“Your job here is important. The fate of God knows how many people depends on what happens in these laboratories.”
“I’m going into Milwaukee,” Corey said stubbornly.
Lou Zachry kept the all-American boy grin, but his eyes hardened. He said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to leave.”
“I don’t think I give a damn what you think,” Corey said. “I still go where I want when I want. Unless you’re putting me under arrest.”
“No, no, nothing like that, but I wish you’d think about it.”
“I have thought about it. I need a day off. Let the pool reporters interview one another this afternoon.”
Corey could tell that Lou Zachry was not pleased, and he almost hoped he would make an issue of it.
But the government man grinned and gave him a playful poke to the shoulder. “Go ahead, then, but don’t play cards with strangers.”
In spite of his irritation Corey grinned back. “Don’t worry, Mom,” he said, “I’ll be good.”
The drive from the Biotron plant into Milwaukee was no longer the routine trip it had been just a month before. During the early days of the panic, people had rushed off in their cars, thinking somehow to put distance between themselves and the brain eaters. Accidents had multiplied with the number of distraught and ill drivers on the road. Before long, all efforts to clear away the wreckage were abandoned. Now people were forced to drive more slowly to be alert for chunks of wrecked automobiles on the road.
Some of the freshly painted, well-kept farmhouses along the way were deserted. In most cases the cows and the dogs of a stricken family were taken in by neighbors, but chickens were too much trouble, and flocks of the abandoned birds could be seen flapping along the shoulders of the highway.
Another problem in driving was the absence of operating gasoline stations. Not since the gas shortage of the early 1970s had filling the tank been such an iffy proposition. Highway-station operators, because of their contact with people from all points, were early victims of the brain eaters. Others had closed down when supplies from the refineries were slow in coming. The lush Wisconsin countryside through which Highway 41 passed had become a pastoral no-man’s land.
The city of Milwaukee, although torn by illness, death, and fear, still had life on the streets, but that was not necessarily good news. As he drove slowly along with the doors locked and the windows up, Corey saw bands of shouting youths smashing the few windows that remained intact and carrying out anything portable from the buildings.
Sirens wailed continuously. No one walked the streets alone. Furtive faces peeked from behind shuttered windows. The police and National Guardsmen attempted to maintain some semblance of order, but as their own ranks were thinned by the parasites, they fought a losing battle.
The clamor for martial law was nationwide now as fear of the brain eaters surpassed fear of a police state. However, the president was strangely silent. There was a rumor that he and several cabinet members were themselves victims of the brain eaters. It was questionable, anyway, what good martial law would do as the parasites decimated the troops who would have to enforce it.
The Herald building was a ghost — cold and empty and silent. A man sat out in front on the sidewalk with his arms wrapped about his knees. Corey recognized him as one of the Herald’s pressmen and started to get out of the car to speak to him. Then he saw the terrible pain and incipient madness on the man’s face and quickly drove off. He headed for the apartment building where Doc Ingersoll had lived for almost thirty years.
The Dorchester Apartments, on the fringe of downtown, were housed in a weather-stained brick building constructed in the solid square lines of the early part of the century. The residents were as permanent as the building. The only vacancies appeared when someone died.
There were plenty of vacancies now.
An old building like the Dorchester had none of the security frills of the 1980s. When it was built, the caller at your door would be someone you knew, not a killer or rapist.
Corey entered the building, climbed two flights of stairs, and made his way down a hall of oft-painted doors where the odors of meals past lingered like cobwebs in the air. He found the number of Doc’s apartment and knocked on the brown-painted panel. Inside there was a thump, a muttered curse, and shuffling footsteps approaching the door.
Doc Ingersoll opened the door and squinted through a curtain of cigarette smoke. He wore the pants of his dark gray suit and an undershirt. On his feet, a pair of worn leather slippers. He badly needed a shave.
“Corey?”
“Who else? You look terrible.”
Doc’s apartment consisted of a combination living room and bedroom, with a curtained-off kitchenette. It had the seedy, comfortable look of the home of a man who has lived alone a long time. There were dishes stacked in the sink, and the ashtrays were in their usual state of overflow, but the place was reasonably clean.
Doc spoke in a strained voice. “What are you doing in town?”
“I needed a day off. Curious about what’s happening in the world.”
“I thought most of it was happening up there at Biotron. From what I read, you people are expecting to come up with an antidote any day now.”
“That’s just the standard bullshit I put out for the pool reporters. ‘There are no suspects at present, but an arrest is expected momentarily.’”
“I thought it sounded familiar.” Doc walked back into the room and eased himself down on the edge of the unmade pull-down bed. What’s the real story?”
“Not much. They think they may have discovered a blood test to show whether the brain eaters are into you. But even if they know you’ve got ‘em, they can’t do anything about it.”
“I didn’t read about that. The test.”
Corey snorted. “Dr. Kitzmiller doesn’t want it published before they’re sure it works. Give the people false hope or some damn thing. If you ask me, false hope is better than no hope at all.”
“Yeah.” Doc started to cough. He reached automatically for a fresh cigarette.
“Are you all right?” Corey said. “You really don’t look good.”
“When did I ever look good?” Doc growled. He lit the new cigarette, inhaled, coughed.
“You wouldn’t have a beer, would you?” Corey said.
“Help yourself.” Doc gestured in the direction of the noisy old Philco refrigerator.
Corey took a can of Heileman’s from the refrigerator. He held one out toward Doc, who shook his head. Corey returned the second can and came back to sit in a worn chair next to the bed.
“So what are you doing to keep busy these days? I see the Herald’s buttoned up.”
“I got myself assigned to the press pool. There isn’t much work for me with so many newspaper guys out of a job, but at least I can keep in touch with the action.”
“What is the action, Doc? All I get is the same kind of shit I hand out.”
“You saw the city when you came in?”
“Yeah. Depressing.”
“That’s about the way it is everywhere. Vital services are still operating, but for how long, nobody knows. Only a few stores are open. The emergency rationing program is working about as well as expected. Meat is in short supply. Gasoline is the biggest headache. What did you drive in on, by the way?”
“They have their own underground tanks at Biotron.”
“You’ve got it made, buddy. Your own gas supply, plenty to eat, medical help all around you, the government taking care of you … What are you doing back here, anyway?”
“I don’t belong there, Doc. I think Zachry gave me the job just to keep me out of the way.”