Mr. 8 Read online

Denton stopped and spent a long time examining it. He wasn’t being methodical. It was a fearful hesitancy that possessed him. Denton dragged his eyes back and forth across it, as though he were hoping it would transform into something benign, like a list of groceries.

  When he finally put it to the side, he had no more doubts. It was a list of the infected. There were sixteen names on it. Eleven of them had been crossed out. Ten of those were all the known victims of the Bexhill Guerrillas. Kaling’s name was not on the list. But then he had written it. Or some of it.

  Denton’s first assumption was that the list documented Kaling’s personality changes as much as it did the infected people of Bexhill. But Biscamp’s name convinced him that Stephen had taken it over from her. Likely, he wrote down the name of his deceased girlfriend and struck it out in the same breath. Assuming the people who were crossed out were dead.

  If that were the case, how did the other person die? Did the Guerrillas do a better job of disposing of his body? Did he die a more natural death? Or was there another killer out there? And why didn’t Alfred Renold’s name have a line through it?

  Based on what he knew, and the list, there were still five left alive.

  Four if you eliminate Radnor. But five again, if you include Kaling.

  But how could Biscamp and Kaling know who was infected? How did they know about people like Reynolds, who lived in the middle of nowhere under that bridge? Why did they care who else had the virus?

  Maybe Danny’s explanation hadn’t been so far-fetched. If these people were exhibiting strange behavior and somehow contacting one another, it wasn’t so hard to see how he might be fooled into believing in some alien conspiracy.

  But what was really going on? And what should Denton do about the list?

  He didn’t know. All he knew for sure was that he was very likely infected with this same pathogen, and it was only a matter of time before he lost control of his actions. He needed to get to the hospital, and he needed to be isolated. But before he left, there was something else he needed to do.

  Radnor had left a trail of germs in his wake. If Denton wanted to limit the spread of this disease, the area needed to be disinfected. With a lack of cleaning supplies at his disposal, he would have to make do with some antibacterial hand cleanser and paper towels from the men’s room.

  He yanked open the desk’s file drawer to get the squirt bottle he kept there. The sudden movement shifted the contents of the drawer, and bottle of scotch rolled to the front. Denton took it out and studied it. He had told Lorraine he would think of her when he drank it. And so he would.

  As things were falling apart, she was safe and sound in Buffalo. If only Linda and I had gone to visit family. If only…

  He cracked the bottle open, before he could finish the thought.

  Using his coffee cup, he poured out what he’d normally consider a drink—a practiced pour, reserved almost exclusively for a Friday night by the fire or out on the back balcony. It was Friday night but there was no pleasant, crackling fire. Would he ever have a night like that again? What would happen to him if there was no cure for this? What would become of him, once he had changed like the others?

  He poured more of the alcohol into the mug.

  The rough grade liquor was harsh and burned his throat. But it was of little concern to Denton. Once he drank it all down, he grabbed the cleanser and got to work.

  It was a tedious chore wiping down every door handle on the floor. What made it worse was the music playing in his head. Looping through his thoughts was one particular Jimmy Smith song playing over and over. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t shake it. He tried humming other tunes, but eventually they all turned back into that overly orchestrated cacophony. If only it had been anything else from the jazzman, but it had to be from the one album Denton had never liked.

  Then it dawned on him why. The radio was playing it that very first day in Bexhill. He and Linda were cleaning the house surrounded by unpacked boxes. They were in the living room. Bright sunshine was streaming in the big front window. Denton was up on a stepladder wiping away cobwebs with a broom, while Linda mopped the floor, scrubbing out every last trace of the old occupants.

  “See this is why I can’t listen to jazz,” she said about half a minute into the song. “And you say my music just sounds like noise.”

  “C’mon, this is Slaughter on Tenth Avenue. It’s a classic.” Denton pretended to be offended.

  “Well, it sounds like someone is being killed,” she said wryly, with a hand on her hip.

  Denton got down and shut off the old boombox.

  “No, just switch it to something else.” She hit the power button and brought it back to life. With a determined look on her face, she twisted the dial and searched for a station through the bursts of static.

  “I don’t think you’ll find your sort of thing.” He gave a slight roll of his eyes just to let her know what he thought of her sort of thing.

  “Even out here in the sticks, they must have some real music.”

  “No, they don’t,” Denton said, playfully grabbing her from behind. His arms coiled around her mid-section, he nuzzled her neck. “I’ve carried you away here to the ends of the Earth, and there is no real music and no real restaurants. Be thankful we have running water.”

  “Let go,” she giggled.

  “The indoor plumbing is new. They just put it in last week.”

  “Let go,” she said again, but instead of pulling away she turned and kissed him.

  Denton fought to keep from breaking down into sobs, but it was a losing battle. Would he ever see her again?

  He was at the last doorway. The last one Radnor had touched on his way out. If someone came up the stairs at that moment, they would have seen him there: a broken man, kneeling on the floor with tears running down his face. His body let out intermittent spasms followed by whimpering moans. Would they even notice he was busy washing a doorknob?

  When he finally pulled himself together, he was all done except for Radnor’s office. He really didn’t know what to do with it. It was one big Petri dish of evil. The eights were like giant germs crawling around every surface of the room. It would take days and a case of antibacterial gel to get it clean. He felt like getting the bottle of whiskey and dousing the whole room. Cleansing the place with fire would be the surest way of getting rid of them all.

  But it was far too dangerous to do that. Even with fire alarms and sprinklers, the old building was a tinder box. A fire would spread fast. The whole place would go up and someone was bound to get hurt.

  He locked the door and shut it. With any luck, no one would enter it until something could be done. It needed to be disinfected by professionals. He had to get help. He needed to contact Bill.

  Back at his desk, he poured himself another scotch and picked up the phone. He sat there staring at the keypad blankly. The dial tone was replaced by a loud staccato signal letting him know he’d left it off the hook too long. He tapped the cradle, resetting it, and started punching in the numbers, as he strained to remember them. He hadn’t dialed them in years, not since he’d programmed them into his cell phone.

  Bill picked up on the forth ring. “Stahl.”

  “Bill, it’s me.”

  “Dent, what the hell is going on? Lee mentioned you’d come by here.”

  Bill must still be at Radnor’s.

  That thought replayed in his head: the police were at Radnor’s. Would they become infected too? They had been at all the victim’s homes. Were they already infected?

  No. They were crime scenes. They didn’t touch anything without gloves on. They didn’t eat or drink there, or go to the bathroom. Bill would be okay.

  “Yeah, I did. I’ll explain it all to you, but first you need to listen to me.”

  “What is it?” It was said as all one word. Even from over the phone, it was clear his at
tention was elsewhere.

  “Those boys were on the right track. I think it’s a virus.” Bill started to speak, but Denton cut him off. “Hear me out. They went down the rabbit hole with the whole alien thing, but this madness with the eights is spreading person to person. Once you’re infected it attacks the brain. Causes personality disorders and eventually makes you crazy like Radnor.”

  “What about Radnor? Do you know where he is?”

  “The train hit him. But—”

  “What train?” Bill yelled into his receiver.

  “Listen, I think I’m infected. I don’t know how long I have until it starts to affect me.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Somebody said something in the background but stopped abruptly. Denton could practically see Bill holding up his hand quieting a patrolman. “Where are you now?”

  “At my office.”

  “What are you doing there?” The words came out with labored patience.

  “Drinking really bad scotch.” Denton took another gulp. The receiver felt heavy in his hand. He tried to remember why he had called Bill. Or did Bill call him?

  “What’s going on Dent? What have you done?”

  “Do you remember that single malt we had after dinner last Christmas? Traquair, it was called. I tried looking for it again, but they never got any more in.”

  “What? Look, stay right there. I’m going to send a car over.”

  “No, I have to go.” Denton’s voice changed. It strengthened with determination as he recovered his purpose. “I have to get to the hospital. I need you to call ahead and have them set up a quarantine area.”

  “The hospital?” Bill paused and then in a more genial tone said, “Good. Go there and wait for me. I’ll meet you there.”

  “And this is important: call the CDC. Get them in here. They need to stop the spread of this thing. Make sure they decontaminate everything that the victims came in contact with. I have a list Bill. I have a list of everyone infected.”

  “Good. That’s good, Dent. You can give it to me at the hospital.”

  “Okay.” His eyes locked onto the wedding photo on his desk. “Do you remember how beautiful Linda looked on our wedding day?” he said, thinking back to that perfect April day nine years ago.

  “Dent? Maybe you should stay where you are.”

  “No, I have to go into quarantine.”

  As he replaced the handset, Bill yelled, “Dent? Dent? Denton?”

  There was one thing left to do. He picked up the phone again, but his hands were trembling too much to finish dialing. The thought of what had to be done devastated him. He could feel himself slipping back into that blubbing mess in the hallway. It wouldn’t do either of them any good for him to call her in that state.

  And if he heard her voice, he would never be able to go through with his plan.

  In the end, he cursed himself for his cowardice and wrote another e-mail. As he typed, he could hear her in his head muttering, “What a cop out.”

  My darling Linda,

  You’ve been the love of my life from the moment we met. I can’t imagine my life without you, but I can’t be there right now. There is something wrong in Bexhill. You must leave. Leave tonight. There is a disease. It’s spreading through the town. I’m infected. That is why I cannot be with you. I want you to be safe. I need you to be safe. Get as far away from here as possible. I’ve told Bill. He’s calling the Center for Disease Control. Hopefully they can help. I can never tell you how much I love you. I pray we will be together again soon.

  All my love for ever and ever, Dent.

  The computer powered down and the only sound that was left was the hum of the building’s ventilation. He lingered, tears still flowed freely leaving trails of despair on his cheeks. He knew in his heart, he’d never see her again. At least, not as the Denton Reed that married her. Perhaps a different man would see her. What would this new Denton be like?

  He eased himself to his feet, grabbed the bottle, and left. He locked the door behind him shutting off his office exactly like he had done to Radnor’s. It was another contaminated zone. Then he headed down the stairs with leaden steps.

  Back in the cold night, the snow was still coming down. The campus was deserted. The lamp post lit up the puffy flakes. The eerie quiet made it feel like some fantastical world. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe came to mind. Someone had read it to him as a child. His father had taken him to visit his aunt, Mary. She seemed so old, but she must have only been forty. Not much older than I am now. She had read him the first couple of chapters while he lay in bed in a room with a real wardrobe. He didn’t sleep that night. He just stared at the shadows reflecting off of the mirror on the cabinet’s door, waiting for something to happen.

  When he started the car up, he saw it was a quarter to ten. How had so much time passed? He rubbed his forehead. The intense pain was returning. Not just in his head but all over his abused body. He took two more pills. With nothing better to wash them down with, he took a mouthful of the scotch. He managed to get the tablets down, but the alcohol caught in the back of his throat and he gagged. Whiskey splattered the front of his coat, as he coughed and sputtered.

  He started to reach for his hanky to wipe up the mess, but gave a half-hearted sigh instead, and put the transmission in drive. The beams of the headlights created two cones of magical white light. Pulling out of the spot the back end of the car slipped out before the tires caught.

  At the security barrier, he took a moment to remember the way to Bexhill General and made a hesitant left.

  He was three blocks from campus when a figure stepped in front of the Buick. The shadowy form appeared as if out of nowhere. Denton slammed on the brakes and twisted the wheel hard to the right. The car spun out. Around and around, the scene outside revolved too quickly to be anything other than a blur. Adrenaline hit his blood stream, briefly overpowering the alcohol and the medication. His heart shook in his chest, demanding to be let out.

  By the time the car came to a stop, he was turned a full one hundred and eighty degrees around, and it seemed impossible that he was still on the road. By all rights, he should be in the ditch or crashed into a street lamp. Everything grew intensely quiet, like a blaring noise had just been shut off.

  About twenty yards away, the person stood in the road looking towards Denton. It was a man. A sudden icy tendril of horror worked its way through Denton’s brain. It was Cole Radnor.

  But the man should be dead, his corpse carried off by the train. How could it be?

  He stood there unmoving. The headlights of another car came up behind him casting him in silhouette. Denton was certain it was going to hit Radnor. It would plow into him, sending him spiraling through the air. But if a train couldn’t stop him, what hope was there that a car would?

  But it didn’t hit him. It stopped just short, with the bumper inches from his legs.

  The driver leapt out of his vehicle and walked towards him.

  No, don’t do that, Denton thought.

  As he approached the psychopath, the driver lifted his arm to invite a handshake.

  “No, don’t do that,” he screamed.

  Radnor took the hand and said something. The driver turned his head and looked directly at Denton.

  Denton felt very sick.

  The driver of the other car was Stephen Kaling.

  Chapter 29

  A Piece of Advice

  THE DAY WAS QUICKLY SLIPPING AWAY. Long, flat clouds drifted on the horizon, like pink and white space ships. Frozen puddles hugged the curb and trapped dead leaves vainly trying to flutter away. There was no snow on the ground yet, but the bitter cold of the concrete penetrated straight through the soles of Denton’s sneakers.

  Across the street, another boy was heading toward him. He wore a hoody and carried a hockey stick on his shoulder with skates slung hobo
style over it. Denton didn’t know him, but he knew of him. The brute was a year older and in the eighth grade. He was someone to avoid in the school’s halls.

  Denton’s muscles tightened and his pulse quickened. He knew there was no way to slip by unseen.

  He kept his eyes on the threat while trying to appear to be looking down at the street. His attention was entirely focused on the boy and he didn’t notice the car pulling up beside him.

  “Get in,” his brother said, leaning across to call out through the open passenger window.

  Relief and gratitude was soon followed by suspicion, but he didn’t hesitate to climb into the car.

  “What’s up?” Denton forced the words out so they sounded casual and meaningless. Greg had come home for the holidays. It would be the first time the family would be together for Christmas in years. The house had been coated with a delicate egg-shell veneer that everyone navigated awkwardly out of fear of it fracturing.

  “I went by Tyler’s, but you’d already left.”

  How had Greg known he’d been there? How did he know where Tyler lived?

  Greg got the car moving again and closed the window with the switch on the driver’s door. His rental car was a new model with electric windows and locks. Despite being an American make, it was a lot fancier than the twelve-year-old Mercedes his father still drove.

  A hand rested on the top of the steering wheel like a solid lump of clay. The gray wool overcoat Greg wore seemed to be a size too small. His athletic body fit it tightly and even the slightest bend of a bicep looked as though it might burst the seams.

  Denton glanced back at the figure walking home in the growing twilight. For the first time in his life, he wished he were someone else. He wished he was that boy. If only he could have had sports gear to stow in the back seat, instead of his bag of notebooks and dice that sat lamely on his lap. He wanted the smell of sweat from a game of pick-up hockey to fill the car. The basement where he and his friends spent the afternoon had been too cold for sweating, even though he had killed three orcs singlehandedly and dealt the death blow to a gorgon with his fireball spell.