marble against her cheek, and saw the rat, down at the far end of the hall, scuttle down the escalator and vanish.