Jacqueline Druga - Omnicide

She shook her head. “No, why?”

“You have a rash starting.”

She glanced down to the small red patch on her wrist. “Strange. I did run out to my car. Damn it. But just for a second.”

“Keep an eye on it.” Caine then walked to the ER secretary and handed her the flyer. “Can you call this number, it’s important, find out if anyone is reporting mass reactions to this bug spray.”

“Absolutely, Doctor Caine.”

He left the flyer with her, then made his way to the first patient. He could hear her calling the number, the beeping tones as she dialed and the recorded message that came over the speaker phone: “Thank you for calling the Department of Agriculture, Pred extermination division. At this time all lines are busy. Estimated wait time, six hours and three minutes.”

Caine skid to a stop and glanced over his shoulder.

The secretary looked bewildered.

“Try once more then call Lincoln Memorial see if they have anything—if not, tell them we need help.”

“Right away.”

Confident it was handled, Caine squirted sanitizer on his hands, grabbed gloves, placed them on, and walked into the exam room. “Mrs. Rose, I’m Doctor Caine. Let’s see what’s going on with you.”

Without a doubt in his mind it was a reaction. Her lips were swollen, as were her bloodshot eyes. There were, in places, splotches on her face, but her neck was red. Her chief complaint and discomfort were her arms.

Both had large patches of welting, purplish-red and raised. The skin appeared to be pulled so tight, burst blood vessels could be seen. Some of her rash bled and small lesions formed on the skin.

It was like nothing he had ever seen. For certain he would call for help because Caine just didn’t know where to begin.

Seaver, Arizona

Seaver, Arizona

For an older guy, Sheriff Thomas considered himself pretty up on technology. He had the best computer system, and since he didn’t protest the new cell tower, internet was never better.

He spent his days just keeping track of things that were going on in his town; in the summer months ahead he would deal with tourists that travelled through on the famed Route 66. Tourists that, while charmed by Griffin, wouldn’t stay there because their technology was subpar.

He tried to tell them to spruce up, but the town refused.

Going to Griffin was like going back in time.

On a positive note, most of them couldn’t read the stories on the internet when the scandal about the chief, for some reason, was all over the national news.

Thomas laughed.

Griffin was a strange town, so it made sense that the tour bus for some reality cooking show had pulled into his town with a camera crew. After that, the one and only cab in town dropped off the director and a bus driver.

Thomas saw it as a way to make things interesting in town, suggesting to them since the government initiative to eradicate the pred bugs was commencing forty miles west, they should stay put for the day.

The government was spraying—that wasn’t untrue—but by the time they pulled into town, the ‘stay inside for an hour’ for that area was nearly over.

They agreed to stay which must have prompted creative juices. The director told Thomas that after lunch, if it was alright, he wanted to do some filming.

Thomas was all for that, even had Wesley at the motel give them cheap rates.

In the two hours since they’d arrived, they caused an excited buzz in town.

A positive one. It was nice to see.

He grabbed a slice of apple pie from the coffee shop and sat at his deputy’s desk so he could watch the happenings outside.

The film crew were outside Frieda’s bookstore.

He spotted Don ‘Hillbilly Jim’ Smith watching like a fanboy.

The delightful mixture of warm cinnamon and cold ice cream swirled in his mouth and, hating to do it, he rushed to swallow because the phone rang.

“Seaver Police, Sheriff Thomas speaking. How can I help you?”

“Hello, sir, this is going to be a strange call,” the man on the other line said.

“Well, nothing is strange after this day. What can I do for you?”

“My name is John Feeny. I can’t find or get a hold of my wife.”

“When did you last see her?” Thomas asked.

“About three weeks ago.”

“And you’re just calling now.”

“No. no,” John said with a chuckle. “She’s on the road with her television show.”

Thomas raised his eyes to the window. “And she broke down?”

“Yes, last I heard she was in Griffin. A woman with a gun was at her bus door…”

“Crazy Ada,” Thomas said. “She’s not harmful. I think your wife’s camera crew and director are here in Seaver.”

“Yeah, she said they left her. But the phone went dead.”

“That’s Griffin for you. You’re lucky you even got through at all on her cell,” Thomas said. “Have you tried Griffin police?”

“I did. That’s why I called you, no one answered.”

Thomas laughed. “Yep, that’s Griffin as well. And you figured, we’re a nearby town.”

“Exactly. I thought maybe you communicated with them,” John said. “I know it’s a weird request. But any way you can get through. I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

“Listen, I’ll check, but I can assure you if she’s in Griffin, she’s fine. If they towed her vehicle to the shop there, she’s in great hands. But like I said, I’ll try to reach someone there. In the meantime, send a fax to Brass Balls and Beers.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s a local drinking hole there. I’ll give you the fax. They love faxes. People fax their orders to them all the time. You fax you get ten percent. Weird shit.”

“Thank you, Sheriff, I’ll do that. Do you have the number?”

Thomas did. He gave it to John Feeny, reassured him once again his wife was fine, and he would do his part to help. After he hung up, he knew where to start. It would be with the director. Maybe he knew a way to get ahold of Mrs. Feeny.

A few bites left of his pie, Thomas looked down to the runny white of the ice cream. “Damn it, my vanilla bean melted.” He hurried to eat the remainder, wiped his mouth, and stood.

Just as he opened the door, he felt a twinge to his ear, like he was bitten by a bug. Thomas flicked his ear, then scratched it as he walked outside.

“Hey.” Don trotted over to him. “You’re missing the fun.”

“I was watching it. Anyhow, I need to talk to the director. I just got a call from John Feeny looking for his wife.”

“Oh, wow. She’s the star of the show. Her bus broke down. She stayed with it.”

“That’s what I figured. I mean, they wouldn’t leave the woman there alone,” Thomas said. “I think—”

Thud.

Thomas looked around. “Did you her that?”

“Yeah, what the hell?” Don peered around as well.

Thud.

It was a mystery quickly solved when another thud-thud not only occurred but hit Don on the head.

A dead bird.

After bouncing off his baseball cop, the bird joined the other two black birds on the ground nearby.

Thomas bent down to take a closer look. The wings were spread out, beak open, and it looked as if half its feet were missing.

“What the hell?” Thomas said.

“Probably got in a plane or something,” Don said.

Not really convinced that was the right explanation, Thomas agreed with a ‘probably’ and looked up to the sky. It was clear and blue, and he couldn’t see any other birds, nor did any more fall from the sky. Brushing it off as another weird thing for the day, Thomas thought no more about it and walked with Don to the film crew.

The Texaco sign was vintage and in pristine condition, as was the rest of the gas station. It was a relic from days gone by, kept up for appearances down to the style of the pumps and the vintage cars parked in the lot. The only thing not old-fashioned was the modern-day price of fuel.