Plague

Graham Masterton Plague

Book One THE PLAGUE

One

He was still half-asleep when the doorbell rang. The sound penetrated his head like someone dropping coins down a well. It rang again, long and urgent, and he opened his eyes and discovered it was morning.

'Just a minute!' he croaked, with a sleep-dry mouth. The doorbell wouldn't wait, though, and kept on calling him. He swung his legs out of bed, groped on the floor for his discarded bathrobe, and pushed his feet uncomfortably into his slippers.

He shuffled out into the hallway. Through the frosted glass front door he could see a short stocky figure in blue, leaning on the bellpush.

'Just a minute!' he called again. 'I'm coming!'

He unlocked the door and peered out. The brilliant Florida sunshine made him blink. The warm morning breeze was blowing the palms beside his driveway, and already the sky was rich and blue.

'You Dr. Petrie?' said the man abruptly. He was heavy-set, dressed in crumpled blue coveralls. He was holding his cap in his hand, and his face had the expression of an anxious pug-dog.

'That's right. What time is it?'

'I don't know,' said the man hoarsely. 'Maybe eight-thirty, nine. It's my kid. He's sick. I mean, real sick, and I think he's gonna die or something. You have to come.'

'Couldn't you call the hospital?'

'I did. They asked me what was wrong, and when I told them, they said to see a doctor. They said it didn't sound too serious. But it keeps on getting worse and worse, and I'm real worried.'

The man was twitchy and sweating and the dark rings under his eyes showed just how little sleep he'd had. Dr. Petrie scratched his stubbly chin, and then nodded. Last night's party had left him feeling as if someone had hit him in the face with a rubber hammer, but he recognized real anxiety when he saw it.

'Come in and sit down. I'll be two minutes.'

The man in the blue coveralls took a couple of steps into the hallway, but was too nervous to sit. Dr. Petrie went into the bedroom, threw off his bathrobe, and dressed hastily. He slipped his feet into sandals, ran a comb through his tousled brown hair, and then reached for his medical bag and car keys.

Outside in the hallway, the man had at last sat down, perched on the edge of a wooden trunk that Dr. Petrie used for storing old medical journals. The man was staring at the pattern on the tiled floor, with that strange dull look that Dr. Petrie had seen so many times before. Why has this happened to me? Of all people, why has it happened to me?

'Mr. — '

'Kelly. Dave Kelly. My son's name is David, too. Are we ready to leave?'

'All set. Do you want to come in my car?'

'Sure,' said Dave Kelly woodenly. 'I don't think I wanna drive any more today.'

Dr. Petrie slammed the glass front door behind them and they stepped out into the heat and the sun. His dark blue Lincoln Continental was parked in the driveway. At the kerb stood a battered red pickup which obviously belonged to Mr. Kelly. On the side it said Speedy Motors Inc.

They climbed into the car and Dr. Petrie turned on the air-conditioning. It was March, and by this time of morning the temperature was already building up to 75 degrees. All along the quiet palm-lined streets of the fashionable Miami suburb, where Dr. Petrie lived and practised, the neat and elegant houses had blinds drawn and shades down.

'Now,' said Dr. Petrie, twisting his lanky body in the seat to reverse the Lincoln out of the drive. 'While we're driving, I want you to tell me everything that's happened to your son. Symptoms, color, everything. Oh, and direct me, too.'

'I live downtown,' said Kelly, rubbing sweat from his eyes. 'Just off North West 20th Street.'

Dr. Petrie swung the car around, and they bounced over the sidewalk and into the street. He gunned the engine, and they flickered through the light and shade of Burlington Drive, heading south. The air-conditioning chilled the sweat on Mr. Kelly's face, and he began to tremble.

'What made you choose me?' asked Dr. Petrie. 'There have to be a hundred doctors living nearer.'

Mr. Kelly coughed. 'You was recommended. My brother-in-law, he's an attorney, he used to be a patient of yours. I called him and asked him for the best. I tell you, doc — I gotta have the best for that kid. If he's as bad as he looks, I gotta have the best.'

'How bad does he look?' Dr. Petrie swerved around a parked truck.

'Right now, when I left him, he didn't even open his eyes. He's white, like paper. He started to shake and shiver around ten or eleven last night. He came into the bedroom and asked for a glass of water. He looked yellow and sick right then, and I gave him water, and aspirin. Was that okay?'

Dr. Petrie nodded. 'They won't do any harm. How old is he?'

'David's just nine years old. Last Thanksgiving.'

Dr. Petrie turned on to 441 and drove swiftly and steadily south. He glanced at his gold wristwatch. It was a little after nine. Oh well, a good abrupt start to Monday morning. He looked at himself in the driving mirror and saw a clean-cut all-American doctor with hangover written all over his face.

Some of his more critical medical colleagues had sarcastically nicknamed Dr. Petrie 'Saint Leonard of the Geriatrics'. That was because his clientele was mainly elderly and exclusively rich — old widows with immense fortunes and skins tanned as brown as leather handbags.

And it was also because of his uncomfortably saintly appearance — a look that gave you the feeling that he drew half of his healing talent from medical training, and the other half directly from God. It was to do with his tall, lean body; his clear and almost inspired blue eyes; his open, benign face — and it all contributed to his success.

The way Dr. Petrie saw it, rich old ladies needed medication just as much as anyone else, and if he could build up his income with a melting smile and a glossy clinic full of Muzak and tropical fish, then there wasn't anything medically or morally wrong. Besides, he thought, at least I'm concerned enough to climb out of bed on a hot Monday morning to visit a sick kid whose father really needs me.

He just wished that he had been saintly enough not to drink eight vodkatinis last night at the golf club get-together.

'Who's with the boy now?' Dr. Petrie asked Mr. Kelly.

'His mother. She was supposed to work the late shift, but she stayed home.'

'Have you given him anything to eat or drink?'

'Just water. He was burning up one minute, and cold the next. His lips was dry, and his tongue was all furred up — I reckoned that water was probably the best.'

Dr. Petrie stopped for a red light and sat there drumming his fingers on the rim of the steering-wheel, thinking.

Mr. Kelly looked across at him, nervous and worried, and tried not to fidget. 'Does it sound like any kind of sickness you know?' he asked. Dr. Petrie smiled. 'I can't tell you until I see the boy for myself. It could be any number of things. What about his motions?'

'His what?'

'His bowels. Are they loose, or what?'

Mr. Kelly nodded. 'That's it. Runny, like soup.' They moved away from the lights, and Mr. Kelly gave directions.

After a couple of turns, they arrived at a busy intersection with a garage on the corner. The garage had three pumps and a greasy-looking concrete forecourt, and in the back were a broken-down truck and a heap of old fenders, jacks, wrenches, and rusted auto parts.

Mr. Kelly climbed out of the car. 'Follow me. We live up over the garage.'

Dr. Petrie took his medical bag and locked his Lincoln. He followed Mr. Kelly around the side of the garage, and they clanged together up a shaky fire-escape, to a cluttered balcony, and then into the Kelly's apartment. They stepped into the kitchen first. It was gloomy and smelled of sour milk.