Jeff Jacobson - Sleep Tight

The sky over the lake was alive with helicopters.

“I’m awful damn tired,” Qween said. “Gonna rest now, I think.”

“You want help?” Ed asked without looking at her.

“You got a good heart for a cop, Ed Jones. And I thank you. I truly do. This is my job. Not yours.”

Ed nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He stood abruptly, pulling his .357 out of its holster. He held it by the barrel and offered it to her, handle first.

She took a deep breath, then finally took it. “Now go. Find your woman. Take care of her. And yourself.” She met his eyes, shiny with unspilled tears. “Gonna take me a nap.”

He kissed her forehead and left.

She watched Chicago burn for a while, felt her eyelids grow heavier and heavier. She considered the long sleep ahead of her and what awaited when she finally awoke. She could feel the strength slowly leaving her bones, replaced by something cold and sluggish.

She thought about her home. Gone now.

She opened her mouth and put the barrel of Ed’s .357 inside. As she watched the distant glow of the shattered Chicago skyline, she tilted the handgun until she felt the tip of the barrel tight against the roof of her mouth. She took one more deep breath and let it out slow, aware of the humidity in the air, the slow roll of the warship in the new waves spreading out across the lake, the coolness of the bench under her, the faint spattering of stars above, the rough checkerboard pattern of the handgun’s grip in her hand.

Then she squeezed the trigger.

And slept.

Ed got back in the police launch and heard the single gunshot.

He sat heavily in the stern. He kicked off the hazmat suit and threw it in the lake. He stuck his hand in his back pocket and pulled Sam’s flask out. He unscrewed the lid, avoiding the surreptitious glances from the two cops at the controls.

“You wanna go back?” one of them asked.

Ed shook his head. “No. It’s gone. How much gas we got?”

The cop checked. “Full tank.”

Ed took another shot from Sam’s flask, felt the burning as it trickled down his throat. “East. Michigan.”

The cops looked back at the ruined city. One threw the line back to the soldiers on the warship. His partner hit the throttle, spun the wheel, and they headed east.

Ed screwed the cap back on the flask and tucked it safely away. As they sped across the lake, he leaned back and watched the sky.

A harsh, foul-smelling wind swirled down Clinton, a narrow side street west of the Loop. Tiny pink particles floated in the air currents, little messengers of death for anything that used oxygen. Flowers wilted. Leaves fell from trees.

Down in the middle of the empty street, a manhole cover moved slightly. It rose up, then fell back. It was lifted again from underneath, and this time, it was pushed up hard enough to slip out of its circular edging, and shoved across the pavement. A figure in a hazmat suit climbed slowly out, then lifted another suit with a smaller figure curled inside.

The hazmat suit staggered along, carrying the second suit, slung over its shoulder like hobo luggage. It bent over, peering into parked cars. It came to a car, a late-model gray sedan, double parked, blocking the right lane. The door was unlocked. The keys were in the ignition.

The hazmat figure looked at the pink dust on his suit, then back at the peculiar rainbow smoke rising from the manhole. Beyond the manhole, back toward what was left of the Loop, a shimmering glow filled the sky.

Tommy lifted Grace, put her in the passenger seat, and strapped her in. He held the faceplate over her head and asked, “You good?”

She smiled as if sitting in this strange car, encased in an adult’s hazmat suit was the most natural thing in the world, and gave him another thumbs-up. He smiled back, unable to contain his joy. He had his daughter.

He twisted the key in the ignition, expecting to hear the monotonous clicking of a dead battery. But it had only been four days, after all. The engine turned over almost immediately. He turned on the headlights, put the car into drive, and they pulled away.

Kensington Publishing Corp.

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Copyright © 2013 Jeff Jacobson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

ISBN: 978-0-7860-3078-1

First electronic edition: August 2013

eISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3079-8

eISBN-10: 0-7860-3079-8

Notes

1

Taken from the World Health Organization website.