Wormwood (2 page)

“
If
this thing shows up,” she amended, touching a finger to his lips.

“
If
,” he allowed, though not believing it.  Aside from the Chicago video, more snapshots of the epidemic were surfacing, opening up like new doors to Hell.  And that was just the television; he didn’t even want to look at the internet.  It didn’t matter if you called it Wormwood or Yellowseed, it wasn’t the sort of thing that just petered out of its own volition.  It had a maw the size of Texas and wasn’t likely to stop chewing until there was nothing left but silent earth and rotting dead.

“What sorts of plans have you been making?” Aimee asked, though hesitantly.

“I drew a map of the neighborhood,” Rudy told her.

“That sounds harmless enough,” Aimee said, relieved.

“Maybe I’ll show it to some of the neighbors tomorrow,” he decided.  “See if anyone else has given this serious thought.”

3

“It occurs to me,” Rudy began, reaching into his hip pocket and unfolding the map, “that if we stick together as a neighborhood, we can defend ourselves better than we could as individual houses.  Look here,” he said to Larry, who was stubbornly disinclined to look at his map.  “We have a unique situation in that we live in a cul-de-sac with the creek to one side and the hillside to another.  Natural barriers that make the street easier to defend.”

“Son of a
bitch
, Rudy,” Larry whispered, glancing around to see if anyone had heard him.  “Are you
nuts
?  What are you doing talking like this, drawing up a map?  Deliberately trying to start a panic?”

“No, I just thought we should be as prepared as possible for wh-”

“Prepared for
what
?  That joke we saw on TV? 
Come on!”
Larry scoffed, red blotches appearing high on his cheeks.  He gestured at the map in open contempt, as if he’d like to snatch it out of Rudy’s hands and erase his name from the domino-shaped rectangle they were standing in front of.

Rudy looked at his next-door neighbor and adjusted his glasses.  “If you think that what we saw last night was a joke, you’re badly mistaken Larry.”  He nodded at the house, as if including it in their conversation.  “Go inside and turn on your set.  If it’s a joke, it’s awfully contagious.”

Larry smiled, shaking his head to show he had no intention of doing anything of the sort.  “You know, with a few friends and a camcorder, I could put together a pretty convincing tape too.  Nothing as good as the one last night, but then I’m an accountant, not a liberal arts major with no job and too much time on my hands.  Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said, swinging an arm toward the house, “I’ve got some pruning to do before lunch.”

“If it helps, think of it as a storm,” Rudy suggested, “a hurricane.  Take your truck down to the lumberyard and pick up some plywood.  Stock up on canned goods and bottled water, maybe some candles and extra batteries.  It never hurts to be prepared.”

“There’s nothing to be prepared for,” Larry maintained, turning back toward his garage.

“Do you have a gun?” Rudy asked, raising his voice.

Larry Hanna stopped along the zigzag of a patched crack and turned slowly around.  What Rudy saw behind his pale blue eyes was another sort of patch, one that was under a great deal of stress at the moment.

“You know I do,” he said.  “We went shooting with it last fall up at the pond.  My dad’s target rifle.”

Rudy nodded.  He remembered the rifle well: a single-shot .22 with a barrel as heavy as a cast iron skillet.  It wouldn’t be much good in close quarters (except possibly as a club), but perched on a rooftop with a good scope, it would help keep Wormwood at a distance.

“You might at least pick up some ammunition,” Rudy said.

Larry opened his mouth to say something then shut it again.  He took a step toward the curb, as if he couldn’t bear to shout his reply; that shouting might be overheard and lend his neighbor’s crackpot theories more credence.

“You’re not joking, are you?  You really think that what happened in Chicago could happen here?”

Rudy regarded him for a moment, torn between the truth and not wanting to frighten him away.  “At this point, Larry, I just think we ought to talk about it.  Prepare ourselves for the possibility.  I wouldn’t want to hear that it’s come after all the stores have been picked clean and it’s too late to do anything about it.”  He raised a leading eyebrow.  “Would you?”

“I guess not,” Larry allowed.  “
If
I thought anything was coming.”

Rudy nodded.  “Why don’t you come over to the house this afternoon?  I’ll talk to a few others in the neighborhood — Bud Iverson and maybe the Dawleys — and see what they think about this?”

Larry pressed his lips together and gazed down the short length of Quail Street, his jaw grinding back and forth, undecided.  “I’ll think about it,” he finally said.

“That’s fine.  About three o’clock?”

Larry nodded once in acknowledgement; again, giving the idea as little weight and gravity as possible.  To give more would be to imply there was some reason to meet in the first place, which there most certainly was not.  “What about Jan?” he wondered.  “Should she come too?”

Rudy gave this some thought.  “Why don’t we just keep it amongst the men for now,” he decided.  “If we decide there’s reason to proceed, we’ll bring in the wives at the next meeting.”

“Yeah, well…”  Larry’s expression turned weary and sour, as if he’d committed himself to picking up trash along the highway for the next two weekends.  “I can tell you right now how
I’m
going to vote on the prospect of future meetings.  It’s bad enough that I’m considering
this
one.”

Rudy took a deep breath and let it out.  “Try to come with an open mind, Larry.”

“I’m not even promising I’ll come,” Larry replied, “but if I do, I’ll come with the mind I’ve got.”

Rudy nodded, spying Bud Iverson’s Cadillac sailing quietly up the street, as regal and as polished as when it left the showroom floor.  It turned squarely into its driveway, waited patiently while the electric garage door opened, then came to rest on its spotless concrete pad.

Folding his map in half, Rudy excused himself and hurried over before the garage could swing shut again.

4

At 62, Bud Iverson was the undisputed patriarch of Quail Street.  He and Helen had bought their house thirty years ago and raised four daughters in the immaculate split-level standing adjacent to the Hanna’s.  All four girls had since moved out — the youngest heading off to college three years ago — leaving Bud and Helen to rattle about the oversized house on their own.  The Cadillac gave Bud something to fawn over in the absence of his daughters, while Helen simply redoubled her efforts in the flowerbeds and garden.

She served Rudy and her husband tall glasses of iced tea and then withdrew from the room to let them talk, saying she’d be in the back yard if Janie, their eldest daughter, called.  The two of them were going out shopping together after lunch.

Bud nodded in acknowledgement then waited until his wife was out of earshot.  He looked Rudy over, his gaze penetrating: a sharp and steely blue beneath his wild gray eyebrows.  “I take it this has something to do with the troubles we’re having back east?” he said, drawing his conclusion from the brief exchange he and Rudy had passed in the driveway.

Rudy nodded.  “I thought it might be a good idea to get together as a neighborhood.  Possibly draw up a contingency plan in case it comes our way.”  He hesitated as Bud continued to stare across the table at him, as unflinching as a seasoned general.  “I saw some footage on the news last night that was fairly shocking.  It came out of Chicago, so there’s no question that it’s moving in our direction.”

“I believe I saw the same footage,” Bud said, picking up his iced tea and gazing deep into the glass, past the lemon slice and crushed ice to where a fine brown sediment had settled on the bottom, almost invisible to the naked eye.  Bud seemed to read something of the future down there.  “What exactly did you have in mind?” he wondered.

“At this point, nothing specific… other than getting together and discussing it.”  He picked up his glass out of nervousness.  “Truthfully, I’m open to just about anything.”

“Are you open to the possibility that there’s
nothing
we can do about it?  That it may be too big to fight?”

“Nothing’s too big to fight,” Rudy contended, an edge of defiance in his voice.  “We may not win, but as long as my wife and family are alive, I’ll fight it.”

Bud nodded, conceding the point.  “Who did you plan on inviting to this discussion?”

“The whole cul-de-sac,” Rudy answered.  “Or at least the men — as many of them as will come.”

“I might be able to help you out there,” Bud said, slowly warming to the idea.  He picked up the map Rudy had unfolded on the table between them.  “Who have you got left to talk to?”

“The Dawleys,” Rudy said then pointed to the bottom of the sheet.  “Also these last two bordering Kennedy.  The Navaros and the Sturlings.”

“What did Larry have to say?” Bud asked, leaning back, his blue eyes sharp again.

Rudy hesitated, his face becoming fluid, undecided.  He took a deep breath.  “Larry doesn’t believe the danger will reach this far.  He believes the government will arrive at a solution before it spreads this far west.”

“And you don’t,” Bud concluded.

“I suppose anything’s possible,” Rudy replied, “but I’m not counting on it.”

A sardonic smile touched Bud Iverson.  “I worked for the government for twenty years,” he confessed, though Rudy was already aware of this.  “If they come up with a solution, it’ll be strictly by accident.  At this moment, I’d say they’re far more concerned with digging foxholes and shredding documents.”

Rudy looked a little closer at Bud.  “Are you convinced the government is responsible?”

“An interesting choice of words, but yes,” he nodded, picking up his tea, “almost certainly.”

The two men gazed at one another then Bud reconsidered the map.

“Mike and Pam are
separated
,” he reminded Rudy, tapping a blunt finger against the lot marked “Dawley”.  “From what I’ve heard, he’s still in town though…  What did you have in mind there?”

“Perhaps I’ll speak to his son, Shane.  He must be 17 or 18 — driving for at least a year.  I’ll ask him to come to the meeting tonight instead of his father.”

“All right,” Bud approved.  “While you’re doing that, why don’t I tackle the last two?  The Sturlings and the Navaros.  I think I can get Don and Keith to come without starting a general panic.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Rudy nodded.  “I don’t know them very well.  They would probably take the suggestion better coming from you.”

“Well, I’ll do my best,” Bud assured him.  “About three o’clock, you say?”

“Yes, if that works out for everyone.”

A flash of chrome and reflected sunlight cut through the window, streaking like a comet across the far wall.  A trim, burgundy-colored Accord rolled to a stop in the Iverson’s driveway.

“There’s Janie,” Bud said, regarding his daughter through the window.  “Must be getting close to lunch.”

5

Rudy rang the Dawley’s doorbell and waited, standing in the recessed shade of the front step, the house itself grasping him in a loose embrace.  To his ears it sounded vacant, or asleep.  The light filtering through the textured glass panels that flanked the double doors was a gauzy shade of gray, the color of an old sock.  No warm yellow or television flicker to be seen, so Rudy gave a halfhearted knock and then turned away, deciding no one was home.