A Cure for Madness (21 page)

I dove to the floor. Screams filled the air around me. Some customers dropped to the ground; others ran. I didn’t dare stand but started crawling frantically along the counter.

A burly man crept closer to the gunman, his hands outstretched. “Hey, buddy, we’re all freaked out. This isn’t helping. Just put the gun—”

A bullet in the stomach silenced him. His body crashed to the floor in front of me. He clutched at his stomach, his mouth moving soundlessly as blood puddled on the floor.

“Give me the Zorifan and no one else will get hurt!” Seconds later, the gunman fired behind the counter. There was a yell, but I couldn’t tell—had he shot one of the pharmacists? I twisted around and wrenched the gun out of my waistband. His back was to me. My hands were shaking too much; I couldn’t hold the gun still. I aimed low, but then raised my hands. If I missed . . .

I trained my eyes on him and took the shot.

He crumpled, his hip shattered.

More screams. The pharmacists abandoned the counter and ran out through a back door. I sprang to my feet and kicked the gunman’s weapon out of reach, then sprinted behind the counter. The white bag with Wes’s medication lay on top of the keyboard. I grabbed it and bolted out of the store. Someone would have called the police by now. I had to get out of there, and fast.

The parking lot was chaos as people threw their supplies into their cars and tried to escape from the single exit. Most decided to hell with it and just drove over the curb. I pulled the car around and followed their example.

After driving like the devil was on my heels for ten minutes, I pulled over to the side of the road and threw up. The green grass, now soiled, seemed like something from another world. How could something as ordinary as green grass still exist when I had just shot a man?

You did what you had to do. You didn’t kill him. You probably saved the pharmacists’ lives. Now get a grip.
I panted by the side of the road for a few more minutes before deeming myself fit to drive.

Soon, I was back at the hen pen. “Hello?” I said as I eased the door open. The inside of the building seemed darker than it had been this morning, and I waited for my eyes to adjust. “Hello?” I called out again. I clutched my backpack to my chest and stepped onto the elevator. The second floor was empty except for the boxes and the chest of guns. The lid was open.

Shit!
I ran toward it—had I left it open, or had Wes found the guns? I hadn’t counted them earlier, so I couldn’t tell if any were missing.

“Wes?” I called out. I ran back to the elevator. A lone rat greeted me on the third floor. I sprinted up the stairs to the attic level, then stopped. If Wes was still having an episode and he was armed, bursting into the room and surprising him was the worst thing I could do.

“Wes, I’m back!” I called, wanting to give him as much advance notice of my arrival as possible. I even knocked on the door before gently pushing it open.

It was empty, save for the skeletons of the dead birds, arranged on the floor to spell out the words “I’M SORRY.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I
stepped into the center of the skeleton-filled room. “Wes?” I cried. “Where are you?”

No, no, no. This isn’t happening.

“Wes!” I screamed, running back down to the third floor. There weren’t that many places to hide—and why would he hide from me, anyway? Had he been found? Had they taken him? I checked the second floor, but he wasn’t there. I took the elevator to the bottom and stood in the center of the room. What should I do? Should I wait in the hope that he’d come back? Or should I go looking for him? If he left on his own, he couldn’t have gotten too far—all the vehicles were still here. But if they took him, how would I find him again?

I’d wait. He’d left me the message with the skeletons; he must have known I’d come back. I sat down on the old sofa and pulled the gun out of my backpack, unloaded it, and set it on the floor. I didn’t want to ever use it again, even as an empty threat.

Had the man I’d shot in the drugstore been infected, or had he just gone a little nuts from fear and panic? Could anyone even tell the difference anymore?

I opened the car and grabbed one of the packs of cigarettes I’d bought for Wes. Off went the plastic wrapping. I pulled one out and lit it, using a pack of matches from the convenience store, then returned to the sofa to smoke it slowly. As much as I derided Wes’s habit, I still kept an emergency pack in my freezer for times of high stress. If this didn’t qualify, I didn’t know what would.

So this is it. It’s the end of the world, and I’m alone.
I could have done so much differently. If I’d never told Wes about the rape, he wouldn’t have attacked Myles and ended up in the psych hospital. Maybe I would have stayed in Clarkeston and married Kenneth, and Maisie would be our child. Maybe . . .

I banged my head against the back of the sofa. Too late for regrets. But I couldn’t escape the truth that inched chillingly closer every day. What if they never found a cure? Gaspereau would burn through Clarkeston, eventually infecting everyone. How soon until it spread to the rest of the world, quarantine or not? I shuddered and took another drag on the cigarette.

A rifle shot shattered the silence.

I jumped to my feet, then stood perfectly still, trying to gauge which direction the shot had come from. The woods. I picked up the handgun from the floor and reloaded it—perhaps I’d need it after all—and peered through the hole Wes had made in the door. There were no police cars, no army jeeps, not even a farm truck in view, so I stepped out and ran toward the woods. Once I reached the cover of the trees, I ran parallel to the tree line until I came to the old snowmobile trail. I didn’t know whether to call out for Wes or not—or even if he was the one who’d made the shot. I stopped, panting, and realized I had no idea where I was going. How would I find him in the trees?

“Wes?” I called out tentatively. I ran again, heading deeper into the woods. “Wes, are you there?”

Another shot came from my left, almost deafening me. I dove to the ground and put my hands over my head. “Wes? Stop shooting, for Christ’s sake!” A rustling in the leaves told me someone was running toward me. Wes burst out onto the path, holding one of our father’s hunting rifles. His eyes were wild and shining.

“Did you see it?” he asked.

“See what?” I moaned. I knew how my mother must have felt the day she found me playing by myself on the banks of the swollen spring river when I was five. She’d hugged me so hard I’d thought she might never let go, and then spanked me so hard I couldn’t sit down for the rest of the day.

“That deer! I’ve been hunting,” he said.

I uncovered my head and got gingerly to my feet. Wes was standing tall, his chest stuck out proudly.

“Can I . . . ?” I asked, holding my hands out for the gun.

“You want to try? Sure!”

I took it from him. “No, Wes, I don’t want to try. Do you know how scared I was when I came back and you weren’t there? And then heard gunshots? What were you thinking?” At least he wasn’t cradling bird skulls anymore.

“I didn’t know where you went,” he said defensively. “I thought I’d get us some food!”

“Okay,” I said, breathing heavily through my nose. “We can talk about it back in the hen pen. But please . . . no guns.” He eyed the handgun I’d dropped on the ground while diving for cover.

“What’s that, then?”

“Protection.” I picked it up and stuffed it in my waistband. “In case you were in trouble.”

He started to speak, but I held out my hand. “Stop.” Something was in the bushes a few feet in front of us—Wes’s elusive deer? Someone with Gaspereau? “Who’s there? Come out slowly; I’m armed.” I raised Wes’s rifle in front of me.

“I don’t think anyone’s there,” Wes said. Before I could stop him, he grabbed the gun from my waistband. “But just in case—here you go, sucker!” He shot several rounds into the bushes, laughing. Then a man’s voice cried out.

“Wes, stop!” I shouted, dropping my rifle and grabbing his arm. “Someone’s out there!”

“Then they’re dead,” he said with a shrug.

“Not quite,” said a voice. A figure stepped out from behind a thick tree trunk.

“Kenneth!” I cried, running toward him. “Oh my God, he could have killed you! Are you okay?” Both Kenneth and Wes looked ashen.

“Oh . . . sorry, man. I didn’t actually think anyone was there,” Wes said, dropping the gun.

“Well, I was,” Kenneth said with a grimace. He was gripping his arm, and blood stained his fingers.

“He hit you!”

“Just a graze,” Kenneth said. “I’ll be fine.”

I rounded on Wes, but Kenneth put his hand on my arm. “It’s okay, Clare.”

“It is
not
okay,” I said. “Let’s get you inside.”

The three of us crept back into the hen pen. A car—Kenneth’s mother’s, I assumed—was parked outside. With his uninjured arm, he opened the trunk and took out a first-aid kit.

“What are you doing here?” I asked once we were back inside with the doors closed.

“I came to check on you. I tried your cell and there was no answer. I found my car, but you guys weren’t here, obviously. I thought I’d check the woods. I was beginning to think I’d gotten myself lost when I heard the shots.”

“You and who knows who else,” I muttered. “But how did you know where this place was?”

“You showed me once, remember? Back in the day. We drove out here.”

“Good memory.”

“Did you get Wes’s medication?” he asked. He opened the first-aid kit and started to dress his wound.

I wanted to tell him the whole story. I wanted him to comfort me, to tell me it was okay, that I’d done the right thing. But I couldn’t bear to say the words. I had shot a man who was possibly sick. He would never understand.

“I got it,” I answered. “But he hasn’t taken it yet.” I retrieved a bottle of water from the car and handed it to Wes, along with one of his pills.

He looked like he wanted to refuse, but thankfully he didn’t. I relaxed fractionally when he swallowed the pill. “You take these every day?” I asked, examining the label.

“Yeah,” he said. “They make me tired, though.”

I was about to say “Better tired than delusional” but changed my mind. “I’m going to talk to Kenneth for a bit. Want to crawl into the car and have a nap while the meds kick in?”

He nodded and climbed into the backseat. I motioned for Kenneth to follow me to the elevator, which he eyed with suspicion.

“It’s fine,” I said, and he stepped up beside me, still carrying the first-aid kit.

“Clare . . .” he began, but I interrupted him.

“Wait until we’re out of earshot,” I whispered. I pulled the rope until we reached the third floor. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’ll be fine. It’s just a scratch. And speaking of which . . . how did you get that?” He pointed at my cheek, which was still stinging.

“You won’t believe it,” I said. He took some antiseptic wipes out of the first-aid kit and dabbed at my cheek, then covered it with a square bandage.

I told him about Wes’s breakdown in the attic. “I’m so glad you gave us that prescription. But God, what a nightmare getting it . . .”

A question flickered across his face.

“It was just really chaotic,” I said.

“I bet. There are a lot of very scared, very confused, and very angry people out there. They think the government should have a better grasp on things. And it’s happened so fast . . . The rate of infection isn’t helping things, either.”

I frowned. “How bad is it?”

Kenneth went over to one of the tiny windows and wiped away some of the grime. A faint ray of light shone through it. “Infectious diseases have what’s called a basic reproductive rate—the average number of people one person will infect. It’s called the R-nought rate. The flu is between two and three, and you’ve seen how fast that can spread in a school or workplace. Gaspereau is seven.”

“That’s bad.”

“It’s all bad, Clare. They’ve been trying to keep it quiet to avoid a panic, but it’s getting out of hand. We’re not going to be able to stop it.”

He looked out the window again, and a chill crept into my bones. There was something about the way he said, “
We’re
not going to be able to stop it . . .”

“Why are you here, Kenneth?” I asked warily.

He turned around slowly. There were no apologies, no weak lies. “I came to explain to you what is
really
going on.”

“And how do you know what is really going on?” I asked. “Or should I say ‘
How long
have you known?’”

“Only for a few hours. Since you left. I swear it, Clare, I was in the dark just as much as you were. But they came back with a warrant . . . and the CDC—”

“Dr. Hansen, you mean?” I snapped.

“Just hear me out. I want what’s best for you and Wes; I really do. But a lot of lives are being destroyed, and there is no end in sight. Please . . . just listen to me and I’ll explain what he wants with Wes. Then you can decide what to do.”

“I’ve already decided what to do,” I said. “But tell me why they want him so much.”

Kenneth took a deep breath and motioned to the dusty floor. “Should we sit?”

“I’ll stand.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face. “You know a little bit about how Gaspereau works, right? It’s not a virus or a bacterium. It’s more like mad cow disease—it’s caused by infectious particles called prions, which are misfolded proteins. These rogue prions attack healthy proteins and cause them to misfold, and so on and so on. Because they’re attacking the brain, they cause delusions and massive behavioral changes—all the things we’ve seen in the victims so far. The difference is that mad cow can only be spread through contact with infected brain tissue. Gaspereau is spread through contact with infected droplets—from a sneeze or a cough, for example—or contaminated surfaces. Just like the flu.”

“Which is what makes it spread so fast,” I interjected. “I know all this; I saw the press conference.”

“Just bear with me. As long as the people who are infected are still living, they can spread the disease to others. So far no one has died from it, except those who have killed themselves or tried to fly out of a window or something. I told you, sedatives don’t work. It’s spreading beyond our ability to contain the infected. There are too many of them now.”

Images from every zombie movie I’d ever seen swam through my head. I pictured dozens, maybe hundreds of people swarming in the psych ward where Wes had been kept—all of them angry and convinced that the horrors in their heads were real. They stampeded down the hall, cutting down doctors and nurses, and burst out of the hospital in droves, ready to vent their rage on the world.

I sat on the floor and brought my knees up to my chin. “Where does Wes fit in?”

“It’s his brain,” Kenneth said, sitting down in front of me and crossing his legs. “They noticed an abnormality in the first round of tests they did before releasing him from the hospital. They weren’t supposed to release him; it was a misunderstanding in the chaos.”

Was he telling the truth or just speaking from Dr. Hansen’s playbook? “Why did Dr. Hansen tell you all this?”

“I’m a doctor. And things have changed,” Kenneth said softly. “They’ve run out of options. They realized that they’ve been . . . going about this the wrong way. Trying to force you into helping them. That’s why they sent me—someone you can trust. Someone who will tell you the truth.”

“Who are
they
? Just Dr. Hansen?”

“It
was
just him at first. But he’s shown the results to his superiors at the CDC. They think we have to try.”

“Did you lead them here?” My eyes darted to the window.

“No. I volunteered to come and find you, and answer all of your questions. At least, as much as I can. It turns out that Wes was exposed to Gaspereau in the psych hospital. They didn’t tell me how, but I suspect it was that scientist you spoke of.”

“Dr. Ling,” I breathed. “Patient Zero.”

“Yes. I suspect he was the source. And he infected a lot of other people before he killed himself.”

“Oh my God. And Wes . . . ?”

“Is perfectly fine. That’s the mystery. Or was. They knew he’d been infected with Gaspereau, and yet the prions weren’t showing up in his system. That’s why they needed to test his cerebrospinal fluid. They ran a whole gamut of tests—they even introduced infected cells to the spinal fluid, to see how his body would respond. It stayed perfectly healthy.”

“Why?” Torn between anger and relief, I strained to keep track of what Kenneth was saying.

“It’s due to a mutation in his brain cells. They not only protect healthy cells from unhealthy prions, they actually unfold the prions and make them healthy again. They fight back.”

I stared at him in disbelief for a long moment, while he waited for me to say something. Silence pressed in on us in the empty room. Finally Kenneth spoke again. “Clare,
Wes
is the cure for Gaspereau. He’s the antidote.”

“How is that possible?” I whispered.

“Like I told you before, we don’t understand a whole lot about human mutation. Somehow, Wes’s brain cells have mutated in this way, but we don’t know why—not yet. What we do know is that it works—at least in the lab. Dr. Hansen believes these cells will cure the infected.”