Chapter Four
The ringing of a telephone coaxed Martin from a deep sleep. He opened his eyes to find himself in his own bed. Without lifting his head Martin reached for the telephone which sat on a nightstand next to the bed. Picking up the phone he brought it to his ear. His voice was harsh from sleep and crackled as he spoke.
"Hello?"
"Bruce it's me, Dave. Welcome Back!" It was Martin's editor Dave Snider.
"Dave? What time is it?"
"Ummm its eight-o-clock. Listen, I know that I promised you a few days off but I really need you to submit your story and then I have something else for you, something hot!"
" What? I haven't even started my story; I don't even have all of my notes organized." retorted Martin in a grumpy tone.
"I know, I know, listen... push it to me from home sometime over the next couple of days, O.K.? But listen Steve has gone AWAL on us and..."Martin could sense the excitement in Dave's voice.
"Steve? Steve who?"
"Steve Pratt he's missing. I had him working..."
Martin interrupted, "Missing? What ya mean missing?"
"Missing! Ya know, gone, vanished. He was working on this story and he just disappeared."
"Wait a minute man. I'm still half asleep. Now just what is it that you want me to start on and what's it got to do with Steve?"
Dave answered, "Well, let me start from the beginning. It seems that there is some sort of really nasty bug going around. As far as the local medical types can tell it's some brutal exotic strain of the flu. It's fatal nearly ten percent of the time. Anyhow, I gave the story to Steve. He worked on it for a couple of days before he called me from his cell phone from somewhere around the Port. He said that he couldn't talk on the phone but that he was onto something big...really big! I haven't seen or heard from him since, neither has his fiancé. Matter of fact she filed a missing persons report yesterday. Bruce, we can't afford to let the broadcast boys get this and run with it! People are literally dropping like flies and I need you to pick up where Steve left off. See if ya can pick up the trail...ya know? I know that he started at the Metro Medical Center. So what ya say? Ya up to it? Could be the bug and the story of the century, another SARS or AIDS. Ya know what they say if it bleeds, it leads and baby this is one bloody story!"
"Yeah, yeah, ok Dave I'll knock out my Coast Guard story and get on this so called scoop. Keep me informed about Steve, ok?"
"Listen, I know that he was in contact with a Dr. Garcia at our hospital .Later."
"Later."
Martin hung the phone up and lay back in his bed. Images of the Courageous drifted uneasily through his troubled mind. The experiences of the brief trip had shaken his belief system to its very core. His mind, it seemed, was demanding that he take the time to sort through the tangle of emotions and thoughts and to somehow apply them to his life. Martin thought about the person on the Canarian. He wondered why somebody would blow themselves up for the sake of a cocaine shipment. His mind drifted to White and Anderson and about how tragic it was that Anderson survived the bombing only to succumb to some funky third world strain of pneumonia. But Martin had a new story to pursue. The soul searching would have to wait. But that's how it had always been with Bruce Martin. In Martin's life demons are to be avoided and never confronted, let alone conquered.
Martin sat up in bed. "I wonder what the hell happened to Steve?" he thought. "Oh well, his loss, my gain!" he said aloud. Martin never really liked Steve Pratt; for Steve was a young and attractive go getter, fresh out of college. Martin was a decade his senior and viewed him as an up and coming threat.
An hour after his conversation with Dave, Martin was strolling across the Hospital parking lot. A brisk winter breeze neutralized the brilliant sun burning in a perfect blue sky. Bruce Martin usually existed within the confines of his own little world, scarcely aware of his surroundings. This day, however, was so glorious that even Martin reveled in it, noticing nothing else. He stopped in the middle of the large parking lot. A smile broke across his face as he tilted it to catch the warmth of the sun. The cool North wind excited his skin. He heard a mockingbird warbling in a large Maple, made naked by winter's advance into the sub-tropics. Martin continued on, weaving his way between the parked cars. He squinted his eyes to shield them from periodic bursts of sunlight that was reflected off of the glass and chrome. The automatic doors of the Emergency room swung open as Martin approached them. Once inside, Martin's eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. At first all Martin could make out was a flickering television set mounted high on the far wall. Martin's eye sight slowly acclimated to reveal a waiting room full of people. Some sat staring vacantly at the drolling T.V. Others wrapped in blankets slumped weakly in their chairs. Announcements over the P.A. competed with a cacophony of coughs and moans. Martin walked meekly up to the reception desk.
Without looking up from her paperwork the receptionists asked, "How may I help you? Do you have an insurance card?"
Martin responded in as pleasant a voice as he could manage, "Uhm, yes mam, my name is Bruce Martin, I'm a reporter with the Sun, I'm here to see Doctor Garcia...please."
The receptionist looked at Martin across the top of her glasses. "I'll let the doctor know you're here. Have a seat and she'll be right with you."
Martin turned and quickly surveyed the waiting room. He walked over to the farthest corner, as far as possible from the many sick people who populated the room. Martin sat uncomfortably on the edge of his seat, fidgeting nervously with his hands and cringing with each cough that he heard. After the receptionist called out to Martin, "The doctor will see you now." Martin stood and approached a pair of large doors. As he drew near he heard a loud buzzing noise as the doors swung open. The emergency room was bright with fluorescent light. People swirled around busily moving between rooms. The smell of disinfectants hung heavy in the air. Martin walked towards the nurse's station. Before he could speak an attractive dark haired woman stepped out from a side room.
"Mister Martin? Hello I'm Doctor Garcia, it's a pleasure to meet you," she said extending her hand to shake Martin's.
Martin was slightly taken aback as he was expecting a man and not a beautiful young woman. Doctor Garcia had flawless olive skin, her coal black hair was pulled up in the back with thin strands of dark curls spilling out and framing her face that was punctuated with a perfect smile and sparkling grass green eyes. Martin looked directly into those eyes in order to "size up" the Doctor. Martin took a special pride in his ability to size up almost instantly by looking into their eyes. It was a skill that he developed as a reporter. This ability proved invaluable on many occasions for the journalist. Martin could determine, with a fair amount of accuracy, a person's credibility and character. The Doctor's eyes betrayed her exhaustion and that she was troubled, deeply troubled.
"Come into my office Mister Martin we can talk here, but only briefly, as you saw in the waiting room we are very busy these days." said the doctor guiding Martin into a small room with a couch and a desk. "You must forgive the clutter; this is actually the attending physician's office. It is shared by five of us. We take breaks here, eat here and sleep here...so it's a little messy. Please, have a seat." She said gesturing towards an empty chair. She sat on the edge of a large wooden desk and crossed her arms across her chest.
"Well Mister Martin how may I assist you?"
"Well, I guess that my first question is what is this epidemic, I mean it is my understanding that this is some kind of influenza, is that correct?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"Why is this thing so deadly, I mean I know that the flu can kill little kids and old folks, but this thing is killing healthy young adults, right? Why?"
"Mister Martin, most people have little concept of just what influenza really is. It is a respiratory infection caused by a virus. The Influenza virus, of which there are many, is an extremely adaptable virus. By that I mean it has a propensity for mutation, which makes it a dangerous virus."
&nb
sp; "Why is a mutating virus dangerous?"
"Because your body's immune system can recognize a type of virus and generate the antigens necessary to combat the infection. But if that virus mutates, if it changes, then your body does not recognize it until the invaders have made vast inroads in the infection process. And with this bug that delay is lethal. This thing has a very high mortality rate, perhaps as high as twenty five percent. Do you know how unheard of that is Mister Martin? I mean, even the Spanish Flu didn't have that kind of virulence, H5N1 does though but I don't think that's what we're dealing with, at least we'd better pray that this isn't H5N1."
"H5N1?"
"The bird flu, Avian Influenza."
"What is Spanish Influenza?"
"In 1918 a strain of influenza called the Spanish Flu infected hundreds of millions of people and killed something like thirty million people around the globe. I can't imagine that this is what we are dealing with. I have sent tissue and blood samples to the CDC. What is really surprising is that I seem to be getting the run around by them, even though this bug is extremely contagious and lethal. I just don't get those people."
"Well it may be that they are more bureaucrats than doctors there, who knows. This hospital saw the first cases in inmates, prison guards and law enforcement officers. But within the last two days we have been getting a lot of cases from all walks of life...except the usual suspects"
"The usual suspect? What ya mean by that?"
"In a normal year most of the influenza fatalities are the very old or the very young. Most of these people seem to be young to middle aged people who are healthy, except of course for having the flu."
"Who was your first patient with this flu?"
"I'm sorry Mister Martin I can't divulge that information to you."
"Oh, um, sorry...of course. Well, can you describe how this thing infects a person, like how do you catch it and what happens to you once you've got it?"
"Well, as I said it is a strain of Influenza and like all influenza viruses it is extremely contagious. Somebody coughs and the particles of saliva are loaded with viruses and they float through the air and are inhaled by another. Somebody coughs into their hand and then opens a door, somebody else goes through that door and touches the door knob. Now their hands are infected with the virus and say the rub their eyes or nose and now they become infected. It's like the proverbial pebble tossed into the water. The rings just keep radiating out from patient zero."
"Patient zero?"
"That's a medical term, the first person with an infection. Find your patient zero and you will usually locate the source of an outbreak. As far as symptoms go this is an especially gruesome bug. The person shows all the typical flu symptoms, fever, body aches, and malaise. But then after a day or so a sharp hoarse barking kind of cough becomes more and more pronounced. I mean once you hear this cough, you'll never forget it. It haunts you. As far as how this thing kills there are actually several things going on simultaneously. The incredibly high fever, we're talking 104 or so, can initiate organ failure. But the main threat is a strange kind of pneumonia that seems to occur with this strain of Flu. The onset of pneumonia is incredibly rapid and it is very aggressive. Their lungs are so deteriorated that the victims actually begin to have a bluish coloration of the skin, from a lack of oxygen. Just hours away from death the patient will begin to cough that horrid cough more frequently. At first the cough is not productive but with the progression of time the cough becomes nearly constant and the patient begins to produce a frothy mucus tinged with blood. With the passage of time, and mind you we are talking only about two or three hours, the foam becomes more and more filled with blood until it is completely red. When the patient is just minutes away from death they become incontinent and begin to pant and gasp for breath. Death comes suddenly, a deep gasp or two, a mildly convulsive exhale and the patient dies. It is nearly the same scenario for every patient that I have seen, it's creepy. I can say that from the onset of symptoms to death is pretty much two, two and a half days."
"My God!" cried an astonished Martin.
The Doctor continued, "Oh yes, SARS received a lot of press and it was nowhere near as virulent as this bug."
Martin sat there holding his pad and pen. He had become so alarmed that he realized that he was no longer taking notes. Now he knew that his original assessment of the Doctor was correct. She was deeply troubled and with good reason; there was a new and hideous disease stalking the denizens of Miami. Before Martin could say another word the Doctor's pager went off. She looked down at her pager as she spoke, "I'm sorry Mister Martin but I must leave you now. But you may stay here until you are finished", she said noticing that Martin was scribbling furiously in his note pad.
Martin finished his notes and stood to leave when he observed a stack of folders sitting on the Doctor's desk. He leaned over the desk and quickly thumbed through them. They were medical records. Martin turned and watched the door intently for a moment. Then nervously he flipped through the stack of folders again. He found the records of a patient admitted three days before with influenza. He scribbled down the name, Susan Perry, before quickly walking out of the office into the bustling Emergency Room.
Martin walked quickly past the Doctor when he heard her call out to him.
"Mister Martin! Please wash your hands over at that sink." She said nodding towards a sink next to the nurse's station. "And wash again once you leave the hospital." Martin obediently complied. Turning to thank the doctor he saw her bending over a man lying on a gurney. She wore a mask and gloves. The man lurched up with the violence of a loud and hoarse cough. The flu! This man had the Flu. Martin realized that he was within close proximity to this deadly bug. He quickly walked out through the automatic doors. The dark and sterile world of the hospital yielded instantly to the bright sun of the parking lot. The crackling of the hospital PA was replaced by the sweet song of the Mockingbird. Martin wove his way through the cars reflecting the brilliant Florida winter sun until he reached the familiar safety of his own vehicle.
Martin left the parking lot and drove down the wide palm lined avenue known as Old Dixie Highway. He pulled into the parking lot of the first gas station that he came to and parked next to a phone booth. Martin walked up to the booth and flipped through the weather wrinkled pages. He found the name Susan Perry. Martin glanced to the left and then to his right and then he tore the page from the phone book. Back in his car Martin dialed the phone number. But before hitting the send button he reconsidered. "Perhaps it would be better to catch her off guard, to just show up in person." Martin started his car and pulled out onto the highway. He drove across McArthur Causeway heading towards the beach. He could see the ships leaving the chalky blue waters of Biscayne Bay, moving down Government Cut towards the open ocean. The causeway ended and Martin turned onto A1A and drove north. Finally he found the street from the phone book listing. He parked and got out of his car only to be confronted by a large fifteen story condominium complex. The phone book only gave the complex address and not any specific unit for Susan Perry. Martin walked into the lobby looking to see if any names were visible on the mailboxes. That strategy failed. He would have to call her after all. Walking back towards his car Martin noticed a silver Honda with a license plate on the front bumper that read "Susan". The car was parked in a spot marked as 921. Martin wondered if that might be Susan Perry's car and if 921 was her unit number. It was a weekday and the chances of finding someone at home were slim. Martin strode back into the lobby and rode the elevator up to the ninth floor. He stalked down the hall searching for 921. Finding it, he knocked on the door. Much to his surprise the door slowly opened and a young woman peered out from behind it.
"Hello, my name is Bruce Martin and I'm a reporter with the Biscayne Sun. Are you Susan Perry?"
The woman simply nodded.
"Would it be alright if I could ask you some questions?" inquired Martin.
" 'bout what?"
"Well I'm doing a story on the recen
t outbreak of a deadly new strain of the flu..." Before Martin could finish his sentence the woman swung the door open. She spun around and walked into a living room bright with the winter sun. "C'mon in and have a seat." said the woman as she pointed to a recliner.
Martin sat down and flipped his notepad open. He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket. Clicking the button on top of the pen he spoke as he wrote. "Well Miss Perry, I understand that you had a nasty bout of this bug."
"First let me ask you a question." said Susan. Her face betrayed her annoyance with Martin. "How the hell did you know that? Aren't medical records, like supposed to be kept secret or something?"
"Uhmm, well yes that is true but I heard from a mutual acquaintance that you were ill with this horrible bug." said Martin. Of course none of this was true and Martin was surprised when the Susan didn't question him further.
Her countenance eased in its agitation. "What do ya want to know?"
"Well let's start with where do ya think you caught it from?"
"From Sid...yeah I know I caught it from Sid."
"Sid?"
"Yeah my fiancé... Sid Owens. He had this thing but he didn't make it." she said in a voice quivering with emotion. She pulled her legs up to her body and pulled a blanket off the back of the couch that she was sitting on. She wrapped the blanket around her as she diverted her eyes out the balcony doors and stared out at the view of Biscayne Bay.
"Yeah, my poor Sid. I never got to say goodbye. I mean by the time he was in the hospital I was damn near dead here. I finally managed to get to the phone and dial nine one one. I was pretty much out of it in the hospital. When I came around two weeks had passed and they told me that Sid had died."
"Do you have any idea of where Sid may have caught this thing?"
She looked back at Martin again and he could see anger in her eyes. "From one of his scum bag coke buddies. He had a real problem with coke. I told him that if I ever heard of him doing that stuff again I would leave him. Well, from what I hear one of his buddies had a new source, supposedly high quality stuff real cheap. Anyhow I found out that Sid was doing coke again. I lost it. I threw my engagement ring at him and stormed out of his apartment. It was two days later that he got sick. Three days after going to the hospital he was dead. I'm pretty sure he got it from one of those guys. Sid was healthy as a horse, it's just weird that he gets back into that scene and five days later he's dead."
"What did Sid do? I mean what did he do for a living?"
"Sid was an attorney."
Martin was surprised. "An attorney?"
"Yeah, he worked down at the Federal Building downtown. That's where one of the coke heads introduced Sid to some homeless guy who had connections to some big shot importer of cocaine. I warned him...coke or me. Well I guess he just couldn't resist. I tried to reason with him. I told him to be careful, street people don't sell high grade cocaine. That shit was probably laced with something. Poor Sid."
"Do you know this homeless guy's name?"
"No, just what they called him."
"What was that?"
"Doc...they called him Doc. Isn't that ironic?" she said as her eyes welled up. "I'm still all screwed up. I mean I lose my health and fiancé all at once. I can still barely breathe. They think that I may have permanent lung damage. I have zero energy and I have to take an antidepressant."
"Really?."
"Yeah, the doctor at the hospital told me that this bug isn't the ordinary flu. She said that she has seen a couple dozen cases over the last month and that depression seemed to be associated with the thing. That is if you survive." She curled up even tighter under the blanket. She raised her hand to her mouth and coughed. The cough suddenly made Martin realize that this woman had been sick with this strange and deadly virus and that the bug was in her condo. Panic set in but Martin kept a cool exterior while extricating himself from the interview and the apartment as quickly as possible.
"Well Miss Perry I have all I need. I'm sorry for your loss and I hope that your recovery is a full and speedy one.
"Yeah, right." She said in a half laugh that prompted yet another cough.
Martin could hear the voice of the doctor in his mind, telling him how contagious the flu is. Martin stood and spoke. "Don't bother getting up...I can let myself out."
Martin drove back across the causeway towards downtown. He was thinking through the information he had just collected as he wove his way through the bustling streets of Miami. He turned off of North Miami Avenue into the Federal Building's enormous parking lot. The only empty spaces were at the far end of the lot. Martin parked and reviewed his notes. He decided that he would kick around and try to find out as much information on the homeless man known as Doc. Martin stepped out of the car and strode across the lot.
Towering over the parking lot was the Federal Building. Twenty five stories high, the brilliant white building wore rows of windows that glistened in the sunshine like strands of diamonds. As Martin made his way closer to the building he began to notice that the structure was in decay. The glistening windows were streaked with rust stains running like tears from the metal frames. The block was cracked in stair step fashion that ran up the building for several stories. Martin walked on a sidewalk that ran along the side of the building. Here the white paint was stained green with the algae that took advantage of the deep shade provided by two very large oak trees. Martin moved to the front of the building and stood beside a light pole to avoid the stream of people flowing past as they went about their business.
Martin wasn't quite sure just what it was that he was looking for. He felt that he would know it when he saw it. Martin stood for several minutes watching the businessmen and attorneys jostle past. Suddenly Martin saw something that caught his eye, a person. A man, an obviously homeless man, a bum if you will. His soiled and tattered clothes made him stand out in the flow of Armani suits. The stream of people parted and flowed around him like water around a rock. The human torrent bumped him and moved him without seeing him. It seemed to Martin it was as if he were watching a ghost that walked amongst the living, unseen except by him.
Martin moved towards the man and was immediately spotted by him. The man's face conveyed a look of fear as he turned and walked rapidly away. Martin quickened his pace and called out to him. "Hey, hey wait a minute!" But the man disappeared into the roiling crowd. Martin ran a little further but could not see him anywhere. "Well this was a waste of time." thought Martin as he walked back towards his car. Suddenly out of the corner of his eye Martin spotted the man shadowing him across the parking lot. Martin stopped and turned towards the man. Much to Martin's surprise the man did not run but spoke. "What do you want with me?"
Martin slipped between the cars, walking towards the man. "I was looking for Doc."
"What you want with Doc? You a cop?"
"No I'm a reporter. I need to ask him some questions about somebody we both know."
"I tell you what, you get in your car and drive north two blocks until you see the A1 Discount Beverage store. In the parking lot is a phone booth. You wait there and if Doc wants to talk to you, he'll call you. Now get out of here before they see us talkin'. They're probably watching us right now!"
"Who? Who's watching us?"
"Just go!" The man moved off into a row of trees bordering the parking lot and disappeared.
Martin did as he was told. He found the store and stood in front of the phone. Many minutes had passed when the phone rang. Martin picked it up.
"Is this the reporter who wanted to talk to Doc?"
"Yes...this is Bruce Martin. I'm a reporter with..." but before Martin could finish his sentence he felt a tap on his back. Turning around Martin was astonished to see an elderly man standing there with a cell phone to his ear.
"Hi I'm Doc! Bruce? Didn't you say your name was Bruce?" asked the man in a most enthusiastic voice.
The man standing before Martin was not at all what he had expected. This drug dealer looked to be sixty something. He h
ad long gray hair that was pulled back into a pony tail. A neatly trimmed white beard and eyebrows were in contrast to a deeply tanned and weathered face. His eyes were blue and sparkled with an obvious excitement. His genuinely warm smile instantly dissolved any apprehension that Martin had about meeting this mysterious figure. Doc snapped shut his cell phone and clipped it to his hip. His colorful attire; an Aloha shirt, olive drab fatigue pants and leather sandals stood in stark contrast to Martin's muted and conservative dress.
"So son what can I do for you?"
"Well Doc, may I call you Doc?" asked Martin.
"That's what they call me!"
"Well then, Doc, I was wondering if I could ask you some questions that may be, well shall we say, a little delicate."
Doc's smile faded slightly as his eyes squinted with suspicion. Doc was quickly trying to get a handle on just who Martin was and what he truly wanted.
"What ya mean?" asked Doc.
"Well did you know Sid Owens?"
Doc looked at the ground rubbing his chin as he concentrated. "No...no can't say as I know anybody with that name."
"Well Doc, Sid Owens was an attorney and he supposedly purchased some drugs, Cocaine to be exact, from you."
Doc's whole demeanor suddenly changed. He raised an out stretched finger to his pursed lips to indicate silence. His brow furrowed with anxiety as he looked around him in a sudden fit of paranoia.
"You're one of them ain't ya?"
"What?" stammered a confused Martin.
"Gimme your wallet. Come on man! I ain't gonna rip you off! Give me your wallet! Listen man, you want me to trust you? Then you're gonna have to trust me, now give me your wallet!"
Martin extracted his wallet from his back pocket and handed it to Doc. Doc opened it up and pulled out Martin's driver's license. Doc scrutinized the picture. Then he thumbed through Martin's credit cards and his press credentials before handing him his wallet back.
"Well I guess you're legit. I don't know this Sid guy. I'll answer your questions but not here...they might be watching us."
"Who might be watching us?"
"I'll tell ya, come on let's take us a little walk."
Martin followed Doc across the road and onto the far shoulder. They walked a few more yards before turning off onto a set of tire tracks that had worn away the grass and left two narrow paths of sand. They approached an old gate that was connected to a decaying barbed wire fence. Doc slid through first and motioned Martin to follow him. Martin hesitated.
"Come on, this is my property...it's O.K.!"
Martin's raised eyebrows betrayed his disbelief of what Doc was saying.
"Yes! I own it!"
"Why did you crawl through the gate then?"
"Why open it just to walk through it? Here, I'll show you!" said Doc as he thrust his hand into his pocket. He produced a shining key. "See!" he said holding it up for Martin to see. Then reaching through the gate Doc put the key into the tarnished padlock and it popped open. "Feel better?" asked Doc sarcastically. Martin was surprised. He walked through the gate and waited for Doc to close the gate behind them. "If you're surprised by the fact that I own land just wait 'til ya see what I'm gonna show ya next! You're gonna really flip out!" said Doc chuckling and motioning for Martin to follow him.
As the two men walked along the ruts the sound of traffic subsided and was replaced by the songs of birds. The tracks wove through a heavily wooded area before abruptly ending at the edge of a large grassy meadow. Doc was right. Martin stood at the border of the woods, looking out across the meadow in shock and disbelief. Stretching out before Martin was a scene straight out of the old west. Five large teepees were in a semi-circle around a large campfire.
"Well, what ya think? Bet ya never saw anything like this before, huh?" said Doc proudly.
"Is this where you live?" asked Martin.
"Yup, me and some others. C'mon, let me show ya around."
Doc walked up to the first teepee and pulled out several wooden pins that held a flap closed. Throwing the flap off to the side the two men stepped in. Martin was surprised at the room within the tent. A full grown man could easily stand upright. In the middle were the charred remains of a small campfire.
"See, in the winter you can have a fire in here. The smoke goes right up and out the top. If it's raining ya can close the flap up there. The teepees are made out of water proofed canvas. Just eight poles hold it up. I can drop this and pack it for moving in less than twenty minutes. Very functional. The plains Indians really knew what they were doin'. Yeah boy! C'mon let's go sit on my thinkin' log, you can ask all your questions there."
Doc led Martin to several large logs that were lying around a large fire pit. Doc motioned for him to sit down.
"Now, you were askin' me about some junky named Sid, Huh? Never heard of him."
"Do you sell cocaine Doc?"
"Yeah. That's how I get my money to help my friends."
"Your friends?"
"Yeah, man this camp is for those people your type call the homeless. I give 'em shelter and food. I sell a little blow to those suits around the courthouse. I use their hypocrisy to help those who can't help themselves. Most are mentally ill ya know. Completely ignored by our great and compassionate nation. These teepees, this land is their home. It's my gift to them. My friends are the outcasts of American society, the defective, the different, and the mentally ill. Hell son, I'm mentally ill! Bet ya didn't know that, huh?" said Doc grinning. Martin shook his head. "Yeah Bipolar. I'm Bipolar. Diagnosed twenty years ago. Before that everybody just wrote me off as eccentric, that weirdo professor type. I used to teach at a state college. I have a doctorate in the humanities. That's why they call me Doc. My real name is John. Anyhow to answer your question, yeah, I sell some poison to those spoiled suits. Like I said, I use their own hypocrisy against them. They go into the courts espousing all their high falutin' ideals by day and by night they get loaded on the same crap they're puttin' others away for. It's they who are the scum"
"Where do you get the cocaine from? I mean how does somebody of limited income, like you, afford to buy enough cocaine to sell?"
"Well, I was at this store over by the Ridge, when this guy started talkin' to me. He said that he owned a store, it was a seafood store, and that he also owned some boats. This guy told me that sometimes a boat might bring a little something extra back from a fishin' trip."
"Cocaine?"
"Yeah, said that he really didn't know what to do with it and if I helped him sell it we would split the profits fifty fifty. He even gave me five pounds of shrimp that day for free! Told me to go back and give everybody a good meal. He told me to come back at the end of that week and see if he had anything. Well, I did and he gave me a kilo of coke. Made five thousand bucks in two weeks! Things were going great and then it happened."
"What happened?"
"I caught some kinda bug. In fact the whole camp came down with it. It was bad man. There used to be nine of us livin' here. We were a family, man!" said Doc as his voice cracked with emotion and tears welled up in his eyes. "Anyhow, it was a bad assed flu. It wasn't like any flu I've ever seen. It killed my friends. I had it too. It kicked my ass! I really don't remember much, I was outta my mind with fever most of the time. When I finally came around and had enough energy to move around I found that I was it. I was all that was left. They're all out there."
"Out there? Out where? What ya mean?"
"I mean out there, I buried them out there," said Doc motioning towards the woods.
"You buried your friends in these woods?"
"Sure, what was I supposed to do with 'em? If I called somebody they'd just make me shut down my little Shangri La. They'd dump my friends into a pauper's grave or cremate 'em. This was their home. This is beautiful, c'mon!" Doc leaped to his feet and took Martin into the nearby Hammock of ancient oak trees. Martin's eyes took a moment to adjust from the brilliant sunlight to the deep shade. There before Martin stood eight small white crosses. They
were about knee high and each one had a name written neatly upon it. In front of each cross the ground rose in a low mound and was covered with thick green and manicured grass. Martin walked up to the nearest cross and knelt down beside it. He read the name aloud, "Loretta Powers."
"Yup," said Doc, "Terry, that's what we called her. She was a schizophrenic, suffered horribly with it since she was twenty two. She died when she was forty one. That's a mighty long time to live in a nightmare."
"Yes it is Doc."
"I found her rootin' around in a dumpster. We got her to come here. I got her some meds from the clinic down the road. She used to love romance novels. Said she could live like a normal woman in the pages of a book if she couldn't live a normal life in reality. My poor Terry." said Doc and he began to cry. He looked up to the sky and said "Please take real good care of her God." Then Doc kissed two of his fingers and pressed them to Terry's cross. "I miss you," he whispered. "I miss all of you." Martin felt bad for Doc. Unsure of how to comfort him, he simply patted his shoulder.
Martin left Doc sitting on his log. The strange old man had been upbeat but now was dejected and somber. Martin made his way back to the trail. Walking along the path the sounds of nature were assaulted by the noise of the city. Martin was reflecting on the graves and was struck by the lethality of this virus. He sprinted across the busy street and walked back to his car. As he unlocked the door he noticed a dark sedan parked across the lot. A man wearing sunglasses was watching him. When the man realized that Martin was looking at him a dark tinted window rose to obscure his face. The car started up and rolled slowly past Martin. Martin watched the car, unsure of why he was feeling suddenly paranoid. The winter sun was sliding low in the western sky and Martin decided to call it a day. He drove out of the little store's parking lot and blended into the rush of traffic streaming along the busy highway.
The next morning Martin went to the office. He knocked on Dave's door. "Come in." called Dave. Martin went in and shut the door behind him. He sat down in a chair that was in front of Dave's desk. He tossed a folder onto the desk.
"This your Coast Guard story?"
"Yeah, I finished it last night."
"How's the flu story comin'."
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. First of all have you heard anything about Steve?"
"No. I talked to his girlfriend yesterday. She is freaked out of her mind. I am too. I asked her what the cops said about the missing persons report... nothing has come of it. Weird, huh?"
"Yeah. Dave, something really weird is going on with this bug story. The trail has led me to a group of homeless guys who sell cocaine."
"That's different. Ya think they might have hurt Steve?"
"No, I don't think so; I mean I don't know...really. Dave there were graves there! At least that's what this guy called Doc said they were...the graves of his friends who died from this bug. I've also had somebody following me, well; I think somebody's following me. It's all just really creepy and I'm really afraid for Steve."
"Hmmm...yeah. It is strange. I mean also think about this...why has nobody else jumped on this story? I mean there is this strange new flu that's killing a lot of people out there and nobody else is on it, at least as far as I know. But it won't be long before they catch on so give me something that I can run real soon."
"Ok. I'll do that."
Dave grabbed the folder with the article in it and began to scan it. "Looks good."
"Yeah. Listen...I'll see ya in a couple of days" replied Martin. Dave nodded as he continued to read his story.
Martin walked past Dave's secretary, Leah. She smiled. "Good morning Bruce." Martin smiled back and felt his face get warm. Leah was a stunningly beautiful woman. Martin had always been attracted to her but was insecure and shy around her. "Morning," he managed weakly as he hurried off to his work station. Martin sat down in front of the computer and went online; searching for seafood stores in the area of town that Doc had told him about. He found only one. Next he researched who owned it. Martin found that a Saudi family owned it, having purchased it two years earlier. Martin jotted down the information and departed the office.
The next morning was a very foggy one. Martin drove south towards Cutler's Ridge. After driving for twenty minutes Martin found the store. The parking lot was empty. Martin glanced at his watch; it was ten-o-clock. Surely they must be open by now he thought. He got out of his car to investigate.
Martin walked up to the doors and pulled on the handle. It was locked. Martin cupped his hands to block the light so that he could see inside. The store was dark and empty. "They left without a trace about a week ago." said a strange voice. Martin turned around to see an elderly woman walking a skinny old dog.
"Pardon?"
"They left. Didn't say anything about closing. One day they were selling fish and the next day they were gone. I used to buy fish here every Friday. Fashid, he was the owner, asked me why I bought fish only on Friday. I told him it was because I was Catholic. He thought that I was the exception, being a religious American. I told him that he must not know America very well then because all of my family and friends go to church. But my, my, they vanished just like that, not even a going out of business sell."
"You knew the owner?" asked Martin.
"Not really just that his name was Fashid."
"How long has this place been open?"
"Maybe a little over a year or so. It used to be a meat market years ago. It sat empty for a long time."
"So ya don't know where he went?"
"No, like I said poof...vanished, just like that," said the old woman with a snap of her fingers. "Travelin' light too. They chucked everything."
"What ya mean?" inquired Martin.
"This place reeked a week ago. They must have tossed a ton of perfectly good seafood into the dumpster out back. Piled it so high, they couldn't fit anything else in there. They had a lot of boxes with pictures and books piled up beside the dumpster. The garbage man only dumped the dumpster; he didn't even bother getting out of his truck to get all those boxes. Maybe you could find out where he went if you looked in those boxes. Fashid in some kind of trouble? Did he go bankrupt? Are you from the bank?"
"No just a reporter."
"You writing a story on seafood?"
"Yeah, something like that."
The old woman gave Martin a look up and down. Then with a shrug of her shoulders and a quick tug on the dog's leash she disappeared into the fog. Martin walked around to the back of the store. The old woman was right. Clustered around the dumpster were half a dozen cardboard boxes. Martin opened a box and found only shredded paper. He opened another and found still more shredded paper. The third box that Martin opened was filled with eight by ten photographs of people on fishing boats. Martin did not recognize anybody in the pictures. He continued looking and found more pictures of boats that looked to be fishing and shrimping trawlers. One picture caught Martin's eye and he pulled it out to examine it more closely. To Martin's astonishment it was a photograph of the Canarian, the same trawler that Martin had encountered with the Coast Guard. He wasn't sure what this meant but somehow the trawler, the Arabs that were on it, the Arabs who owned this store and the virus were all linked. Martin heard a noise that alarmed him. He spun around peering into the fog but all that he could see were drifting veils of white. Martin froze as he listened to the unmistakable sound of tires rolling slowly over the gravel driveway of the abandoned store. Then the form of a dark car slowly emerged from the fog. The car drove slowly past Martin and disappeared once more into the fog. A wave of fear suddenly swept over Martin. He was now quite sure that someone was following him. He ripped the photo of the Canarian from its frame and tucked it into his pocket. He retreated to his car and drove several miles until he came to a strip mall. He pulled into the parking lot and parked his car.
Martin pulled out his cell phone and called the cutter Courageous' phone number. After a dozen rings he hung up and called the Coast Guard station. A
young man answered the phone. "Good morning Miami Beach Coast Guard station, Seaman Owens speaking."
"Hello, this is Bruce Martin; I'm a reporter for the Biscayne Sun. I wrote a story about the cutter Courageous. I just tried their number and got no answer, are they in port?"
"No sir she is not."
"Hmm, I was told that she would be back by now."
"Would you like to speak with Chief Ferguson, he is in charge of the station; he may be able to help you."
"Sure...thanks."
Yes sir, stand by one I am transferring your call."
"Thank you."
A much older voice came on the phone. "This is Chief Ferguson, how may I help you.?"
"Hello Chief, I'm Bruce Martin with the Biscayne Sun. I was recently embedded on the Courageous during her last deployment and I needed to follow up on some things. Do you know when I might expect her back in Miami?"
"No sir I do not. I am not at liberty to discuss the movement of our cutters. I am sorry that I could not help you."
"Thank you." said Martin as he terminated the call.
Martin's instincts as a reporter told him that he was on the trail of something big. This virus was somehow connected to all of this But where to turn to now? Martin debated his next move and decided that to get a better handle on what may be going on he needed to know all that he possibly could about this bug. He would go back to the hospital.
Martin arrived at the emergency room to find it overflowing. People were sitting outside on the walkway. Martin went up to the receptionist and was told that the doctor was much too busy. But just as he was about to leave Doctor Garcia saw him from across the room.
"Mister Martin!" she called out to him. She walked quickly up to him and said in a low voice, "Look at all of these people. They all have the flu! Something very unusual is happening here and we can't seem to get any answers about just what it is that we are up against. The Medical Examiner's office and I have sent many tissue samples to the CDC but we get no answers. Do you think that you could bring to bear the power of your pen and help us?"
Martin leaned closer to the Doctor and whispered, "You're right something is going on. I'm not sure but I think that I'm closing in on it. I'll let you know whatever I learn...OK?"
"Thank you very much Mister Martin and now I really am swamped. I must get back to work." The Doctor spun around and walked back through the crowd. Martin watched her. He suddenly felt as if he were being watched. Martin turned to see a man in a business suit staring intently at him. The man looked vaguely familiar. Something about him made Martin very uneasy. He glanced away from the stranger. When he looked back he was gone. Worried, he walked quickly back to his car.
Martin sat in his car in the parking lot mulling over the pictures from the fish market. The fact that Arabs were a common thread made Martin wonder if this was some kind of biological attack. "But why the flu?" he wondered. "Surely they wouldn't bother with something like the flu...even if it did kill some people surely there are deadlier bugs out there than the flu." He thought. But his mind kept going back to the fact that Arabs were on the Canarian which was smuggling cocaine. Arabs owned the store that sold cocaine and the Canarian's picture was in the store. And the people who were involved with the cocaine all got sick. Could it be that the bug was perhaps in the cocaine? Martin drove back to the little store down the street from Doc's property.
He darted across the road and walked along the tire tracks until he came to the gate. He paused and called out, "Doc! Hey Doc, it's me, Bruce Martin! Hello! Doc?" Slipping through the gate Martin continued on. Arriving at the camp he called out once more, "Hello...Doc!" There was no reply. Martin walked up to each teepee and called out but nobody responded. He walked around the camp and when he passed close to the makeshift cemetery he heard a strange buzzing sound. He stopped and cocked his head to get a bearing on the direction the noise was coming from. "Doc?" He called out in a low voice. He walked towards the buzzing sound and into the shadows of the woods. The buzzing grew louder. He saw the grave markers in front of him. Martin began to feel uneasy. Turning to go back he suddenly saw the source of the buzzing. There on the ground was Doc. Instantly Martin recognized that he was dead. His eyes were open and they stared vacantly at Martin. A single small gunshot wound was in the middle of his forehead. Large green flies buzzed all over the corpse, the same flies that Martin saw on the dead Haitian in City Solei. Martin was paralyzed with shock and then fear. He opened his mouth to scream but only a short gasp escaped him. Martin spun and ran as fast as he could run. He ran across the clearing and down the trail. He ran across the road in blind panic. Horns honked as cars swerved to miss him. He burst into the store. The bewildered clerk stood there looking at him as he bent over gasping for air. Gaining his composure for a moment Martin blurted out, "Call the police, a man's been murdered!" The clerk's eyes shot wide with alarm. She grabbed the phone and dialed nine one one. Within minutes the little parking lot was swarming with police cars.
By the time Martin was finished being interviewed by the homicide detectives the sun was beginning to set. The tranquil camp was turned into an archeological site. Large flood lights illuminated the camp and the cemetery in blue-white brilliance. The generators that powered the lights roared as they belched diesel fumes into the still evening air. Several men stood around Doc's body. Teams of men were exhuming the bodies from the graves. They stepped over grids of white twine that was suspended over the graveyard in a checkerboard pattern. Bright flashes of light popped periodically as the crime scene technicians took pictures.
A kind and soft spoken detective escorted Martin back to his car. Along the highway were a half dozen news trucks, their booms erected into the darkening December sky. Martin could see the reporters standing in spotlights before the cameras eagerly conveying the gruesome story. Martin got into his car and drove away. Looking into his rearview mirror, he watched the bright lights of the macabre carnival fade into the distance.
He picked up his cell phone and saw that his editor had called several times. Martin called him.
"Hey Dave its Bruce," said Martin flatly.
"Man, what the hell is going on?" asked Dave.
"I found one of my sources murdered. I told you that I thought somebody has been watching me! I bet something horrible has happened to Steve! I told the police, so maybe that might be some help in finding him."
"You didn't tell them what you were investigating did you? I mean you didn't say anything about the bug did you?"
"Yeah, what ya mean did I tell them about the bug? Of course I told them. This was a murder investigation! You bet your sweet ass I told them about the bug! It might help them find Steve! Don't you care about Steve?"
Dave completely ignored Bruce's question and continued on his tirade. "Now those broadcasts jerks are going to fall right into this one. We lost a scoop! If what you're telling me has really happened then we lost the biggest scoop of the decade! I can't believe that you told them about the flu!"
"So you'd rather have me sit there and say nothing about this bug while people might be dying all over this city? You're an asshole man!"
"Hey you listen to me Bruce! Scoops are what sell newspapers and this newspaper pays our salaries...yours and mine. You used to have a killers instinct, I think you've gone soft on me man! You had better not forget who you're talking to! I am the boss!"
"Well, maybe it's time I found a new boss!"
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Maybe I'll just take the scoop of the decade somewhere else!"
"Listen to me Bruce..."
"Oh save it Dave! I'm not going anywhere! It's been one hell of a day. I'll call you tomorrow." Martin hung up with the push of a button. "Jerk." He muttered to himself as he swept his hand through his hair and exhaled deeply to relieve the stress. Turning into his apartment complex Martin parked his car and retreated to the safety and comfort of his home. He fell across the bed and almost immediately fell into a deep but troubled sleep. r />