'Who's that?' said David Henschel. 'You get along out of here before I put a hole through ya.'
'Mr. Henschel,' said Dr. Petrie. 'It's me. Leonard Petrie. Used to live next door — remember? I've come for Prickles.'
There was a pause, then Dr. Petrie heard Gloria Henschel saying, 'David — open the goddamned door, will ya? It's Dr. Petrie. I seen him through the upstairs window.'
After a lot of rattling of chains and locks, the door was opened. Dr. Petrie took Adelaide by the arm and stepped inside. Mr. Henschel, a fat, fiftyish man with a check shirt and a pot belly, opened the living-room door for them.
On the living-room table was a butane camping lamp. It made the room seem like a dazzling religious grotto. Pickles was lying on the red velvet-style settee, with her thumb in her mouth, and her long honey-colored hair tied back with a pink ribbon. She was holding a worn-out teddy bear with a peculiarly maniac smile on its face, and she was wearing a red dressing gown and one red slipper.
Dr. Petrie knelt down on the floor beside her, very quietly, and watched her sleeping. Her cheeks were flushed, but she didn't look as if she had contracted plague. He ran the tip of his finger down the middle of her forehead, and down the small curve of her nose. Adelaide came up behind him, and put her arm around him.
He looked up. 'She's beautiful, isn't she?' he said, shaking his head — a proud father who couldn't believe that his luck was real.
Mrs. Henschel came into the room in a dazzling yellow bathrobe and pink-rinsed hair in curlers. She looked like a giant canary.
'Dr. Petrie,' she crooned. 'Well, it's been a long time! Have you come to stay awhile? You know you're welcome.'
Dr. Petrie looked at his watch. It was 12:35. 'I'm sorry, Gloria,' he said. 'I've come to collect Prickles, and then we're getting out of here.'
Mr. Henschel frowned, 'Getting out? You mean, leaving town?'
'Sure. Don't you know how bad it is?'
'How bad what is?'
Dr. Petrie felt like a time-traveler who has accidentally stepped into the past.
'The plague. The epidemic. The whole of Miami is sick with plague.'
Mr. Henschel looked suspicious. 'Plague?' he said. 'You mean — like sickness? I heard on the television there was flu, and that forty or fifty people was dead, but that's all. We haven't been out of the house today, this is my week off work.'
'Is that all they've been saying on television?' Adelaide asked. 'Forty or fifty dead?'
'Sure. They said it wasn't nothing to worry about.'
Dr. Petrie sat down on the edge of the settee where Prickles slept. 'I'll tell you how much it is to worry about.' he told them. 'Margaret died of this sickness just an hour or two ago, and she's just one of thousands.'
While the Henschels stood there, barely able to grasp what he was telling them, he explained the raw facts about the plague, and how long it was going to be before fire or bacilli were going to destroy the Miami way of life for ever.
As he spoke, he saw the growing desperation and terror in their faces, and he understood for the first time why nobody from city hall or Washington had considered it prudent to let them know before.
'I'll get my rifle,' said David Henschel, his voice unsteady. 'I'll get my rifle and I'll blast my way out of this town, even if I die trying.'
'Mr. Henschel,' said Dr. Petrie, as the old man went for the door.
'What is it?'
'I'm afraid you probably will.'
'I probably will what?'
'Die trying.'
Mr. Henschel stared at him balefully for a moment, and then without a word, went off to fetch his gun.
Four
Kenneth Garunisch eased himself back into his big Colonial armchair and took a swig from his ice-cold beer. Pulling his necktie loose, he propped his feet up on the Colonial coffee table. It had been a hard, long night, and he felt as if he had been beaten up by three Polish muggers in a Turkish bath.
The lavatory flushed, and Dick Bortolotti came out, wiping his hands on a towel.
'Is there any of that beer going spare?' he asked, coughing.
'There's a six-pack in the icebox,' growled Garunisch. 'I couldn't face any breakfast.'
'What time is it?'
Garunisch peered at his watch. 'Five-forty-five.'
Bortolotti came back with a beer and sat down next to him. There was a large-scale map of Florida and Georgia on the coffee table, and it was marked in several places with red felt-tip pen. During the night, Garunisch, apart from the US Disease Control Center and the federal government, had been one of the best-informed people on the spread of the unstoppable plague. His members in hospitals all the way up the East Coast had been reporting outbreaks as they happened, and although he didn't yet know that Miami had been completely sealed off by National Guardsmen, he did know that the hospital system there had virtually collapsed.
'What are they saying on the television news?' asked Bortolotti.
'They're still making out that it's swine flu or Spanish flu or some other kind of flu. But they're having to fess up that it's getting worse. They can't hold the lid on this thing for ever.'
'Did you try your guy at The Daily News?'
'I just came off the phone. He says there's a hundred percent media cooperation with the federal government. It's not as voluntary as it looks, though. The White House is apparently ready to do some kind of deal over their interpretation of secrets bill. If the press and the TV boys play ball, the government will ease off their legislation.'
Dick Bortolotti swallowed beer, and grinned wryly. 'Sounds just like the politicians I know and love.'
Kenneth Garunisch opened his cigarette box and lit a cigarette. 'Don't worry about it. The most important thing is protecting our members. Apart from that, I think we can squeeze some future guarantees and emergency pay scales out of the health people. This may be a serious situation, but it's an ill illness that brings nobody any good.'
'You kidding?' Bortolotti asked.
Garunisch blew smoke noisily, and nodded. 'I'm kidding that this whole goddamned business doesn't bother me, because it sure as hell does. But there's no future in being squeamish. If we can't force some favorable negotiations out of this little baby, then we don't deserve to be wearing long pants. Take a look at this map.'
Dick Bortolotti leaned forward.
'This thing is spreading like shit on a shoe,' said Garunisch. 'Here's the first reported outbreak — in Hialeah, on Friday. By Tuesday afternoon, they're counting the dead in hundreds. By Tuesday evening, they've stopped counting the dead because there are too many. The last I heard was four A.M., and the whole of Miami has packed up. No power, no police, no nothing.'
'Any of our members still alive?'
Garunisch shrugged. 'It's hard to tell. I had Evans call Grabowsky, but his home phone isn't answering, and we can't get through to the hospital. If you ask me, Dick, this epidemic is a whole lot worse than anyone knows. We've had reports of outbreaks down as far as Bahia Honda, and we've had them here, at Fort Lauderdale, and here, at Fort Pierce, and about fifteen minutes ago I heard that there are suspects at Jacksonville.'
'So? What's your conclusion?'
'My conclusion has got to be very simple,' he said, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. 'I take out my measuring rule and I discover that the distance between Miami and Jacksonville is approximately 300 miles. I divide 300 miles by four days and I learn that this plague is traveling northwards up the East Coast at a rate of 75 miles a day. Maybe faster. This means that if it continues spreading over the next couple of weeks in the same way that it's
