“Well, you called it,” Patel said, as the Channel Seven anchor moved on to cover the effects of roughly half the work force not showing up, either because they were sick or trying to avoid being sick.
“A few fights over bottled water?” Dreyfus snorted. “This is nothing. Tomorrow there could be ten thousand dead, and the next day ten times that. We’re going to see full-blown riots soon. He’s going to have to declare martial law.”
“This is a hell of a thing,” Patel murmured. “Hey, speak of the devil.”
The screen showed Mayor House dodging questions outside of City Hall. He was wearing some sort of filter over his mouth and nose.
“Son of a bitch,” Dreyfus said.
“Can’t say as I blame him,” Patel said. “The stores are sold out of those, too.”
“Yeah,” Dreyfus said. “But it gives me an idea.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Have my car brought up.”
“Where are you going?”
“To a hospital.”
As he approached St. Francis Memorial Hospital, Dreyfus saw that the police were manning traffic barriers about a block away. When his car approached the roadblock, Dreyfus rolled his window down. The officer recognized him.
“We’ve got sort of a situation here, sir,” he said. “I’m not supposed to let you through.”
“Who is in charge here, son?” he asked.
“Captain Paterno, sir.”
“Could you give Charlie a call and see if he’ll let me in?”
“Yes, sir.” He stepped away to his car. After a moment he returned.
“Go on through, sir,” he said, gesturing. “You’ll find the captain two blocks over.” He paused. “You’ll have to leave your car here.”
“That’s fine,” Dreyfus said. He pulled the car to the curb.
The “situation” turned out to be a mob of people clustered around the emergency entrance. Police had cleared a space back from the entry, and the people nearest the front were pleading with them. Some were screaming.
He found Captain Paterno leaning against his car. He was almost a decade younger than Dreyfus, but they had worked together briefly before Dreyfus made detective. The cop looked as if he might have picked up a pound or two, but he was still relatively lean.
“Hey, Charlie,” Dreyfus said.
“Chief,” Paterno said, holding out a hand, and then he looked sheepish. “Sorry,” he said, “force of habit.” He paused. “Wish you were still the chief, though.”
“That’s very kind of you to say,” Dreyfus said, clasping Paterno’s hand. He nodded at the mob. “How long has this been going on?”
“No more than an hour,” Paterno said. “It was one of those flash crowds, or something. Like everyone suddenly had the same idea.”
“They’re all sick?”
“Some of them are just demanding antibiotics. You know, we’ve had about two dozen drugstore robberies this morning. They skipped over the usual painkillers and such, and went straight to the antibiotics.”
“Yeah, of course,” Dreyfus said. “They’re probably worth more than cocaine right now.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw that some of the press had noticed him, and a camera crew was headed his way.
“Hold the fort, Charlie,” he said. “This could get ugly real fast. I’m not the chief anymore, but if you want my advice, you’ll need more men here.”
“I’ve asked for more,” Paterno said. “But a lot of officers called in sick, and the rest of us are stretched pretty thin.”
“Well, you’re doing a hell of a job,” he said, getting it out just in time for Channel Five to record it.
“Hi, Frances,” he said to the reporter. She was a slight, birdlike woman, but looking very competent in her dark blue suit.
“Mr. Dreyfus,” she said. “I wonder if we can talk to you?”
“Well, you’re talking, and I’m listening,” he replied.
“You’re no longer the chief of police. What brings you down here today?”
She held the microphone toward him.
“I’m not the chief, but I still care about this city,” he said. “I wanted to see what was going on. Can’t really do that from my office, despite your fine reporting.”
“Aren’t you worried about contracting the virus? You aren’t even wearing a respirator.”
“Well, aren’t you, Ms. Chang? Worried, I mean?”
“Well, this is my job,” she replied.
“I’d like to think it’s mine a well,” he said. “I’ve tossed my hat into the political ring. The least I can do is inform myself of what our troubles really are.”
“Do you—”
She stopped as gunfire exploded, somewhere—first one shot, then a volley of them. Dreyfus ducked reflexively, his eyes picking through the crowd. He couldn’t see who was shooting, because the mob suddenly surged forward, engulfing the police near the door.
“Oh, shit,” the reporter said. Then to her cameraman, “You didn’t get that, did you?”
Paterno drew his pistol.
“Best get out of here, sir,” he said.
Dreyfus saw why. Most of the mob was crushing itself into the hospital entrance, but a significant faction had turned toward Paterno and the other officers on the perimeter. Judging from that, he guessed that it must have been the police who started shooting, or that the crowd thought they had.
“Murderers!” one of them shouted.
Dreyfus didn’t really think about what he did next. He stepped in front of the officers.
“Stop it,” he shouted. “Stop it right there!”
But it didn’t look like they would. They didn’t seem to have a leader, as such, so he picked out the biggest man he saw—a fierce-looking fellow with copious tattoos and a brick-square face—and locked him with his gaze.
“Don’t do this,” Dreyfus said.
Taken aback by the direct address, the man did stop, and so did many of the others, more or less. Some continued to inch nearer. They were a motley collection—some were in suits, others in jeans or shorts and tie-dyed T-shirts. Most were on the younger side, but none of them seemed like people who would ordinarily charge at police.
Except there was a certain look in their eyes, a look he had come to know all too well in his years on the force.
“They started shooting,” the big man said. He thrust a finger at Paterno. “The cops started it.”
“I don’t know what happened,” Dreyfus said. “I didn’t see it. But this isn’t how to sort it out. I can tell you for a fact that these men behind me have done nothing but try to ensure your safety.”
“There is no sorting this out,” a young woman screamed. “We’re all gonna die. They have the cure in there, and they won’t let us have it.”
“I haven’t heard anything about a cure,” Dreyfus said, trying to keep his voice controlled and reasonable.
“Where did you hear that?”
“It’s known, man,” someone else said. “It’s on Twitter!”
About twenty cell phones shot up to corroborate his assertion.
“I just want antibiotics,” the big fellow said. “I don’t know anything about any cure.”
“Let’s just all calm down,” Dreyfus said. “You’re good people. I can see that. You don’t want to hurt anybody.”
The madness was starting to fade in some of their eyes. More than a few glanced back at the mob that was still trying to funnel into the emergency entrance. There were no more gunshots, but there were plenty of screams.
“Look,” Dreyfus said, pointing. “They’re trampling over each other. What’s that going to get them? Is that how we behave in this city?”