Текст книги "Sleep Tight"

Автор книги: Jeff Jacobson

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

CHAPTER 58

12:39 PM

August 14

“That’s not the suit you’re wearing tonight, I hope.” Phil’s first words.

“No. It’s the suit I’m wearing right now,” Lee said. “The good ones are at the office.” Phil’s condescending attitude was getting tougher to swallow. “Never thought you’d be worrying about men’s fashion.”

“This might be the most important press conference of our lives. I’m worrying about everything.”

Bryan accelerated and shot down the side street to Upper Wacker. Phil explained, “All the interior roads are blocked. Right now, the only streets open to get into the Loop are Clark and Congress.”

“Shit. These people are serious.”

“You have no fucking idea.”

Bryan turned left on Clark, where they were met by staggered walls of sandbags and four soldiers, all carrying assault rifles and wearing surgical masks. They inspected Phil’s ID and checked their list. They came back and looked at Lee’s ID as well as Bryan’s. It must have checked out, because the soldiers waved them through.

“So listen, please, no jokes, okay? Don’t try to be funny,” Phil said.

“Why not? Nothing wrong with my sense of humor.” Lee tried to dismiss the whole thing.

Phil shook his head. “Absolutely not. Even those dago pricks only laugh to be polite, and they laugh at everything. You? You’re about as funny as a case of the clap.”

Bryan weaved through the sandbags and followed Clark down to City Hall. Lee glanced at the open plaza to the left, by the Daley Center, and was astonished to see that the giant Picasso sculpture was gone. He finally spotted it, lying on its side in the intersection of Dearborn and Washington, acting as a kind of barricade.

Phil caught his stunned expression and said, “They took it down because they wanted room to land the helicopters.”

Lee actually liked the sculpture, the way it had some sort of invisible tether to the heavens, as if it was some sort of pet from someone above. Lee thought it was a bad omen, this desecration of a Chicago landmark. But Phil was pissing him off, so Lee didn’t say anything. Bryan dropped them off in front of City Hall on the Cook County side. More soldiers checked their IDs once again.

Inside, they were directed upstairs to a large briefing room. The room had been built like an amphitheater, with descending rows of seats and tables curving around a central stage. A soldier directed Lee and Phil to one of the smooth tables with low lamps near the back. Some high-ranking official was down in the center, using a laser pointer to highlight areas of maps of the Loop and the subway system projected on the screens behind him.

The official, some major or general or something—Lee wasn’t too clear on these things—was laying out plans in a dry, almost disinterested tone. He was tall, with dark, vigorous eyebrows that didn’t match the gray, lifeless hair that had been cut close to his scalp. “Phase two is nearly complete, a total relocation of civilians to a neutral zone where they can be properly examined before being released into the public at large. Phase three preliminaries are complete and are ready to implement immediately. As we proceed with these two phases, phase four and five are being prepped.” He gestured at the map. “Every bridge, with the sole exception of the Congress Street Bridge, has been raised. The river has been irradiated with a compound that will . . . inhibit life.”

The officer traced the boundaries of the quarantine zone with his laser pointer. “The subway tunnels have been neutralized.” Lee figured this was code for blowing the shit out of the things. He sniggered.

Phil refused to look at him.

Lee got the hint. Play along. Don’t make waves. And above all, don’t draw any attention to yourself. Fine. Lee decided to play along. For now.

“To repeat, every bridge has been raised, except for Congress, and that will be raised within the hour. The river has been treated. No rat will survive the swim. And here”—the red dot swept along Roosevelt Avenue—“a continuous firebreak has been established, stretching from the Chicago River to Lake Shore Drive. We have squads spread out along Roosevelt Avenue, equipped with both .50 caliber firepower and flamethrowers.” He checked his watch. “In less than thirty minutes, the only access to downtown Chicago, in or out, will be restricted to this one lane of Lake Shore Drive.” The red dot seared into a spot just to the left of the Field Museum.

Some other senior official asked, “What about the lakefront?”

The major or general or whatever smiled. “The CDC has informed us that a cutting-edge medical and military vessel will be in place in the next several hours. Until then, the Coast Guard has agreed to help patrol the waters.” He surveyed his audience. “Trust me, gentlemen. Nothing, absolutely nothing, can escape the quarantine zone. This city will be locked down tighter than Fort Knox.”

He turned back to the map. “We are directing most of our forces down into the Blue Line subway stations, specifically Jackson Street Station. Platoons are gaining access to the underground through the post office and the Monadnock building. They will be spreading throughout the tunnels, forming an offensive that will be dispersing both fire and a lethal pesticide. This will provide an effective foundation, killing any infected rats, as well as any and all bugs with vapor chemicals that will reach into any crevice, any crack, any place where the bugs hide, and kill them.”

He added as an afterthought, “And if it is deemed necessary, the solution within the Chicago River can be set on fire.”

The speech had risen to a crescendo, and if this had been a political platform, that would be the cue to leap to your feet and start clapping like crazy. But since this was the military, the speaker took comfort in the total silence. He waited just as long as it would have taken for the applause to die down, and said, “Squads are currently conducting building-to-building searches, but this process takes time and manpower. Both of which we are in sore need of, I don’t need to remind you.”

Then he got into some math and started using words like, “kill ratio” and “projected casualties” and “dispersal rate” and Lee, too familiar with boring fucking governmental meetings, tuned him out immediately. Since his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he took stock of the room.

Every emergency department in the city was there, along with soldiers. Damn near everybody was taking copious notes. The general, or whatever the hell he was up front, finally finished coordinating the underground sweeps with, “Remember, flush ’em out, get ’em up to the surface, where the burn crews will flash-fire ’em. Any questions?”

Phil gave Lee a sour look, as if telling him to keep quiet.

“Right, then,” the general or whatever said. “You all have your assignments. I suggest you don’t waste any time moving into position. This operation will start precisely at fifteen hundred hours. No exceptions, gentlemen.”

The soldiers at all of the low tables gathered their notes and guns and filed out, leaving Lee and Phil alone with the projected maps of the Loop. Even the general left. Lee’s patience lasted almost fifteen seconds. “Okay. Now what? Where the fuck is this guy?”

A cold, deliberate voice came from behind them, deep in the shadows of one of the alcoves that dotted the wall. “I wanted to say . . . thank you, for your cooperation in detaining two of your employees.”

Lee whipped his head around to find Dr. Reischtal. The doctor’s tiny glasses caught the reflection of the maps down in front and gave him the appearance of eyes that flashed with white fire. He was wearing an orange hazmat suit, and even though he didn’t have the face mask covering his head, the outfit still made Lee nervous.

“Sure. Anytime,” Lee said. “How, uh, can we help you?”

“I understand you are the man to speak with, if you have . . . special needs. Mr. Shea here”—Dr. Reischtal indicated Phil—“has kindly offered to further our business arrangement, by admitting that you, his nephew no less, are in a rarefied position to help government employees such as myself find quiet places to store some of the unpleasant consequences of my job description.”

“Maybe,” Lee said.

“Then perhaps you might be of some assistance. For the right price, of course. I have already negotiated a most generous donation to your reelection fund with your uncle, so if you are unhappy with your share, you can take it up with him.”

Phil started nodding his head when Dr. Reischtal mentioned the fund, making a circle with his thumb and forefinger in the universal sign of “okay.” He shook his head when Dr. Reischtal said the word “unhappy.”

Lee nodded.

Dr. Reischtal stood quite still. “I have heard of a quiet, private disposal site under the downtown area.”

“Maybe.”

“I have heard that this space is accessible by eighteen-wheeled semi trailer trucks. It is my understanding that you know of a route that could provide access.”

“I know of all kinds of dump sites. What I need to know is what you’re dumping.”

“I shall require access to this site.”

“You haven’t answered the question.”

“Perhaps your uncle can satisfy your curiosity.”

Lee didn’t look at Phil. “That’s not his job. You want to go under downtown, that’s my job.” Lee finally figured it out. “Okay. Okay. Maybe you could give me a better idea of what we’re dealing with here.”

“I don’t see how that should concern you.”

“If I’m deciding where to put something, I need to know some details. Like, how many?”

“How many . . . what?”

“How many trucks? How many loads? Three? Four? Five? Are you going to need special equipment to deliver the troublesome cargo? Or is it something that a couple of guys can manage? I need to know how much, you understand. Things like, is the product biodegradable? Would it benefit from close proximity to say, corrosive chemicals, which failed to find their way out of the city?”

“Perhaps as little as five. Perhaps as many as twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five what?”

“Twenty-five tanker trucks.”

Lee was impressed. “Whoa. Twenty-five loads. Shit. Okay. How long are you going to spread it out? You know, most of these guys, they drop off a load in February, maybe another in March. How do you want to space things out?”

“This will be a one time trip. Twenty-five trucks. Together.” Dr. Reischtal turned to the door. “Spaced around and under downtown Chicago.”

Lee thought of the long tunnel and the explosion. “When?”

“Perhaps days. Perhaps hours.”

Phil waved Lee over. He grasped Lee’s shoulder and bent him close. “Listen to me very carefully. You want to take what he’s offering. Please.”

Lee said, “If this asshole wants to come on my home turf here—”

“Shut up for five seconds and listen. If you want to have any kind of career at this at all, for the love of Christ shut the fuck up and listen.”

Lee swallowed his next sentence.

Phil tapped his chest. “It’s an easy choice. You handle this right, and by God, in ten years, you’re gonna be fucking president.”

The sheriff’s department would only provide three buses. No more.

“Fuck me,” Sam said and spit his gum into the gutter. He’d gone out to check everything out, just to make sure that they wouldn’t be putting federal prisoners on any kind of transport that might prove to be unstable and problematic. He stood at the curb as the three buses drove the wrong way down Clark and lined up along the curb. “Where’s the rest?” he asked the first driver.

The driver shrugged. “All I know is they sent me here. You got a problem, call the sheriff. I drive the bus. That’s all.”

The two other drivers all said the same thing. Sam pulled out his cell and called Ed. “Hate to say it, but this is gonna be all we got.”

Ed, watching the buses on closed circuit video monitors inside the main office, said, “Looks like we got the short end of the stick. Hold tight for a minute. I’ll call Arturo, see if I can’t get some answers.”

Sam didn’t bother to answer. He relayed the message to the drivers, who all sat snug ensconced inside a bulletproof plastic cocoon. This way, if the prisoners ever managed to gain the upper hand over the guards, they couldn’t reach the bus drivers. When Sam delivered the news, each of the three drivers shrugged and shook out a folded newspaper over the giant steering wheel, settling down for a long wait. These guys didn’t give two shits about the situation. The union only said they had to drive the bus, and nothing else.

Sam’s phone rang. It was Ed. Sam answered with, “Any luck?”

“Arturo isn’t answering his phone. So I called the sheriff’s office. Turns out the boys from the CDC have commandeered a number of prisoner buses. Won’t say why. Just that the buses aren’t available. When I pressed the issue, they told me, strictly off the record of course, that the CDC and FEMA and god knows who else had already commandeered the rest of the prisoner transfer buses in Cook County. Sounded to me like they’re anticipating some trouble in the evacuation. Either way, we got three buses, so we’re gonna have to do this in shifts.”

“Figures. Same old story. No help from anybody.”

“You got it, brother. Sit tight out there, and I’ll figure out who gets to ride the first merry-go-round.”

Sam didn’t bother to relay the message to the bus drivers. He didn’t want to interrupt their reading. He wandered over to one of the empty benches, sat down, closed his eyes, and turned his face to the hazy sun for a few minutes. He wished he’d brought his flask along, but he’d left it in the car.

He wondered if he could sleep if he stretched out on the warm bench. If he could just close his eyes for a while, he could pretend that the soldiers behind him, busy setting up more roadblocks along Van Buren, were actually El trains clattering along the tracks. He knew deep down that it wouldn’t work. The sound of the El trains screeching around corners and rumbling into stations was unique, and in that absence, he could never shake the feeling that armed soldiers now patrolled his city.

And so he would never be able to fall asleep.

Not until this was finished, one way or another.

CHAPTER 59

12:39 PM

August 14

Qween and Dr. Menard picked their way through a sub-basement full of old conference chairs, outdated copy machines, and plenty of cobwebs. On the far wall, Qween found a large panel with three long lines scratched in the metal. At first glance, it looked as if it was just regular wear and tear, but if you cocked your head just right, the three scratches eventually arranged themselves into a ragged capital H. Qween pulled it away from the wall, revealing a large vertical air duct. “Old Henry told me about this place. He holes up back here when it gets too cold.”

Dr. Menard peered down into the absolute darkness and sighed. “I don’t know if I’ll fit.”

Qween snorted. “If I can fit, you can fit. I’ll go first, ya big baby.” It was old enough and big enough that she fit without straining too much, using her butt and knees to slow her descent. She looked up at Dr. Menard’s silhouette, framed within a square of dusty light. “Almost there, Doc. Your hospital is on the other side of this wall. You want in quiet, this is how we get there.”

Dr. Menard didn’t say anything, but he climbed inside, blocking the light. She heard him coming down in a shuffling slide. Ten feet down, Qween hit the bottom of the shaft. It stretched away on both sides. She called up, “Head to your left when you get down here.”

She crawled along until a hazy blob of faint light appeared. The light sharpened into a square of horizontal strips as Qween got closer. She pressed her face against the grill, looking at another large, forgotten, filthy storage room, full of discarded furniture, outdated technology, and boxes full of mold.

Something was different about this one, though. It almost looked as if a flood had been flash frozen as it tore through the room, the murky water solidified midsurge. The edges clung to the corners and under conference room tables, and the shadows collected and pooled in the dim light.

She dug around in her cloak and found a tiny flashlight. She clicked it on.

Dr. Menard’s voice was half-surprised, half irritated. “You’ve had a flashlight this whole time and didn’t use it?”

Qween said, “You’re a smart man. Woulda thought you’d know these take batteries. They ain’t free and they ain’t cheap. Ain’t gonna use ’em up when I don’t need to.” She aimed the light down at the material, but still couldn’t figure out what it was. It almost looked like black sand had collected in drifts over the years. She got impatient and gave the grill a solid thump with the bottom of her fist, knocking it out of the way. It hit something hard directly under the airshaft, bounced off into the center of the room, landing in the drifts with a soft thump, sending a cloud of the stuff flying into the air. The debris settled fairly quickly, and Qween decided it wasn’t dust. Too heavy.

She stuck her head out and saw they had gotten lucky; a table had been shoved against the wall directly under the airshaft. She rotated her body and stuck her feet out first, then lowered herself to the table. She kept her flashlight on the whole time, watching to make sure that whatever the material was, it wasn’t moving.

One wild thought kept bouncing around her head, and although she dismissed it as being too ridiculous, it kept coming back. She was worried that they’d stumbled into a nest of those damn bugs, but there was no way that many bugs would clump together in one place like this. No way. So she flicked the light around the mounds of what looked like rich black soil. But she knew it wasn’t dirt. The particles were a touch too large for one thing, and the other was that they were flat, and lacked the way soil crumbled when it fell apart. It wasn’t clay, or mud.

Dr. Menard climbed out of the airshaft and sneezed.

Qween got down and leaned over the edge of the table. She held the flashlight close to a stagnant wave of the substance. It wasn’t exactly black; that was just the lack of light in the sub-basement. Up close, the stuff was a dark reddish-brown, and in some spots, almost translucent. Whatever it was, it wasn’t alive. She reached out to touch it; most of it crumbled to dust under her fingers. She cupped her hand, and brought a sample up so they could get a better look.

“Any ideas, Doc?”

“I don’t . . .” Dr. Menard trailed off. He pinched some of the stuff between his thumb and forefinger, taking the flashlight from her hand and holding the lens an inch away. The substance reminded Qween of fish scales for some reason.

“Oh good Christ,” Dr. Menard whispered. “It’s all the shells, it’s their exoskeletons. These bedbugs, they molt. Five times, if I can remember it correctly. And this . . .” The flashlight swept the room. The dark material was a least two feet deep, sometimes higher near the walls and some of the furniture. “This is what is left, when . . . when they . . .”

“When they shuck they skin,” Qween finished for him.

Dr. Menard’s eyes raced around the huge room. “This city has got a bigger problem than anyone realizes. There’s nothing on record.... I don’t think there’s anything that indicates . . . There’s gotta be . . . millions of exoskeletons here. Billions.” He swallowed. “If these things carry that virus, we are all in such big trouble.”

“I don’t have no fancy degree or anything, but I coulda told you that. So let’s get moving.” She slid off the table into the drifts of the shells of dead bugs. They came up to her knees. It felt like when she was a little girl, playing in an old silo full of wheat chaff. “We ain’t going back the way we came, ’less you can climb up that air shaft.”

Dr. Menard tucked the bottoms of his pants into his socks, then retied his shoes as tight as possible. “If we can’t get back out this way, how were you planning on getting out?” He pushed off the table into the dry swamp, feet disappearing from view as they slid through all those tiny exoskeletons.

Qween gave a dry, rasping laugh. “Shit. Never promised you a way to get out. Just a way to get inside. Once we’re in there, it’s your call. Figured you’d have an idea.” She waded through the drifts, heading for the door.

“I’m not coming back this way, I can tell you that much,” Dr. Menard said.

“What you worried about? Ain’t nothing here but a bunch of old shells. Shit, you oughta see what’s left after a crawfish boil on Maxwell Street. Now there, there’s a mess. This? This ain’t gonna slow us down. This is just a billion crunchy ghosts is all.”