The Brain Eaters

Chapter 28

The alarm buzzed.

Corey reached across Dena and slapped the clock into silence before he was fully awake. He lay back for a moment, eyes closed, allowing the sleep to drain out of him. Dena lay on her side, facing away from him. She did not stir when the alarm went off. He shifted his body over closer to hers. The day was hot and muggy. Dena’s skin was very warm and moist against his.

He lay against her for five minutes with one hand resting on the smooth swell of her hip. He felt himself getting aroused. Dena did not stir. She deserved the rest, he thought. She probably had not slept through a full night in weeks.

Still, he had to wake her up. They both had things to do that morning. And maybe, he thought with a lascivious grin, she would be in the mood for a little morning sex.

He moved his hand to her bare shoulder and rocked her gently. She gave him a little moan of protest but did not awaken.

“Dena,” he said softly, “time to get up.”

She moaned again, a little more loudly.

“C’mon, rise and shine.”

Dena rolled over onto her stomach. She raised her head and looked at him blearily through a damp tangle of blond hair. Her eyes seemed unnaturally bright.

“Hi, there.” She gave him a sleepy smile and started to drift off again. Then, abruptly, she turned her head to peer at the glowing red numbers on the digital clock.

“Oh, God, look at the time. You should have woken me up.”

“I just did,” he said.

She turned back and smiled at him again, more alert now but not quite focused.

“Right,” she said, and kissed him quickly on the nose.

So much for morning sex, Corey decided.

She peeled back the covers and sat up, swinging her long legs out on her side of the bed. She groaned. “What did you give me to drink last night?”

“You brought the C–C, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” She raked the hair out of her eyes with her fingers. “Where did you hide my clothes?”

“You left them over there on the chair.”

Dena stood up, stretched her arms, and walked to the chair, where her clothes lay in a folded pile.

“Are you always so neat?” he asked.

“It’s a compulsion. Can I take a shower?”

“Sure.” He got up and found her a bath towel on a shelf in the closet.

When he came around to where she was sitting to hand her the towel, Dena hugged her arms and shivered.

“Is it cold in here?” she said.

He looked at her curiously. “No.”

“I must have had a chill.” She stood up and took the towel from him, fashioning it into a sarong.

He gave her a leer. “Are you in a big hurry?”

“Why, do you have something in mind?” She let her eyes range downward. “Oh, yes, I see you have. But I’d better get to work. Maybe we can do something about that later.”

Corey watched with open admiration as Dena scooped up her clothes and walked into the bathroom. She was a woman who knew how to move. He heard the cough and hiss of the shower starting up, and he smiled. The comfortable domesticity of the scene made him feel good but at the same time a little bit nervous. He had the crazy feeling that if they got out of this brain-eaters business, he was going to marry this woman. If they got out.

He pulled on a pair of jeans and made a halfhearted pass at straightening the bed. He touched the pillow that still bore the indentation of Dena’s head, and he smiled again.

The shower stopped, and in a few minutes Dena came out. She was dressed in the white pants and short-sleeved blouse she wore under her laboratory smock.

“It is cold in here,” she said. “Do you have the heat on?”

“There isn’t any heat,” he said. “And it’s probably eighty degrees outside.” He stepped closer and took hold of her arm. “What’s this?”

Dena looked down at the raw patch on her elbow. It was surrounded by reddened, slightly puffy flesh.

“I scraped my elbow the other day. It looks like there may be a low-grade infection. I’ll put something on it in the lab.”

The tone of her voice did not quite match the casual words. Corey kept hold of her arm and looked at her.

“Where did you get this, Dena?”

She let a beat go by before she answered. “When I went over to Carol Denker’s house.”

“On the day the brain eaters got to her?” Corey asked. He felt a clutch deep in his gut.

“Yes,” Dena said levelly. “But that doesn’t mean — ”

“And you’ve got chills,” Corey interrupted.

She nodded without speaking.

“Oh, Jesus.” Corey blinked and turned away for a moment.

“Let’s not be hasty,” Dena said. “The odds are all in favor of its being just a simple chill or a touch of the flu….”

Their eyes met, and she could not finish the sentence.

“Yeah, that’s the odds,” he said tonelessly.

“And if the worst is true, then I’ve got them, and it won’t change anything to stand here worrying about it. At least I’m close to the people who’re looking for a cure, so maybe I’d better get to work.”

“Yeah, right,” Corey said. He turned away quickly so she would not see what was in his eyes.

The black limousine slid up to the gate at Biotron, and the uniformed security men converged on it cautiously. The guards were no longer Biotron employees. Too many of them had been lost to make up an effective force. In their place were agents from the Department of Justice and the intelligence arm of the Defense Department. In spite of the oppressive weather, they were dressed in full uniforms with jackets and ties.

Two of them took up positions on either side of the car, their hands inconspicuously near their guns. A third approached the driver’s window.

Since the arrival of Dr. Kitzmiller and the brain-eater task force, the guards had brusquely turned away all would-be visitors to the plant. This car, however, looked important. It was a hired limousine with a chauffeur in full livery. Considering the difficulty of getting any kind of transportation during the emergency, this would have to be a VIP. Behind the tinted glass, three men could be seen in the wide back seat. They wore dark, heavy suits and expressions to match.

The senior security man leaned down and touched his cap as the chauffeur made the side window whisper out of sight. The smallest of the three men in the back seat leaned forward.

“I am Viktor Raslov of the Soviet agricultural delegation. I wish to speak with whoever is in command here.”

“I’m Lieutenant Purdue. How may I help you?”

“I don’t mean in command of the guards,” Raslov said testily. “I want the man who is in charge of the operation.”

“That would be Dr. Frederich Kitzmiller,” said the lieutenant. “Is he expecting you?”

“He is not. Open the gate, please.”

“I’ll have to check with Dr. Kitzmiller first.”

Raslov worked his facial muscles. “Then do so,” he said.

Lieutenant Purdue walked to the guard shack and dialed the extension of Lou Zachry’s phone. Standing orders stated that no calls except class A emergencies were to be routed directly to the laboratories.

“Raslov, you say?” Zachry repeated into the phone. With an effort, he shifted his thoughts away from another urgent problem to concentrate on what the lieutenant out at the gate was saying.

“Yes, sir. There are two men with him besides the chauffeur. KGB, from the look of them.”

That would be Raslov, all right, Zachry decided. Of all the things he did not need right now, the Russian was high on the list.

He said, “Stall him. I’ll talk to Dr. K about letting him in, but it’s doubtful.”

“Yes, sir.”

Zachry hung up the telephone and pushed himself wearily up from the desk. He buttoned his collar and pulled the knot of his necktie up, then headed for the laboratories.

“Absolutely not!” Kitzmiller stormed. “I have no time for some sneaking, spying, double-talking pig of a Russian now. For every minute that goes by, people are dying. Now a member of my staff is infected.”

“If you would just talk to him — ”

“No! I have no time for Raslov and no time for you! Now please leave me to my work.”

Zachry started to make a last protest. “Doctor — ”

“Out!”

Zachry glanced quickly around at the other doctors in the laboratory. Their attitude was one of intense, urgent effort, as well it might be. He wondered which of the team was infected by the brain eaters and how big a threat that presented to the rest of them. A look at Kitzmiller’s face persuaded him against asking. He nodded and went out.

At the door to the laboratory he met Corey Macklin coming in. The reporter’s face was set in grim lines. There was none of the usual mocking humor in his eyes.

“Corey,” he began, “we’ve got a situation out in front that — ”

Corey cut him off. “Not now, Lou.”

Zachry turned and stared at the younger man. “Something wrong?”

“Plenty.” Corey pushed past him and made for the still-glowering Dr. Kitzmiller.

Zachry watched him for a moment, then suddenly knew which of Kitzmiller’s staff had been stricken. He shook his head and walked away.

Dr. Kitzmiller looked at Corey with the air of a weary lion on the point of attacking his keepers.

“Can I not have five uninterrupted minutes in which to do the work I am here for? What is it, Mr. Macklin?”

“Dena — Dr. Falkner — was going to take the blood test.”

“Yes. The test was administered by Dr. Pena this morning.”

“Do you have the results?”

“I do.”

Corey waited for several seconds, then burst out, “Well?”

Kitzmiller sighed. “The results are positive. The parasites are in Dr. Falkner’s bloodstream.”

“Ooohh, shit.”

“We are trying a new approach to the problem today,” Kitzmiller said in a more gentle tone.

“What’s the prognosis?”

“We may as well be optimistic, since the alternative is despair.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Now, if you will excuse me, the sooner I can get back to my work, the better chance we will have of finding the cure in time.”

“Yeah,” Corey said again. “Thanks.”

He caught Dena’s eye from a counter where she was working and gave her a grin. She toasted him with an Erlenmeyer flask of murky liquid and returned to her notebook. Corey walked out silently.

The three Russians were standing outside their car, sweating in their woolen suits, when Lou Zachry approached. Viktor Raslov, slight and balding, with steel-rimmed spectacles, stood in the middle. The two KGB men flanked him like twin turrets. Raslov’s face was reddened with anger. Zachry put on a conciliatory smile.

“Mr. Raslov, it’s a pleasure to — ”

“Never mind that,” the Russian snapped. “Am I allowed to enter, or am I not?”

“The fact is that Dr. Kitzmiller will admit no one. He can make no exceptions. You understand it is for the protection of both those inside and out here.”

“I understand that this is a grave insult to my country.”

Lou Zachry’s expression hardened. “I think, Mr. Raslov, that diplomatic insults are low priority these days, to Dr. Kitzmiller and to everyone else. Perhaps if you told me your business — ”

“What is your position here?”

“I represent the United States government.”

Raslov considered for a moment, then said, “I have reason to believe that a countryman of mine may have come here and may be inside. His name is Anton Kuryakin.”

“Why would he come here?”

“That is not of immediate importance. Is he here?”

“He is not.”

“Am I to accept your word for that?”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”

“If he does come here can I depend on you to see that I am informed?”

“I can’t promise that.”

Raslov gave him a long, icy stare. “And you will not allow us inside?”

“I don’t have that authority,” Zachry said.

“Then I must take steps to protect the welfare of my countryman. Furthermore, your government may expect this matter to be protested in the strongest possible terms.”

Zachry nodded gravely and watched the Russians get back into their hired car. They drove a little way down the highway and stopped.

Go ahead and park there, he thought. Park there till Moscow votes Republican, for all I care. He nodded briskly to the guard and walked back inside. He turned to watch the security man relock the gate behind him.

Anton Kuryakin bounced on the stiff springs of the pickup truck as he drove along, gripping the wheel. The big, cushiony sedan had succumbed outside Hortonville to concealed damage to the radiator sustained in the collision with the light standard in Milwaukee.

Kuryakin had abandoned the sedan and walked a mile to the nearest farmhouse. When no one answered his knock there, he opened the door, to find a family of four sprawled in various grotesque attitudes. They had been dead at least two days. He shooed away the fat buzzing flies long enough to remove from the man’s overall pocket the keys to the truck parked in front of the house. The pickup was a no-nonsense, serviceable machine, closer to the Russian automobiles than the spongy sedan he had driven from Milwaukee.

The clouds had lowered in the sky and darkened to a dull slate gray. The heat pressed down like a giant hand. Kuryakin rolled down the windows on both sides of the cab and removed his heavy suit coat. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

On the seat next to him was a yellow-billed cap of the kind that adjusts to all head sizes. On the front of the cap was the name John Deere, which Kuryakin recalled was an American manufacturer of farm machinery. He tried the cap on and regarded himself in the rearview mirror. It looked rather well, he thought. He left it on.

He drove on along the highway he had carefully plotted on the map and slowed the pickup when he felt he must be nearing Biotron. He searched for familiar landmarks, but along that stretch of highway everything was the same — neatly kept farmhouses, with their cluster of outbuildings, separated by patches of dense forests.

Then, suddenly, there was a tall chain link fence on his right with posted warnings for trespassers. The truck passed a clump of maple trees, and Kuryakin saw up ahead the guard shack and gate of the Biotron plant.

Kuryakin’s elation died abruptly when he saw the limousine parked outside the gate. A small knot of men stood beside the machine, talking. There was no mistaking the dark, poorly cut suits of Viktor Raslov and the KGB men. Kuryakin kept his eyes on the road, his hands on the wheel, and drove on past the gate, being careful to maintain the same moderate speed. He gave silent thanks for the yellow cap and the rolled-up sleeves. A pickup truck such as he was driving was a common sight on Wisconsin roads, but even had someone taken the trouble to look at the driver, he would pass for an American farmer.

The trouble was that now he would have to wait. And like Frederich Kitzmiller, Anton Kuryakin was keenly aware that for every minute that slipped by, more people would die.