He looked up and grunted when Corey and Dena came in. “Learn anything new from Zachry?”
“Not much,” Corey said. “How about you?”
Doc waved at the untidy stacks of torn-off wire-service copy. “Plenty. Too much. I read so much of this crap I started to imagine my brain was being chewed on.”
The other two looked at him sharply.
Doc fanned away the cigarette smoke. “Just kidding.”
Dena flipped through some of the wire stories and read the datelines. “They seem to come from all over.”
“They do,” Doc said. There isn’t a section of the country that hasn’t been hit. God knows how many cases have gone unreported.”
“Any good hook to hang tomorrow’s lead on?” Corey asked.
“You read ‘em. After a hundred or so I felt like I was reading the same one over and over.”
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
“Anything out of Washington?”
“Transcript of the president’s speech. Inspirational.”
“We heard it.”
“Also, they’re talking about a ban on international travel. Other countries don’t want our brain eaters. Imagine that, after all of their wretched refuse we took in.”
Dena lay down the wire stories and leaned over to look at the notes Doc had been working on. “What’s this?”
“From the stories coming in, I’ve been trying to put together a profile of the brain eaters. Symptoms, duration, chances for survival — that kind of thing.”
“And what did you come up with?” Corey asked.
“Bad news and worse news.” He dug through the jumbled papers until he came up with the one he wanted. “The first symptom seems to be a skin irritation at the point of entry. Dexter Horn showed us at the autopsy how the parasites apparently get into the bloodstream through some small break in the skin. In the reports I’ve read tonight, there seems to be a fair number of cases where the victim reported a rash or low-level irritation following a small cut or abrasion of the skin.”
Corey frowned in thought. “DuBois Williamson’s wife said he was stung by a bee sometime before they drove past Biotron. She thought he might be allergic, the way it swelled up later.”
“That fits,” Doc said. “In the cases where they’ve traced symptoms at all, they usually start with a skin irritation of some kind.”
“What else?”
“A sort of bad cold or onset of the flu feeling. Only lasts a day or two, then suddenly goes away.”
“Like what I saw at Biotron last week,” Dena said.
“Sounds like,” Doc said.
“I can understand the skin irritation,” Corey said, “but why the false flu?”
“Damned if I know,” said Doc. “Maybe the parasite brings some kind of virus with it. If you want a clinical explanation, you’ll have to go to somebody else. All I’m doing is tabulating, looking for a pattern.”
“Okay, go ahead.”
“The last stage before the flip-out seems to be the headache. We know about that, too, from the autopsy.”
“I’ve seen the effect,” Corey said grimly.
“How long do they last?” Dena asked.
“One, two, three days. Probably seems a lot longer if it’s your head. They get progressively worse. No treatment helps.”
“And the pain drives them crazy?” Corey said.
“Something sure as hell does. Once the victim goes into the violent stage, there’s no communication with him. He starts trashing anything and anybody around him. Finally, there are the facial eruptions like we saw on the corpse. These are followed shortly by violent death — sometimes by the victim’s own hand.”
“They all die?” Dena asked in a hushed tone.
“Apparently. There are reports where the victim has been subdued, but ordinary restraints aren’t strong enough to hold them. They break loose and continue their rampage until something kills them. The lucky ones die early, of cerebral hemorrhaging.”
“How long does the whole thing last?” Corey asked. “From the time it gets into the bloodstream to the end?”
Doc Ingersoll pulled out another sheet on which he had drawn a graph that resembled a graduated series of mountain peaks. He said, “As near as I can figure, the average duration is seven days, with some deviation to either side.”
He pointed to the undulating line of the graph. “The beginning point here is June first, the date of the helicopter spraying at Biotron. And here, seven days later, we have Stransky, Williamson, and the girl in Seattle blowing up.”
“Also, Stu Anderson, the helicopter pilot,” Dena put in.
“Then,” Doc continued, “we have nothing until the next peak, a week later. That’s when we had outbreaks that were centered around the locations of the first three. The tallest peak here, just beginning to round off, is this weekend. It started Thursday, with Friday the highest point and a slight downturn Saturday and Sunday.
“You’ll notice how the peaks get blunter and the valleys shallower. Project this for another couple of weeks and you’ll have a steady line going thataway.” Doc Ingersoll pointed toward the ceiling.
“You’re not very encouraging,” Corey said.
“You want encouragement, read Mary Worth.”
Corey studied the graph for a minute, then laid it aside. He shuffled through the stacks of wire copy, selected several stories, and stuffed them into a pocket. “I think I’ll save the doomsday report for later in the week,” he said. “I don’t want to spoil anybody’s day.”
“Besides, statistics make dull stories,” Doc said.
“Exactly.” Corey selected one of the sheets from his pocket. “This one about a little kid in Boston who tore up his nursery school before diving into a dry swimming pool will make a better headline than statistics on a thousand deaths.”
“That’s a fact,” Doc agreed.
“Sometimes you guys make me sick,” Dena said.
“Sorry. Just shoptalk. Why don’t we all go out and get some dinner?”
“I’ll pass,” Doc said. “I want to keep an eye on the wire. I’ve got candy bars here and coffee in the machine.”
“A diet like that will kill you,” Dena said.
Doc removed the Camel butt from his mouth and looked at her. “None of us going to live forever, honey.”
Corey and Dena left the building and walked around to the parking lot. They got into Corey’s car and sat for a moment looking at the near-deserted street.
“Not many people out tonight.” Corey observed.
“Can you blame them?”
“I guess not. Any special place you’d like to eat?”
“To tell you the truth, Corey, I don’t feel much like going to a restaurant. Have you got anything to eat at your place?”
“Sure. Frozen pizza. Chicken pot pie. Hot-dog buns. Half a dozen eggs, I think. A little milk, if it’s still good. Pork and beans. Beer.”
Dena made a face. “That’s what you eat?”
“That’s what’s left over.”
“Have you got a market nearby?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s stop there and pick up something.”
With Dena making the selections and Corey pushing the cart, they purchased two well-marbled Spencer steaks, baking potatoes, butter, sour cream, asparagus, lettuce, onions, tomatoes, and salad dressing. From the liquor department Corey picked out a couple of bottles of California Burgundy.
When they unloaded the bags in his kitchen, Corey said, “This may be the most unfrozen food I’ve ever had in this place at one time.”
“Poor, deprived fella,” Dena said, patting his shoulder. “Does the broiler on your stove work?”