Greg Cox: A Touch of Fever

“Actually, the real Annie Oakley, a.k.a. Phoebe Ann Mosley, visited the Warehouse back in 1915,” Artie said pedantically. “She and Buffalo Bill were close friends of Thomas Edison, who featured them in some of his early kinetoscopes…” “That was a rhetorical question!” she exclaimed, cutting off a typically Artie-ish digression. The seat rocked beneath her and she had to grab onto a rail to keep from tumbling off the carriage. That hair-raising dogfight in the Fokker was starting to seem like a leisurely sightseeing tour by comparison.

She wished she’d thought to hang on to her crash helmet. “Not really a good time for a history lesson!” “I suppose not,”Artie conceded. He glanced at the squirt gun. “So are you going to fire that thing or not?” “Okay, okay!” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be such a noodge.”

Down on the ground, Worrall darted from side to side, searching for some way to evade the carriage and its drivers. Finding himself trapped without a horse of his own, he threw out his left hand. A hazy gray mist began to manifest from his fingers. “You asked for this!” he snarled. “You have no idea who-or what-you’re dealing with!” “ Au contraire, fever freak,” Claudia replied. “This is what we do.”

Exhausted, the horse began to slow to a trot. That’s more like it, Claudia thought. Taking aim, she let loose with the Super Soaker. A thick purple spray shot from its muzzle, reminding her of the emergency hose back at the Warehouse. The spray arced through the air before dousing Worrall in a grape-colored cascade. Both gloves briefly lit up like all ten fingers were wearing Benjamin Franklin’s electric ring (which Claudia sometimes used to explore murky conduits back at the Warehouse). A blinding flash brought tears to Claudia’s eyes.

Worrall’s own eyes were protected by a heavy layer of goo.

“Bull’s-eye!” She pumped the squirt gun and gave him a second blast for luck. This time she hit him square in the chest. “You’ve been slimed, dude!” Artie nodded approvingly. The carriage slowed to a stop in front of her target. “Nice shot.” “I’ll say!” she agreed. “Did you see that? Do I get a gold star or what?” “How many times do I have tell you? We don’t do stars.” “Maybe it’s time to reconsider that policy?” Claudia suggested. “Personally, I’m feeling very starworthy right now.” The Super Soaker had lived up to its name-and then some.

Worrall looked like he’d been dipped in a vat of purple sludge.

Neutralizer dripped from his hair, face, and clothing. Claudia knew the feeling. Her own clothes were still sticky. She couldn’t wait to change into some clean duds if and when they saved the day. “What-”

Worrall sputtered, spitting goo from his lips. He was smart enough not to swallow any of it. Wiping the gunk from his eyes, he gazed down in bewilderment at the slimy, drippy mess he had become. He glowered at Claudia and her squirt gun. “Are you serious?” He sounded seriously pissed off. “Do you think this is some sort of silly slapstick comedy?” Clearly, he had no idea what the neutralizer was for. “I don’t who you are,” he fumed, “but that’s the last imbecilic prank you’re ever going to play.” He shook his left fist at Claudia and Artie. “Prepare to choke to death on your own phlegm and bile!” Ick, Claudia thought. Despite her surprisingly expert marksmanship, she experienced a moment of anxiety. The neutralizer was mucho effective, most of the time, but it didn’t always work. Defanging artifacts was not an exact science. What if the gloves still had a little mojo left?

She tried squirting Worrall again, just to be safe, but only a few last drops dribbled from the muzzle. That last mega-blast had emptied the gun. Remind me to bring a backup soaker next time, she thought. If there’s a next time. Worrall’s gaunt face grimaced in concentration.

He clenched his left fist. Claudia nervously felt her forehead to see if she was running a fever, but her brow seemed to be just normal body temperature, at least as far as she could tell. A sideways glance at Artie didn’t find him keeling over, either. She crossed her fingers.

“Looking good so far.” “Damnit!” Worrall stared in anger and confusion at his gooey glove. Whatever he was trying to do wasn’t happening. The gloves sparked briefly before fizzling out entirely. A tiny wisp of gray mist issued from the left glove, then dissipated. The right glove couldn’t even muster a glow. He smacked the gloves together, trying to get them to work. “What’s wrong? Why isn’t it working?” Claudia grinned at Artie. “Looks to me like the fever has broken.” “My diagnosis as well, Nurse Donovan.” “‘Nurse’?” She feigned indignation.

“Sexist much?” “Well, I’m not going to be the nurse,” Artie replied.

“I can’t even stand the sight of blood.” “Wimpazoid.” Their banter was wasted on Worrall. His angry expression was overwritten by panic as he realized that the gloves were out of commission. Abandoning the cane as well, he bolted from the stalled carriage. A stand of elm trees at the west end of the meadow offered cover, and he made for it on foot.

No doubt he hoped to escape the park altogether and lose himself in the teeming streets of Manhattan. He didn’t get far. Myka blocked his escape. A bit rumpled and battered-looking, she didn’t look disposed to go easy on him. “Let’s try this again,” she said. Unlike Worrall, her Tesla still had plenty of juice left. Artificial lightning leaped from the gun to Worrall, who could no longer heal himself or shrug off the powerful electrical jolt. Scorched goo sizzled and he toppled backward onto the lawn. In the distance, the bronze Union soldier looked on from atop his granite pedestal. The sun came out, forming a halo around the Civil War monument. A trick of the light made it seem like the statue was smiling. Myka threw the solder a salute before hurrying to check on Worrall. She approached the supine figure cautiously, just in case he was playing possum, and nudged him sharply with the toe of her boot. He didn’t stir. It appeared that he was out cold for real. His eyes were shut. His body was limp. The smell of singed neutralizer rose from his motionless form. “About time,” she muttered. Taking no chances, she cuffed his wrists before peeling the gloves from his hands. They were covered with goo, but she didn’t care. Purple gloves protected her own hands from whatever power might still be lurking in Clara Barton’s corrupted hand wear. Worrall whimpered in his sleep, and tried to yank his hands away from her, but Myka didn’t let that slow her down. Every minute counted. “Hang on, Pete. I’m coming.” Claiming both gloves, she left Worrall sprawled on the grass and sprinted back to where Pete lay dying. Claudia and Artie were already attending to him while the carriage horse grazed on the lawn a few yards away. The animal’s flanks were drenched with sweat.

Myka didn’t give the horse a second glance. “How is he doing?” she asked anxiously. Please, don’t let it be too late! Artie crouched beside Pete, checking his pulse. He shook his head dolefully. Claudia swallowed a sob as she clutched Pete’s hand. His face was gray. His whole body was shaking. A thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Myka had seen enough old movies to know that almost always meant somebody was a goner. An almost-physical pain walloped her. She stared at him in horror. “We’re losing him,” Artie confirmed. “No! Just… no.” She had hoped that simply neutralizing the gloves would be enough to cure Pete, but apparently it didn’t work that way. More active measures were called for. She fought back against despair. Pete needed her now. “I’m not going to let that happen.” The gloves were still dripping with goo, but she wiped them off on the grass as best she could. She removed her own latex gloves and tossed them aside. Ignoring the left glove for the moment, she started to put on Nadia’s glove. The right glove, in more ways than one. “Hold on,” Artie said. His bushy eyebrows shot upward in alarm.