The Brain Eaters

Chapter 25

Viktor Raslov’s search of the San Francisco terminals had barely gotten under way when he froze at the sound of a polite voice behind him.

“Mr. Raslov?”

He turned to see one of those smooth-faced young men with the old eyes who were favored by the United States as police operatives.

“Yes?”

“I’m Kyle Taylor, sir. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Big surprise, thought Raslov sourly. “So?”

“Would you mind coming along with me?”

What if I minded? Raslov wondered. Would Agent Taylor shoot him down there in front of all these witnesses? No, the Americans were more devious than that. More probably, the other agents now edging casually closer through the crowd would seize him, and they would take him to some quieter locale to be shot. Discretion. The Americans were always discreet.

Aloud he said, “I think you have made a mistake. I am a Russian citizen.” A token show of indignation would be expected.

“It’s a routine matter, sir,” Agent Taylor said. The old eyes in his young face scanned the crowd. “And would you ask your … associates to come with us?”

There was just enough of a pause to let Raslov know that Taylor knew exactly who the “associates” were. It was all part of the game. The elaborate game of pretense and deceit upon which the ultimate fate of the world might depend.

Raslov sighed and signaled the KGB men to accompany him and the FBI agent.

They returned to Neal Henderson’s office, from which the young assistant airport manager was, for the moment, absent.

“What I want to do,” said Agent Taylor with a hard-edged smile, “is to apologize to you for the delay in your flight.”

“We were told it was a mechanical problem,” Raslov said. “Is your bureau now involved in the field of aircraft maintenance?”

Taylor’s lips compressed in a cool smile. “We may as well admit there was no mechanical problem.”

“So?”

“What with the national emergency, there have been communications breakdowns. What happened was we received conflicting orders from Washington. Your flight was held but, as it turned out, unnecessarily. A bureaucratic mistake. You probably know how that goes.”

Raslov said nothing. Let the young FBI man squirm a little bit.

Taylor went on quickly. “That’s the bad news. The good news is that your flight is cleared for immediate departure.”

Surely, Raslov thought, this glib young man has not failed to notice that there is one fewer in our party than when we arrived. Now that we have misplaced Kuryakin, the Americans are suddenly anxious for us to depart. Why?

He said, “By strange coincidence my orders, too, have been changed. We will not require the airplane for immediate departure.”

“Oh?” Taylor could not completely hide his displeasure. “When will you be leaving?”

“That has not been decided. In any event, is this not a matter for your State Department?”

Point for Raslov. The FBI man could not question him further without stepping on diplomatic toes, and he could certainly not now detain him, having claimed that it was only “bureaucratic bungling” that had caused the delay in the first place.

After an exchange of meaningless pleasantries, the Russians were permitted to leave while the FBI agents attempted, unsuccessfully, to lose themselves in the airport crowd. Raslov and his men resumed their search, but the delay in Henderson’s office would have been just enough to let Kuryakin slip away. Raslov was muttering darkly to himself when one of the men beckoned to him from the counter of United Airlines.

Considering the volatile personalities involved, the brain-eaters task force operating at the Biotron plant got off to a surprisingly smooth start. Dr. Kitzmiller, in charge of the operation, asked for specific people from across the nation whose expertise would be valuable in the search for an antidote. With Lou Zachry pulling the strings, the people Kitzmiller wanted were speedily brought out if they were available. The crucial nature of their job was further pointed up by the fact that a number of Kitzmiller’s specialists had themselves fallen victim to the parasites.

Dr. Jason Everett, specialist in diseases of the brain, was flown in from Denver. Parasitologist Dr. Dorothea Knight came from Boston. From Honolulu they brought epidemiologist Dr. Luke Chin. Dr. Marcus Pena, who knew all there was to know about blood diseases, came from San Diego. Under the direction of Dr. Kitzmiller and with the consultation of Dena Falkner, these temperamental specialists managed to work together in something resembling a team.

Corey Macklin, sulking in the spartan quarters provided for him adjoining the laboratories, admired the work being done but fretted continually about his own contribution, or lack of same. While Dena, Kitzmiller, and the others worked long, tiring hours in the labs, Corey felt he was accomplishing nothing.

“You’re doing a fine job, Corey,” Lou Zachry told him. “Without you the place would be crawling with reporters and other snoopers, all getting in the way and slowing down any progress we might be making in the labs. And if it weren’t for your releases, God knows what kind of crazy stories they’d take out of here.”

“I’m a newspaperman, not a PR flack,” Corey complained. “I should be writing this story myself, not passing out vaguely worded bullshit to pacify the so-called reporters in this so-called media pool.”

“If we can lick this thing, you’ll have the biggest story of them all,” Zachry said. “And if we don’t … Well, then, it won’t matter, will it.”

Corey grumbled, but he had to admit the government man had a point.

The pool reporters, for their part, were not enthusiastic about being kept away from Kitzmiller and the others and allowed to interview only Corey Macklin. The television people, especially, were unhappy. Their reportage depended on pictures, and there was nothing there to take pictures of.

“Believe me,” Corey told them. “If I could bring one of the brain eaters out here in tiny handcuffs for you to put on camera, I’d do it.”

Nobody thought that was very funny.

“I want to go into Milwaukee,” he told Zachry after the morning briefing was concluded.

“What for? This is where the story is.”

“The story is in the whole country,” Corey said, “and I’m cut off from it. All there is here is a bunch of doctors who might as well be talking a foreign language for all I know of what they’re doing.”

“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.”

“Count your blessings. Did you hear Eichorn’s dead?”

“No. How?”

“Burned to death in his house in Houston. Nobody used the story, but his daughter was a brain-eater victim. Went crazy and attacked the family with a hatchet. Then she set fire to the place. They think Eichorn was dead before the flames got to him.”

“Jesus,” Corey swore softly.

“Porter Uhlander, now, he’s gone fishing.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. He loaded his gear along with a case of Tums and a lifetime supply of Valium into his camper and took off for that cabin he kept up on Pelican Lake. He plans to ride out the emergency right there.”

“That’s the silliest thing I ever heard.”

“I don’t know. It makes as much sense as what a lot of other people are doing.”

“Are you going into the pool headquarters?” Corey asked. “I’d like to see the operation.”

“Nah, they don’t need me there.”

“Then what do you say we find a bottle somewhere and get drunk? I’m locked up with a bunch of white-wine drinkers at Biotron.”

“I’m going to pass, Corey. I just don’t feel like doing a damn thing. You go on down to the pool. You might find some laughs.”

Corey looked at the older reporter curiously but said nothing. He got up and started for the door. “I’ll give you a call before I leave town.”

“Sure. You do that.” Doc Ingersoll made no move to get off the bed.

Corey left the apartment and closed the door softly behind him. He walked down the steps feeling depressed. Behind one of the doors on the first floor a woman sobbed.

The headquarters of the media pool had been set up in the Civic Auditorium. As he drove carefully across town, Corey wondered about Doc’s deteriorating state of mind. It was especially unlike him to turn down a drink. Corey resolved to call him again before leaving town, but now he needed his full attention on his driving.

Desks and portable partitions had turned the auditorium into a haphazard maze. There was much activity, with people rushing back and forth, but Corey got the impression that little was being accomplished. He searched out newspaper people he knew and from them got a little clearer picture of the national situation.

Cures were the current rage. Quacks of all kinds were trumpeting that they had discovered the one and only cure for the brain eaters. The cures ranged from simple electric shock and exotic herbs to various mystical foolery. Although they were not even reported by the pool, these self-proclaimed healers were doing a booming business on word-of-mouth. The Food and Drug Administration had too many other problems to worry about shutting them down.

There was a one-paragraph story on the UPI wire about a delegation of Russian agricultural experts who had changed their plans to fly home from San Francisco and were delaying their departure for unstated reasons. The item caught Corey’s eye only because of Kitzmiller’s charge that these same Russians were somehow to blame for loosing the brain eaters. He tucked it away for future consideration.

Corey soon tired of the pointless bustle at the pool headquarters. He understood now Doc Ingersoll’s reluctance to come down. On his way out he got on a telephone and dialed Doc’s number.

He heard the burr of the phone ringing on the other end, but there was no answer. After ten rings Corey hung up and left the building feeling vaguely uneasy. Maybe the phone wasn’t working properly. He decided to drive over and see if he could change Doc’s mind about tying one on.

The ringing of the telephone was like a red-hot knife blade stabbing through Doc’s head. He clapped both hands over his ears and stood hunched over the bathroom sink, whimpering until the ringing finally stopped. The pain continued. He looked up at his reflection in the streaked mirror.

Corey had been right. He didn’t look good. It had taken immense effort not to show the terrible pain of his headache while Corey was there. He had swallowed a full bottle of a hundred aspirin tablets since that morning, but they had done no good. Nothing was going to do any good.

Doc had not let himself admit what he had until there was no longer the faintest hope he was wrong. Now he fancied he could hear the ugly little creatures chewing their way through his brain tissue, popping the blood vessels as they went, creating the unbearable pressure under his skull. He knew he could stand it no longer than a few more minutes; then he would go screaming into madness, lashing out at everything and everyone around him. His face would erupt in those festering boils and spew the seed of the diabolical parasite into the air.

He walked back to the bed and pulled open the drawer of the nightstand. Lying on top of a John D. MacDonald novel was a Smith & Wesson.38-caliber revolver. It was well oiled and loaded. Doc picked up the gun, jammed the muzzle against the roof of his mouth, gagging at the oily taste. He pulled the trigger.