Jeff Jacobson - Sleep Tight

The soldier didn’t know what to do. On one hand, he wanted to follow protocol, but on the other, he was expected to think on his feet. The name of Reischtal not only checked out, it elicited serious respect and no small amount of fear. If he held the ambulance driver up, and stopped him from getting to the scene of an accident in time to save lives, then he would be responsible. And if he let him go, what could one man in an ambulance do when downtown was full of solders? Who would want to try and break in to the Loop anyway? He should be worrying instead about waiting for clearance when the ambulance came back.

“Fine, fine. But in the meantime, I’ll be contacting Dr. Reischtal.”

“You do that, pal. But can you move, now?”

The soldier gestured at the driver of one of the CTA buses, who pulled forward just enough to let the ambulance slip through. Once he was tearing down Lake Shore Drive, the lights of the skyline twinkling through the trees, Tommy pumped his fist and grinned like a madman. He couldn’t believe it. He felt like a genius for mentioning Dr. Reischtal. The fear that man cultivated was a goddamn two-edged sword.

He was a hundred yards away from the barricade when they started shooting at the ambulance.

CHAPTER 69

8:47 PM

August 14

There was still a chance, Dr. Menard told himself. Still a chance that the bug hadn’t bitten him. And even if it had, there was still a chance that it didn’t carry the virus. He didn’t believe it, not really, but he still insisted that a chance was a chance, no matter how small. If he lost hope, then what?

He had almost convinced himself that he might not be infected when he felt more movement in the small of his back. He squirmed around, trying to slap back there and rip his lab coat away at the same time. More bugs fell off of his coat and onto his hands. He whipped off the coat and to his horror, saw that a dozen or more bugs were crawling over it.

He screamed then, an inarticulate howl of rage and despair. He slammed backwards into the driver’s seat, trying to smash the bugs. The soft leather absorbed the impact, and the bugs didn’t notice. Several of them crawled down into his pants, travelling down along the crease between his buttocks.

Dr. Menard shot up, jammed his right hand back there, and raked his fingernails up through his butt crack. He scraped up three or four of the bugs the way a snowplow might collect a family of dead possums, but it was over. The bugs had gotten into the bus. They were on the floor, under the seat, crawling across the dashboard, everywhere.

Dr. Menard’s chance was gone.

He pulled the jump drive out of his pocket and stared at it. He’d fought his way through so much to get this information out to the public, only to have it end now. He had half a mind to get out and walk to the top of the stadium and throw the damn thing over the side. Maybe someday, someone would find it and give it to the proper authorities. He figured if he started up to the edge, they might shoot him before he got that far, but what else could he do?

He didn’t even have a phone. And even if he could find one, it wouldn’t help. The jump drive used a full-size USB connector, and Dr. Menard had never seen a phone with a port that large. He sat up straighter for a moment, reaching out to grab the steering wheel. Phones couldn’t take a jump drive, but laptops . . .

He jumped out, ignoring the bugs that still were crawling on him. If he could just manage to find someone with a laptop, one that could connect to the Internet on its own, or maybe even the stadium had their own local Wi-Fi that he could tap into. He couldn’t remember seeing any bags on the prison bus, so he ran around to other side of the closest bus and kicked open the doors.

Somebody growled from under the bus. People were waking up.

Dr. Menard jumped onboard. At first, the bus looked empty. He took another step, bent down, saw the sleepers. They were all either curled up on the seat or had fallen asleep hiding underneath the seats. A lot of them had bags. He started through the bus, testing the satchels and backpacks, weighing them, sizing them up for a laptop.

Dr. Menard had accepted the clear outcome of being bitten. He knew, on an immediate level, that he was infected and would likely die within a few days. Of course, he didn’t truly understand the implications of his death, he hadn’t had the time to sit and contemplate. He only understood that he had a few hours left to make a difference. If he could find a laptop with the right connections, the evidence, all the lists of names, pictures, and even video of the test subjects waking from the deep sleep could be transmitted, and even if he was gone, it could have a lasting impact. He had a catalog of every horrific act inside the hospital, with all kinds of helpful information like names, dates, lab work, and it would crucify those responsible.

He might be dying, but the information could live forever, if he could find the right laptop. He kept dragging bags out from the seats, until he came across one guy who had a laptop in a satchel still wrapped around his shoulders.

Dr. Menard felt the laptop inside, and ripped the strap over the guy’s head. He unzipped it and pulled out the laptop.

The guy started to wake up. He stared at Dr. Menard, blinking furiously, trying to clear his head.

Dr. Menard opened the laptop and almost cried out in relief when he discovered it was already snapping out of its own sleep, powering up and ready. His forefinger slid across the trackpad, clicking on the Web browser. A few blank Web pages sprang out of the menu bar, still waiting for a signal.

“Please, please,” Dr. Menard begged softly.

The owner of the laptop felt differently. He snarled, leapt forward, and slapped the laptop out of Dr. Menard’s hands. They both went down, sprawling down the bus aisle. The movement and noise woke some of the others up. They groaned, whipping their heads back and forth, trying to claw their way out of a sea of bad dreams.

Frustration exploded in Dr. Menard. He drove his knee into the side of the man’s face, knocking him into another seat. The occupant of the new seat moaned in pain. Dr. Menard grabbed at the laptop and scooted backwards. A quick glance at the screen told him the pages were loading. Slowly, but they were loading.

He had a signal.

He snapped the laptop shut and clutched it to his chest. Too many people were waking up on the bus. They were starting to keen and shriek as they swam up to consciousness, only to find unimaginable pain waiting for them at the surface. He stumbled back down the aisle, fighting his way through the outstretched arms until he fell down the steps to the cool grass outside.

He rolled over, and found the field was infested with the walking infected. They were up and moving, but they didn’t understand what they were looking for, only that the loud noises and bright lights were unbearably painful, and they would hack and slash at anyone in their path. Dr. Menard folded his arms over the laptop and held it tight against his chest, then marched forward, eyes only on the driver’s door of the prison bus.

He darted across the narrow space, climbed up into the driver’s seat, and slammed the door behind him. He shot the bolts, locking himself inside. He took a moment to assess the infected lurching about the front of the bus, then put them out of his mind, opened the laptop, and fished around for the jump drive.

The Man was not happy. “You told us you could handle this, that if we evacuated the city, the situation would improve. But from the reports we’re getting, it sounds as if things are getting worse.”

“I promised no such thing,” Dr. Reischtal said into his phone. No video conference this time—he stood outside one of the many FEMA trailers set up around Soldier Field, staring at the lake. He was not focusing on the president. Instead, he was looking forward to getting Tommy out to the medical lab out on the warship. “I merely gave you my opinion on how best to contain this pandemic.”