Graham Masterton - Plague

Dr. Petrie didn't know what to say. He stroked Prickles' sticky little forehead, and gave her another spoonful of baked beans.

'Leonard,' insisted Adelaide, 'I don't want to see you die, and I don't want to die myself.'

Dr. Petrie said slowly, 'If you had plague, honey, I wouldn't leave you behind. I won't leave Prickles behind, either.'

Adelaide sighed, and tapped her fingernails on the formica tabletop. 'In that case, I'm going alone. I'm sorry, Leonard. I love you. But I love life better than lost causes.'

Dr. Petrie wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist.

'I can't stop you,' he said hoarsely. 'I love you, too, as a matter of fact.'

'But you love Prickles more?'

He looked at her. He said, 'Don't try and measure my love, Adelaide. It won't work. I've told you I love you, and you should know how much. If you want to leave, I won't stand in your way, but I can't say that I'm glad to see you go. Just be realistic, that's all. Prickles is a six-year-old girl, and she's my daughter, and no father worthy of the name would leave her to die on her own.'

Prickles looked from Adelaide to Dr. Petrie and back again.

'Am I going to die, too?' she asked.

Dr. Petrie put his arm around her. 'Of course not, honey. We're just talking stupid.'

'I don't think we are,' said Adelaide. 'Listen, Leonard, I'm not cold-hearted and I'm not a bitch, but I beg you. Leonard, I love you. I don't know what else I can say. I love you and I want to see you live.'

'Will I be a angel?' said Prickles. 'No, baby, you won't,' Leonard Petrie said. He stood up, and collected his automatic weapon. Adelaide stayed where she was, picking at the few remnants of cheese and pickle on her plate.

'You're welcome to come along,' he said softly. 'I don't seriously think that Prickles has the plague, and I would like to have you with us.'

Adelaide pouted. 'You wouldn't think she had it, would you? You're her dear devoted daddy.'

Dr. Petrie didn't answer. He took Prickles by the hand and led her outside to the car. It was past noon now, and the heat rippled off the concrete car park in heavy waves. They climbed into the car, and Dr. Petrie started the engine. Adelaide stayed where she was, sitting inside the plate-glass window of MacDonald's, her face hidden from view.

He waited, engine turning over, for five minutes. Adelaide stayed at the table, not moving. Prickles said, 'Isn't Adelaide coming, daddy?'

Dr. Petrie wiped the sweat from his face. 'No,' he told her. 'I guess not.'

He released the brake, and moved off across the carpark and up to the highway. He slowed down, and took one last look in the mirror. Adelaide was still inside the hamburger bar, head bent, not even looking their way. He licked his lips, turned on to the highway, and put his foot down on the gas.

They passed Walt Disney World. It was silent and dead — a fairy-tale land that had been stricken by pestilence. The two of them, father and child, wandered around it for almost twenty minutes, looking at the turrets and towers and silent streets. A warm breeze blew from the west, making flags flutter, and waste paper dance across the empty sidewalks. Most grotesque and incongruous of all, a man in a Mickey Mouse head lay dead on the ground, still smiling cheerfully, still bright-eyed and round-eared and happy.

'Why is Mickey Mouse lying down?' Pickles demanded. He took her back to the car.

Adelaide spent nearly an hour preparing herself for her solitary escape from Florida. Around the back of MacDonald's, she found an abandoned Delta 88 with the keys still in it, and a tankful of gas. She drove it around to the front, opened the trunk, and packed it with cans of franks and beans. She also took a couple of MacDonald's coveralls that she found hanging in a closet, in case she needed a change of clothes.

She was almost ready to leave when she lifted her head and listened. At first she couldn't be sure — but then the distant sound became increasingly more raucous and distinct. Half-muffled by the wind, it was the faint ripsaw noise of approaching motorcycles.

Hurriedly, she packed away the last of her provisions. The motorcycle noise grew louder and louder, and soon it was clear that there were five or six of them, and they were traveling fast. She climbed into the car, and turned the key. The starter whinnied, but the motor wouldn't fire. She kept trying, jamming her foot down on the gas pedal, turning the key until at last the starter motor moaned in protest.

The rippling sound of the bikes was so near now that she could hear it even with the car windows closed. Sweat was streaming down her face. Until the motor started, the car's air-conditioning wouldn't work, and she was sitting in a ninety-degree Turkish bath with PVC seats. The first of the motorcycles came roaring around the curve in the road. It was a massive chopper, with extended forks, and it was ridden by a muscular Hell's Angel with dark glasses, wild hair, and a metal-studded jacket. Adelaide opened the car door, jumped quickly out, and made a run for MacDonald's.

The Hell's Angel swung his bike around the car-park in a wide, bellowing circle, followed by four others in formation. Adelaide pushed her way through the front door of the hamburger bar, and tried to shut it. The catch was broken. Desperately, whimpering under her breath, she tried to slide a heavy table across the restaurant and block the doorway.

Outside, the Hell's Angels parked their cycles, switched off their engines, and casually dismounted. They peeled off their jackets, took off their helmets, and then started to walk slowly towards the hamburger bar.

Adelaide tippy-toed hurriedly to the other end of the kitchen and tried the restaurant's back door. It was open. She tugged it ajar, and looked out. She saw the bodies that Dr. Petrie had seen, smothered in flies, but apart from that the back yard looked clear. Behind her, she heard the front door of the restaurant bang open.

Holding her breath, she stepped into the back yard and softly closed the door behind her. Then she crossed the yard as quickly as she could, and went through the gate into the car park at the rear of the buildings. She looked left and right, but there was no one around.

She was just about to circle around the back and see if she could find another car when one of the Hell's Angels, a tall bearded blonde in nothing but filthy jeans and motorcycle boots hung with chains, came running around the corner in front of her.

Adelaide's heart bumped. She turned around and started to run away, her hair flying behind her, along the length of the strip's backyards.

She was almost at the end, and just about to turn the corner, when another Hell's Angel emerged in front of her. Ginger-haired, muscular, in a sweat-stained purple tee-shirt. She turned, and tried to run across the car-park towards the back of some distant houses.

Her vision jolted as she ran. Glaring sunlight, concrete, abandoned cars. And behind her, the heavy loping of two silent men, and the chink-chunk of their chains and their boots. She saw far-away palms and white peaceful-looking homes.

It was the blonde who caught her. For a split-second, she could hear him panting up beside her, and then his hard hand snatched her shoulder, and she tripped and fell sideways on to the hot concrete. He grabbed her arms, dragged her on to her feet, and held her tight. They stared at each other, sweating and panting.

When the blonde had caught his breath, he licked his lips and said, 'Oats at last, Trumbo. Real good oats at last. What's your name, honey?'

Adelaide didn't answer. Her lungs felt scorched from running, and her arm was stinging where she had fallen.

'Silent type, huh?' he said. 'Well, don't you worry, because that's the way we like 'em. Ain't that correct?'