With Dr. Anders’ help we learned almost all bodily fluids could transmit the disease. The parasite can survive in any liquid medium in the human body, except urine. We began saving piss in large containers, and used it to wash down anything a grin came in contact with. It was too late to save Jillian, but that knowledge would save others. I tried to take some comfort in that.
Once parasites enter the skin it takes them only a few minutes to reach the brain, where they begin interfering with motor functions and take over a body that becomes nothing but a breeding ground and a delivery system to nurture the parasites and spread them to other hosts.
The parasite multiplies, and drives the host to bite or tear at the skin of other suitable hosts. Then the grin bleeds, vomits or spits into wounds to pass on the parasite. Unlike the zombies or scary movies grins do not eat the living, they just… ravage them. An open wound is a better medium for transmission, of the parasites, the closer to the brain the better, so grins will tear at faces and throats.
A telltale sign of infection is a rictus smile. The disease is called the happy bug or smiling sickness. The life span of the infected is unknown, but it is thought the parasites feed on their hosts slowly, creating a desiccated corpse-like creature that can still be mobile and dangerous for a time depending on the physical fitness of the grin at the time of infection.
The infected are not zombies in the traditional sense. They are deranged, their higher brain functions destroyed by the parasites that guide them. The parasites also carry unidentified bacteria that cause a host of diseases, including something similar to leprosy, killing the nerves and making the grins nearly invulnerable to pain. Real zombies, if they existed, would decay after a month and be no threat. The grins are alive and hungry. They are not immortal, but while they live, they are a constant danger.
The parasites were first transmitted by the common housefly. The flies are immune because they build immunity as larvae.
Renfield ate maggots. I was eaten by them, or at least the diseased and possibly gangrenous flesh of my facial wound was after I was attacked by the grin on the Golden Gate Bridge. Both of us were immune.
What our group needed now was a doctor or a biologist, anyone who could help us work on a cure, because there was one waiting to be discovered.
I took Jillian’s body down Market Street and across Justin Herman Plaza to the Ferry Building. She was wrapped in plastic, and a clean white sheet. I slipped her into the bay and a current carried her away from me. I wanted to do it alone. Benjamin and Randall came with me.
We killed two grins on the way there and five on the way back. Most of them were older, and in bad health, even for the infected. One was a child, a little boy of about ten years old. His upper lip was crusted with snot and the mange-like itch had driven him to rub a raw red hole through his t shirt and the flesh over his collarbone. His hands were bigger than they should have been, and his fingernails were hard claws.
When he saw our obvious distress Randall said, “I’ve got this one.” We walked past the thing that was once a little boy and heard Randall behind us, beating it to death with a steel pry bar.
When we got back to the Palace Hotel, Kalife Montagne was standing in the lobby and screaming at Rose Lubisch, a slender brunette who was hugely pregnant. He was a huge black guy with a gold grill, and he towered over her.
“You stupit fuckin bitch, how could you go and get knocked up? You know how much trade I’m gonna lose when that pussy’s out of commission? I got a good mind to slap the—”
He didn’t get to finish. I slammed the flat on my sword into the back of his head and he went down. While people I knew and many I’d not yet gotten to know stood and watched, I grabbed one of Montagne’s wrists and dragged him out onto the street. He didn’t fight back; he only recoiled in horror as I shoved him outside. My face had that effect on a lot of people. I came back into the hotel and locked the door.
“That man doesn’t come back in here,” I said, to anyone listening.
Rose looked terrified.
“Everything is going to be fine,” I said.
The next day we heard a commotion in the street outside the barricaded doors. Certain rooms and suites had been designated lookouts. I went up to a first floor room with Benjamin and looked down into the street. Montagne was there, with a group of people who looked like the troublesome rabble you only see in bad movies. These people were filthy, some injured, some deranged, some angry, angry at us, safe inside the Palace, or angry at the world in general. The crowd was only about thirty people, but they looked like hard cases, people who had been surviving all this time under conditions far rougher than life inside the hotel.
Thirty against one hundred may not sound like much of a challenge, but most of our numbers were children or adults who were not fighters. They were office clerks and waiters and website designers.
One man stepped forward and the others watched him with reverence. It was Haise. He was no longer dressed like a cop.
“Open the doors and let us in,” he shouted. “We deserve to be protected too.”
“We have rules here,” I shouted back. “If you abide by them, you are welcome to stay. We help each other. We share with each other. We—”
“We’ll take whatever we want,” Haise said, his face darkening with rage. “Let us in or we’ll find a way in!”
There wasn’t much chance of that. We had reinforced all the doors and ground-floor windows, and most windows had large signs on them reading Attempts to enter will be met with Deadly Force. No one was getting into the fortress of the Palace unless we wanted them to.
After a few hours the crowd moved on. We had no idea that Haise already had a plan of attack in place.
Renfield was spending almost all of his time on the roof now. As another day drew to a close and the evening air grew cool he stood and took a few paces away from a folding chair and a small worktable. His wrists and fingers were stiff from hours of sending code and writing down replies. He walked, stretching his legs and loosening the kink in his back, turning when he heard a muffled thud near the edge of the roof.
There was nothing there.
It had been a week since Haise and his mob had made their threats, long enough for any worries to seem unfounded.
Renfield heard voices and wondered if they were coming from the street. He walked over to the Market Street side of the roof and looked over the edge. The silent street was still filled with cars.
To Renfield’s left were narrow Annie Street, and a building that housed stores on the ground floor and offices above. The building across the single lane of Annie Street was a few stories higher than the Palace Hotel.
He went back to his seat. He sent another message. He received another message. He read what he had just written down, and stared at his radio in disbelief. He sent another message asking if what he had received was true.
He read the reply and stood, fighting panic.
Renfield looked up just as a body was flung into the air, the arms slowly flailing as it soared over the gap of Annie Street and slammed face first onto the roof of the Palace Hotel. He looked up from the body in time to see a loop of material, some kind of cord, hanging over the edge of the building next door. The silhouettes of two men appeared as the cord was pulled up and out of sight.
Renfield moved closer to the unmoving body lying near his work area. He used one outstretched foot to roll the body over and saw a ravaged face. It was one of the infected. His body tensed and he was about to run, when he saw the angle of the shattered neck and the thick dark blood oozing from the nose and mouth. The grin was dead.