Author: TallTim

Myles woke to sunlight streaming through the window. Weekends were the only time he got any quality sleep, during the week he’d have stressful dreams about forgetting something important for a meeting. He never could find the proper conference room in time, and when he arrived everyone stared at him without saying a word.

Grabbing a breakfast shake from the fridge, he walked over to his desktop. Time to see what was lurking on the USB drive. Myles inserted the connector, slotting it home. A new window opened showing multiple files and folders. It was more than he realized.

Drinking sips of shake, he paged through the documents in order. Myles knew how to program, but he didn’t advertise that skill to his superiors. He’d seen how they treat their coders, with strict security protocols and grueling “360 Reviews”. He wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy.

Myles liked being “in the zone”, where attention focused to laser brightness and the rest of the world fell away, grey and forgotten. Several hours passed before his back started to ache. Stretching, he went to the bathroom and washed his face. He stared in the mirror, not quite believing what he had just read.

SAS stood for “Short Attention Span”. It wasn’t a study on hyperactive teenagers or sugar-crazy kids, it was a cold clinical term applied to how human attention worked. From what he could gather, SAS was the vanguard of SuccINCt’s new product and advertising strategy.

It devolved into pseudo-marketing speak and other business terms which were too dense for Myles to understand. He did have an idea of how it worked, though. It wasn’t much different than a new computer language. Syntax and rules designed to achieve given results.

He just had a hard time believing that any of it would work.

People weren’t just black boxes, where you shoved in data and got something out in a reliable fashion. They had free will and unique thoughts. It bothered him that SuccINCt was reducing people to monetary resources. Whatever it was, from the files he had read it looked like every bit of advertising in the past six months had been using it.

Myles shook his head, walking back to his computer. He had chores to do, and the rest of this could wait. If he only had the smarts to make a robot to go to work for him, now that would be something. Laughing out loud, he smiled and started cleaning his apartment.

---

Monday morning, dark skies in the dead of winter. Myles didn’t mind the longer night hours, it put the sun in sync with his drowsiness. Nothing worse than a bright morning when you are still rubbing sleep out of your eyes. He yawned, walking across the plaza to the lobby entrance, dominated by the backlit SuccINCt logo.

Swiping his card, he pushed through the turnstile. Security nodded as Myles held up his ID, secured by a lanyard around his neck. The elevator thankfully was empty. He hated the awkward ride up to the main offices with other people in the car, each pretending to stare at the floor number display.

Arriving at his floor, he navigated to his desk. It was in the middle of the open office, which gave everyone visiblity of what he was doing. He didn’t like it, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. It felt like being in a fishbowl, with people tapping on the glass.

Logging in, he saw an alert pop up on his screen. SuccINCt was proud of their interoffice “memo” system. A supervisor or higher-up could issue a demand or general policy announcement, and everyone would see it. They could be targeted too. His note said “See me soon-as.”, with the name of his immediate boss.

That wasn’t good. Before the morning meeting, too.

Myles swallowed and straightened his tie. What could it be this time? He walked up to Gail’s door and rapped softly.

“Enter.”

Gail Webb was a no-nonsense kind of manager, and Myles tried his best to avoid one-on-one situations like these. She had the look of someone sizing you up, probing for weakness. His stressful dreams were fueled by Gail’s disapproving glare.

Myles sat down, tablet ready to take notes.

“So. Tell me about Friday evening.”, Gail peered over designer glasses, hair drawn back into a bun. Manicured nails drumming on the desktop.

“Well, uh, Friday. I uh, was getting the financial reports done.”

“The copier is on the top floor. Security said you were in Prototyping.”

Miles swallowed nervously. Dammit, he had been rumbled by Security. Just tell her something, anything.

“I had to send an email, so I went down there because it was closest.”

“Let me be clear, you are still an intern. That means you only go where your duties require it.”

Myles hated confrontations. It made him sweat, face growing warm as his cheeks turned red. He had to say something that showed he was on task. His mind ran through a blizzard of words, Myles felt like he was in a heavy storm with high winds blinding his eyes.

“The reports were taking so long I decided to take a walk down the stairs. You know that I hate elevators. So on the way I was thinking about how I needed to send this email. With the copies going on, you see. No use in having me sit there when there’s just a counter to look at. So, I get down to the Prototyping floor and got on a computer to get that email sent like I said before.”, Myles spoke rapidly, trying to impress.

Gail blinked, fingers still. She looked like she was staring at something far away, beyond the walls.

“So, Tell me about Friday evening.”

Gail had repeated herself. That never happened. In fact, Gail hated to repeat things to underlings. The oddness of it prickled the hairs on the back of his neck.

“I had to send an email, while the copies were running.”

“Fine, see you at the morning meeting.”

Just like that. Myles stood and left Gail’s office, walking back to his desk.

What had just happened? Was it something he had said? It couldn’t be. The only thing he had done was expound at length, something he tried not to do at work. He had been desperate to say anything, so he brain-dumped whatever he had on his mind.

It was like watching a computer reboot. Myles tapped his keyboard idly, staring at the screen.

Another memo popped up, “Morning Meeting – Conference Room B”.

He had another meeting to attend. Sighing, Myles grabbed his tablet joining the others lined up at the entrance.

There had to be more to this, he thought. If only he knew what.

(To be continued.)

The lower floors were more utilitarian than the executive suites.

Stubby dividers of frosted glass fenced in most of the “open plan” office. SuccINCt had strict rules about one’s workspace. You were allowed a maximum of two personal items. One could be a framed picture (which had its own rules attached governing content and size), and the other a knick-knack or small plant – all subject to additional restrictions, of course.

The Human Resources orientation manual was bulky when printed, and came in a large three-ring binder. He had used his as a doorstop at home, after turning in the “I have read and understand” form with his signature.

Myles hated the open office design. It meant constant interruptions by well-meaning co-workers, usually when your mental flow was at its deepest. Mentally ascending to the shallow waters of careless conversation stressed Myles out, especially when he had a deadline to meet.

The overhead lights were off, which was a relief. Only the wall halogens were lit, casting graceful parabolas on the textured walls. During the day, the long strips of ceiling lights cast an overly-bright glare on everything below. It was like being trapped in a photographer’s infinity backdrop, visual cues for wall edges washed out in the persistent fluorescent blizzard.

Myles walked carefully between 3D printers and digital drafting tables. Here a concept could be created and instantiated with relative ease. Some objects were left on the printer trays, bright colored plastic shapes and cross-sectional coverings.

He needed access to the planning files.

Myles jiggled each mouse as he passed workstations. The ones that lit up with the SuccINCt logo were locked, password prompt hovering in the center. His clearance wasn’t high enough to browse the shared file server. He kept up the rhythm, jiggle, logo, jiggle, logo, jiggle, desktop.

Success! The desktop was littered with links to project folders and proposals. Myles pulled up a system window displaying the connected network drives. Clicking on “Projects Ongoing” resulted in a long list of coded project names, sorted alphabetically.

Inserting his keychain USB drive, Myles browsed to the folder labeled “SAS” and dragged it to his external drive. The OS displayed animated fluttering pages, copying the contents. At the far end of the floor, a brilliant white cone swept the room.

“Who’s there?”, the guard sounded annoyed at having to investigate. Myles must’ve triggered a sensor at the doorway.

“Myles Chapman, just had to send a quick email.”

The guard lowered his light, walking towards the cubicle.

Myles pulled the USB drive and pocketed it, locking the desktop just as the guard rounded the row.

“Sorry about that, just wanted to get out of here – have to tend to some copies upstairs then I’m gone.”

“You and me both, buddy. Okay, take it easy.”, the guard peered at Myles ID before stomping back towards the exit.

He had to get out of here. It was way too late to do any more snooping. Besides, he had to rise early to get a head start on all of his neglected housework. His laundry wasn’t going to wash itself. Myles exited to the elevators, punching the “Up” button.

He sincerely hoped the security guard wouldn’t make a big deal out of his late-night computer usage. Arriving at the top floor, Myles scooped up the still-warm copies from the DocuMax tray dumping the contents on the personal assistants desk down the hall.

Descending to the lobby, Myles pondered about what he had found.

The system was too fast to catch all of the document names he had copied, but momentary pauses in buffering the contents had revealed glimpses of names like “Threshold Stimuli”, “Subjective Analysis” and “Time Domain Perception”. It was very puzzling, indeed.

The subway ride home was noisy and jarring, large metal wheels squealing against worn rails during each turn. Myles preferred to stand, even though the car was empty. He once had made the mistake of sitting down late one night and had fallen fast asleep.

He had woken up in the train yard as the sun was rising, back aching and neck sore from the hard plastic. Myles vowed to never let that happen again. Even if it meant tired feet, it was way better than going to the end of the line and having to walk all the way home.

Myles exited the station and walked home, street lights still shining. He lived in a small three-story walkup on the ground floor. It was a good distance from work, but the price made it worthwhile. He slotted his key and opened the door, throwing his bag on the floor.

It wasn’t large, but it was his. Bookshelves lined the walls, curled posters from concerts bracketing his prized possession a large monitor that also functioned as his entertainment center. Myles paged through the DVR screen, adding some shows to record.

He was too sleepy to watch anything tonight. Maybe tomorrow after he got his chores done.

Myles took the USB drive from his pocket, quick-releasing it from the keychain. Who knew what secrets it held. He turned it over in his hands, placing it next to his computer.

Trudging into the bedroom, he kicked off his shoes and flopped on to his bed. He was exhausted.

A breeze rattled the bare branches outside, casting long shadows on the wall.

(To be continued.)

The constant drone of circulation fans in Carruthers suit lent an eerie undertone to the surroundings. Carr checked the printout, noting the location of the shipping container “ER2C”. The containment team had done well, each towering column of stacked containers were completely encapsulated.

Below, the low ceiling of semi-translucent plastic reminded him of tent caterpillar webs in mulberry trees. Yellow suited technicians swarmed the other columns, trudging up scaffold-supported stairs to each level. Arriving at the container door, Carr unlatched the mechanism.

The door swung outward with an extended metallic groan. Carr’s flashlight played over the boxes inside, shrink-wrapped electronics and assorted parts. He marked it off the list, and shut the door. Whatever was infecting people, it wouldn’t be lurking on circuit boards.

Just to be sure, a backup team would be sweeping every container when they were done taking samples. Carr doubted it was on anything inorganic. Most infections needed something with cellular structure to propagate. The search became a tempo of climbing, opening doors and checking off lists.

Carr didn’t mind, it let his brain tumble over the puzzle of facts in his head. Frank, the embattled Baxley CEO knew something. It was in the way he spoke, how he became agitated when there was another perceived delay. Frank was under a form of quarantine, along with his administrative assistant.

Carr stopped, rubbing his wrist. Figures he’d have an itch while wrapped up in this suit. He wished for a coat hanger he could straighten into a scratching implement. Wouldn’t that be a sight, him in a yellow hazmat suit puncturing the seal to get at an itch. Ridiculous.

As he walked to the next container, Carr noticed a dark pool of liquid on the plastic lined floor. Checking the manifest, he matched it up with the line item “Chiral Medical – Assorted Protein/12 kilo ea.” Carr heaved on the door latch, forcing it into the open position.

The container was half empty, multiple clear plastic pouches stacked on racks wrapped with plastic. This container was a “reefer” or refrigerated. The cooling tubes lined the walls in regular patterns, like a maze. Something was wrong, the compressor must have stopped running. The interior temp gauge was a balmy 70F/21C.

Carr walked closer to the racks, avoiding the dark rivulet of fluid down the center. He tore the plastic containing a shelf of pouches, lifting one up to the light. A pig hoof attached to a foreleg floated in some kind of brine, the end rounded in the same way as the body in the morgue. There were other oblong pieces in each package, all truncated in the same fashion.

He reconstructed it mentally, picturing how the refrigeration unit must’ve failed. With the internal temperature soaring, each pouch became an incubator for whatever was left behind during the packaging process. Some had burst, leaking the fluid Carr saw on the floor. It wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine someone stepping in it, or a rat running through it.

This was it, ground zero. Carr dropped the pouch on the floor, running out to the scaffold edge. He keyed the mic, feeling light-headed.

“This is Carruthers, we got a hot zone up here. Chiral Medical container. It seems like… it…”, Carr felt sleepy, like the whole world was pressing down on his shoulders. He shook his head, slumping down to the floor. Just had to take a rest, that’s all. The fans whirred a white-noise lullabye as he fell unconscious.

---

Burning sensation. Pain. Dryness in the back of his throat, grainy and uncomfortable.

Carruthers opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. The last thing he remembered was the container, going outside and radioing for help. His right wrist felt like it had been sunburned, radiating pain in a circle all around. Carr lifted his arm, looking at the gauze bandage wrapped around his hand.

A pulse sensor was clipped to his finger, and multiple discs were attached to his chest. He was in a hospital. A light blue curtain ringed the bed. Carr moved his toes and wiggled his fingers. Well, at least he wasn’t paralyzed. His head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton. Detached and woozy.

The curtain parted, the Chief in dress blues with a few of his co-workers. Even the kid was there.

“Forgive me for not getting up.”

“You’re a lucky man, Carruthers.”, the Chief presented a folder with Carr’s name on it.

“What’s this, my report card?”

“Its your medical report. You got whatever those bodies had. Lucky for you the doctors here managed to save you and your hand.”

Carr paged through the folder, skimming the reports. Bolded words like “Subcutaneous mycelium structures” and “Zygomycosis like properties” gave him an instant headache.

“I’m not a doctor, just give me the summary.”

“You got whatever bug was crawling on those bodies. They’re still trying to figure it out. Lucky for you the infection on your wrist was contained to the skin which had to be removed.”

The itch. Carr rewound events in his head, recalling when Frank grabbed him before going in to the warehouse. That must meant that Frank was infected too.

“Before you ask, yes, Frank is in critical condition. We’re checking out everyone that had contact with him. So far nobody touched him, so they should be out from isolation soon.”, the Chief took back the folder putting it under his arm.

“What about Chiral Medical? If any other shipments made it out of there-“

“They’re shut down tight. We’re working with the Chinese authorities on the matter. Got two other ships that need to be inspected, but they know enough not to open the containers.”

“One more question – why? What was Frank doing dealing with an outfit like that?”

“Seems Frank struck a deal with the Chiral folks, they’re a supplier for medical applications. One of their breakthroughs was a way to ‘auto-quarter’ livestock. They’d infect an entire pen of pigs and collect the parts in the morning. Problem was, they didn’t anticipate it jumping species. The lab boys are still trying to figure it out.”

The Chief waved off the crowd, waiting until the door was shut.

“Seems that Frank was trying to use the parts for another deal involving pig farmers wanting to make a quick buck. He jumped over a bazillion regs and laws in doing so. Looks like he was trying to undercut the meat packing plants with an exclusive contract with Chiral Medical.”

Carr furrowed his brow. That would have meant introducing the tainted meat into the food supply. That bastard. Chasing money with zero ethics. It reminded Carr of his youthful mistake, letting greed dictate his actions.

“Thanks Chief. Sounds like we caught it in time.”

“Its not over yet. The Chiral CEO went missing before the Chinese could pick him up. We’ve got our international partners looking for him.”

“I’d like to be part of that, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure Carr. Get some rest. Plenty of work to do when you get back.”, the Chief patted Carr on the shoulder, exiting the room.

Carr pushed the call button, looking back up at the ceiling.

He needed a drink, maybe some food.

Anything but a ham sandwich.

Flashing lights and blaring sirens on the drive back to Baxley. Carruthers didn’t like going full-bore, but sometimes there was no other choice. Time was passing at an alarming rate, what had been early morning wore into noon and was rapidly becoming evening rush-hour, cars clogging streets with weary commuters.

The bartender hadn’t made it. The nurses and doctors tried their best, but there was not much left to save. The body had been wrapped in a plastic cocoon, awaiting a full autopsy under the direction of the Center for Disease Control. Since Carr was the point man on the case, the technicians were waiting for him to arrive before inspecting the warehouse.

Frank had been full of surprises, and Carr didn’t trust him. He had to use every skill in his arsenal to get Frank to disclose what he knew. The only reason Frank wasn’t in an interrogation room was the time-sensitive nature of the problem. Baxley’s ancient record keeping wasn’t helping any.

The only reason Carr had a inventory printout at all was due to regulatory requirements, Baxley furnishing manifests and responding to inquiries. He was sure Frank would’ve preferred everything be done on a handshake and a liquid lunch if he could get away with it. It smacked of shady dealings, making him think Frank had some contracts he wasn’t talking about.

Money made people do stupid things.

When he was young and naive, Carr got wrapped up in a deal that ended up being a Multi-Level-Marketing scam. What he had thought was a good friend introduced him to it. The lure of easy cash was too hard to ignore. It took years to restore his credit, after his “friend” bolted with the funds leaving him twisting in the wind. It taught him a lesson, always do your own diligence on a deal.

Carr rolled through the barrier, pulled aside at speed due to his obnoxious entrance. He switched off the lights and sirens, pulling into a spot near the main entrance. Frank was smoking a cigarette outside, scowling at officers and yellow-suited hazmat techs.

Carr wished he had brought the kid in on this one, let him deal with Frank’s bluster while he got down to the real digging. Army of one, master of none – like they say. He strode up to Frank, nodding at the officer tasked with babysitting duty.

“Another body cooling on a slab, Frank. You better be on the level before anyone else dies.”

Frank eye’s widened, he coughed mid-inhale, sputtering, “You can’t talk to me like that–“

“So I keep hearing. The only thing I want from you is the truth.”, Carr locked eyes with the bedraggled CEO, refusing to blink first.

“I gave you everything, I swear.”

“We’ll see about that. Got a team inbound to audit your records.”, Carr stepped around Frank, headed towards the entrance.

“What? I have it organized the way I want, you can’t do that – I got shipments coming and bills to pay!”, Frank grabbed Carr’s wrist, pleading like a child.

“We can, and we will. You’ve got nothing coming, Frank. Harbor master already told them to expect a full inspection when they arrive. Nothing is moving off of those boats until we know its safe.”

Frank let go, slumping against the weathered grey wall. Carr almost felt sorry for him. Almost. There was an undercurrent there that he couldn’t put his finger on, and it bothered him.

Carr pushed on past the front office, to a small utility room that had been repurposed as a staging area. The entire interior had been draped in thick plastic, held up by an adjustable frame. Furniture that couldn’t be moved were indistinct lumps rising from the ground, edges taped and secured against tearing.

Technicians handed Carr some disposable coverings, spraying down the outer surfaces with a chemical wash. The suits hung on a rack past a plastic curtain. Part of the room had been sectioned into a improvised airlock. Two steel benches gleaming in the portable floodlights.

He stepped into the full gown, gloves and shoe coverings wrapped tight on his hands and feet. Turning in the confined space, he received a spray treatment before moving on to the changing area. The air was sharp and tinged with chemicals. Donning the suit, technicians made sure the zipper was sealed with tape before doing another spray-down.

It was like being in a car wash, except the windshield was a rounded rectangle of plastic, any leaks inviting horrible disease. He imagined an array of flopping brushes doing a final pass over his body, coating the suit with a thin layer of auto wax.

“Rust-proofing please.”

The techs halted, looking at each other with puzzled expressions.

“Just kidding. Lets pop the cork and see what we’ve got.”

The interior door had been cut out and replaced with a flexible aperture. Carr stepped through, into the brightly lit space beyond. The containment team had been busy. The warehouse was too big to enclose from outside, so every container block had been draped and encapsulated, with room for portable scaffolding containing stairways to each level.

A low ceiling of plastic was supported by portable struts, each strapped with glowing LED lights. It looked like something out of a science fiction movie. This would be the part where an alien would appear, dripping slime and baring several sets of teeth.

If only it were that obvious. They had plenty of containers to check, and going by the manifest, they would start with the most recent additions. Carr felt tired just looking at it. A dry patch in his throat made him cough, forgetting he was wearing a suit – his gloved hand hit his facemask with a dull thud.

“Sorry, reflex. Let’s get started.”

Technicians began to fan out, each holding a copy of the manifest. Carr cleared his throat, keying the radio on his utility belt.

“Do it by the numbers. Give a shout if you find anything of interest.”

Carr walked up to the nearest column, climbing the shiny metal stairs.

(To be continued.)

Carruthers walked outside, closing the door behind him.

It took some prodding, but Frank finally produced a printout listing every container that had been shipped in the last two weeks. Cryptic number-letter suffix at the end of each line, like a street address, except the houses were stacked ten stories high.

He would need some help to inspect them all. Carr’s phone buzzed in his pocket, derailing his train of thought. A text, from the kid at the station.

Bartender critical, metro hospital isolation

Carr had to get down there. He had been so intent on saving the bartender’s life last night that he hadn’t asked any questions. This could be his last chance. The circle of infection was expanding, beyond the Red Rose and Baxley Shipping. Every moment counted, each lead radiating out from ground zero with fatal swiftness.

Carr tried to get the severed hand out of his mind, lying on the wet sidewalk. He could’ve sworn it twitched when he wasn’t looking directly at it. Might have been the lightning playing tricks with his eyesight, who knows. Shifting into gear, Carr rolled through the barricade waving at the officer on duty.

Metro Hospital loomed up ahead, red warning lights pulsing on the helipad. Brutalist architecture meant lots of concrete and narrow windows. It reminded Carr of the city jail, except the inmates were paying for their stay. He doubted the food was as good.

Carr eased into a parking spot near the Emergency entrance, putting his placard on the dashboard. He walked past an idling paramedic, through the double doors into reception. It was a quiet, just a few nurses filling out paperwork and checking their phones.

“Excuse me, Detective Carruthers for the recent patient in critical care.”

“Over there, down the hall and third door on the left. You’ll have to wear these – isolation ward.”

The nurse handed him a pair of gloves, mask and coverings for his shoes and head. Not a full hazard suit, but enough to keep things at bay as long as you kept your hands to yourself.

Carr donned the clothing, snapping the foot coverings into place with a awkward hopping motion. Doctor Quack, at your service. He felt a bit silly walking down the hallway, foot covers swishing on the white linoleum tile. The third door had a red sign stating “Isolation: Proper Attire Only”.

He stepped into the room, letting the heavy door close silently behind him. Blinking lights, soft whisper of a ventilator pumping air into a flexible tube. Sensor wires and clear drip tubes snaked into a port on the side of the plastic curtain. The bartender lay on a stretcher, encapsulated in the isolation tent.

Carr noticed that one leg was gone, pants folded up to the hip. The bartenders left arm truncated at the elbow, rounded end mottled and red. Multiple scarlet traces were ringing his neck, skin puckering around the edges. He couldn’t help but think of the head in the bathtub, bloodshot eyes staring at the ceiling.

He inserted a gloved hand through the port, gently shaking the large man by the shoulder.

“Hey. Wake up, need to ask you something.”

The bartender opened red-lined eyes, mouth half open. He shifted the mask off of his face, lips slowly moving.

Carr leaned in to hear, head pushing against the plastic.

“Couldn’t.. make… it…”, dry hacking cough filled the room.

“I know. I got the boys to bring you here. This is important, did you have any contact with employees from Baxley Shipping?”

“Yes. Guy came in last night. Crazy story.. half a rat crawled on his boot. Wanted to quit Baxley right there.”

Carr drew back, reconstructing it in his head. One guy comes in, shakes the bartenders hand and gets a drink. Then a buddy of his joins him, they have a few together before he heads home. One gets found on Kennedy Street, the other in the bathtub at his house.

The half-rat must’ve been a recent victim, shedding infecting particles on the worker’s boot. He must’ve wiped it off with his hand, or was careless when cleaning it with a rag. The end was the same, in any case. That was it, all cases pointed back to Baxley.

“Anything else?”, Carr leaned closer.

The big man grimaced, coughing loudly.

“Yeah. He didn’t tip worth a shit…”

A blue light flooded the room, EKG monitor squealing. Nurses burst through the door, pushing Carr out of the way. The EKG flat-lined. They started CPR, compressing the chest at regular intervals. Carr backed out of the room, out into the brightly lit hallway.

This wasn’t getting any better.

Carr stripped off the gloves and coverings, putting them in the bin marked with a tri-horned biohazard symbol. He washed his hands at the nurse station, using liberal amounts of cleanser. You couldn’t be too careful. Carr walked out to his vehicle, sliding into the driver’s seat.

Clicking the two-way mic, he radioed in to the station, updating the Chief on what he had learned.

The warehouse was the key. He was sure of it.

(To be continued.)

Carruthers didn’t want to see another time sheet ever again. It had taken hours to sift through the records, cross-checking them with the monthly schedule. He had two leads. Technically only one, the john doe found dead on Kennedy Street was one of the workers who had called in sick.

Carr rubbed his face, he needed a good nights sleep. Looking in the rear-view mirror he could see dark circles under his eyes. What a wreck. Day old stubble and a loosened necktie. At least the address wasn’t too far, just on the outskirts of town.

Revving the engine, Carr shifted into gear pulling on to the elevated expressway. It would dump him right where the money ran out, where shiny office buildings faded into dilapidated three-story walkups and seedy liquor stores. Old neon signs buzzing in storefronts, imploring passers by to spend their last dollars.

The wave of prosperity had washed over the city and crashed hard at the borders. The riptide of poverty made for a bleak landscape. Bedsheets in windows instead of curtains, litter on the sidewalks. Even the street sweepers couldn’t keep up, and they didn’t dare stop on their rounds – the last one that had got robbed at gunpoint.

Carr eased off the ramp towards the intersection, framed by peeling traffic lights flashing in standby mode. No one came out here unless they wanted to hide, or couldn’t afford anything else. He didn’t feel better than these people, just the radiated pain reflected in every broken bottle, every sagging store front.

He counted off the blocks, turning left on a pot-holed street near the city limits. The street ended in a cul-de-sac punctuated by stripped cars resting on their bare axles. Scattered piles of green safety glass marking past break-ins. Carr swung around the circle, backing up to provide a speedy departure.

829 Ogden. One story affair with peeling paint and drooping gutters. The front porch was stacked with auto parts, rusting exhaust pipes leaned up next to a torn screen door. Carruthers carefully opened the screen door, pressing the doorbell.

Muted chimes sounded from inside.

Nothing. Just a fitful breeze stirring scraps of paper.

Carr walked around the side, stepping through a rusted gate into thigh-high weeds. The back yard was overgrown, columns of stacked tires graying in the morning light. Stepping up the back porch stairs, he peered through a half-opened window.

Darkness, the faint sound of a radio playing.

“Metro police, I want to ask you some questions. Anyone here?”

Still nothing. Carr pushed on the back door, which swung in with a long squeak. This wasn’t right. He unholstered his pistol, safety switched off. Entering the kitchen, Carr swept the room. Piles of dishes sat in the sink, festering. Flies buzzed around the dim fixture in the ceiling in lazy arcs.

An unmistakable smell hit his nostrils.

Carr found him in the bathroom, water still dripping into the tub. He put on his blue nitrile gloves, putting away his gun. There were a jumble of parts at the bottom of the tub, each rounded and mottled just like the man found on Kennedy Street. The head bobbed at the edge, hair moving like tentacles on a jellyfish.

This whole site could be contaminated. Carr hastily withdrew, going out the back and rushing towards his vehicle. He removed the gloves and hurled them into the takeout bag, joining the others. He’d have to dispose of that somehow, it was probably crawling with whatever had infected the poor sap in the tub.

Carr’s phone rang, vibrating in his pocket.

“Carruthers here.”

“Carr, you better get down to the warehouse if you’re not there now. Ray’s autopsy results has the CDC stepping in. You’re the point man in getting down to the bottom of this.”

“Roger that, Chief. Be there soon-as.”

He hung up, turning the phone like a worry stone between his fingers. Center for Disease Control meant more resources, but the stakes were going up. Titles 8 and 42 expressly permitted full quarantine of any potential assets involved in the transmission or spread of communicable diseases.

Frank at Baxley Shipping would have a fit. His entire inventory would be frozen until it was determined there were no potential infection vectors. Somehow the thought didn’t make Carr feel any better. Shifting into gear, he accelerated down the street, weaving to avoid the deeper pits in the asphalt.

The street in front of Baxley was a swarm of yellow tape and flashing lights. Carr flashed his badge at the officer on the line, who moved the barricade aside to let him pass. He had to give the Chief credit on this one, looked like every possible agency was represented on site.

He got out of the car, walking over to the sergeant in charge.

“Detective Carruthers, Chief put me on point for this one.”

“Have at it, the old man is giving me a headache.”, the sergeant waved Carr on, two-way crackling with updates.

Carr walked inside, greeted by Frank shouting at a visibly annoyed patrol officer.

“You can’t do this! I have a business to run! I pay my taxes, which means I pay your salary, so get out of here!”

“Frank. Shut it.”, Carr nodded to the cop, who stepped outside.

Frank blustered, hair askew. By the look of it he had been ranting for a while. His face was as red as a beet, circles of sweat under his armpits.

“You can’t talk like that to me–“

“I can, and I will.”, Carr stepped forward, staring Frank in the eyes. “You’re not only going to allow these people to do their jobs, you are going to calm down and let us save some lives.”

“What are you talking about, there isn’t anyone dead here.”

“Wrong again, Frank. The body we picked up on Kennedy Street was one of yours. The other I just checked on, he’s dead too. So shut up and sit down.”

Frank slumped into his chair, muttering under his breath.

“Now tell me about your most recent shipments. We’re going to have to check them all. We’ll need the keys to the warehouse.”, Carr drew up a chair, sitting opposite of the disheveled CEO.

(To be continued.)

A dull grey fog flowed off of the harbor, street lights swaddled in flecked motes of moisture. Carruthers stared out into the formless void where light scattered and lost its way amongst billions of suspended water molecules. It felt like his efforts to unravel this case – bumbling and mostly directionless.

Baxley Shipping wasn’t the largest, but they had their own ship-to-shore gantry crane, which allowed unloading and processing of brightly colored shipping containers. Several containers were stacked in the nearby lot, access doors ajar like gaps in rectangular steel teeth.

The main office was a small two-story affair, grafted on to the side of a larger warehouse. Due to the peeling paint, it was hard to tell which had been there first. Carr yawned, billowing breath diffusing out the window into the mist. Only a little while longer.

The shipping business had razor-thin margins. The hours were long, and when a ship was late it would throw the entire schedule into disarray. The recession hadn’t helped any. Most of the bigger firms closed or relocated, leaving behind rows of cranes silently rusting in the salty air.

Carr kept thinking about Ray’s tone, the way his voice cracked as he explained the need for a containment team. It prompted Carr to do the same with the ambulance, both technicians were in full gear before they put the bartender on the stretcher. If he had seen them waddling down the street in their bright yellow suits, any other day he would’ve laughed out loud.

Carr wasn’t in a cheerful mood, not after tonight.

Switching on the radio, he flipped through the stations. A soulful wail from a jazz quartet filled the air. Notes hanging in the air like wisps of dreams, wandering, yearning to be free. The solo concluded on a minor note that tugged at his heart.

Up ahead, twin headlights punched through the fog with muted brilliance. Carr switched off the radio as the black sedan pulled up in front of the building. An older man emerged with a briefcase, followed by a shorter woman carrying two takeaway coffee cups.

Carr watched them enter the building, while he rolled up the windows. Time to get some answers.

The interior was basic, a few pictures of large container ships docked at port and sailing the open seas. This was a no-frills operation, down to the ugly nap carpeting and the used office furniture. The room faintly smelled like cigarette smoke.

Carr waited patiently as the administrative assistant concluded a phone call, half eaten doughnut in one hand.

“Yes, can I help you?”

“Detective Carruthers, I’m here to see the owner.”

She inspected his badge closely before turning and shouting through the open door, “Frank! Someone to see you!”

“Alright, alright. Come on in.”

She turned back and continued eating, opening a newspaper to the style section.

“Detective Carruthers. What brings you to my office so early?”

Frank was a portly man with graying hair, sitting behind a desk piled with invoices and contracts.

“Just you here today? I’d like to talk to some of your employees if you don’t mind.”

Frank removed his glasses, cleaning them with his tie.

“We aren’t due a shipment today. Most of the staff are on-demand, can’t afford too many full-timers.”

“Have any call in sick?”, Carr pressed the point carefully watching Frank’s reaction.

“At this point I have to ask, do you have a warrant? I can’t disclose information without proper procedure.”

This man was hiding something, Carr knew it. Carr also knew that he couldn’t demand details without a proper warrant. He was slipping, he should’ve called it in before he got out of the car.

“I can get one inside of ten minutes. How about we cut to the chase and you stop wasting my time.”

Frank glared at Carr over his bifocals.

“I think you’d better leave.”

“Keep that coffee warm. I’ll be right back.”

Carr walked through reception to the outer door, while switching on his two-way radio. It only took a few minutes to get the warrant, drowsy voices on the other end making him wish he had slept. Carr clipped the mic back on to his lapel, faint buzzing from his cell phone alerting him to a call.

“Carruthers here.”

“Carr.. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Ray is dead.”, the Chief’s voice was filled with sorrow. Carr stared at the gunmetal sky, feeling like the ground would swallow him whole. Ray had been a good friend, not just a co-worker. Another in a long list of the fallen.

“I see. Thanks Chief.”, Carr ended the call, pocketing his phone. That was it. Stuffing down his grief, he pushed past the startled assistant and thrust open Frank’s office door.

“Listen and listen good, I’ve got a warrant – so stop dicking me around.”

Frank waved off his hovering assistant as he leaned back in his office chair.

“Fine. Shoot.”

Carr pulled back a chair and sat down, drops of water pattering on the worn carpet.

“Tell me more about your employees. Specifically, anyone who has called in sick within the last two weeks.”

Frank stood, opening a drawer in the gray filing cabinet behind him.

“Going to take a while, we use paper files for employee records.”

“Then lets get started. Give me some of those and I’ll help.”

Frank handed Carr a heavy stack of manila folders, brimming with time sheets. From detective to paper jockey, the kid back at the station would’ve laughed his head off. Carr began paging through the forms, scanning for sick days.

Frank slammed down another stack, yelling at his assistant for more coffee.

This was going to take a while.

(To be continued.)

Carruthers tapped the accelerator, easing through another blinking-light intersection. Part of the city revitalization project, unsold condos and renovated warehouses sat in the unfolding darkness. The sidewalks were abandoned with bits of trash blowing about in fitful gusts of wind.

A soft tone pinged, alerting Carr to a call. He pulled over to the side of the road, wipers flailing in the downpour.

“Carruthers here.”

“Carr, its Ray. Whatever you do, don’t handle anything at the bar.”

Carr glanced at the morgue photo sticking out from the case folder.

“Can’t make any promises, already been there. What’s up?”

A burst of static as lightning flickered overhead.

“I don’t have confirmation yet, but I’ve found something that suggests this is spread by personal contact.”

“I was on my way over to you, and I have a few questions about–“

“No Carr, don’t come over here. I might be… compromised. I’ll explain later, there’s a containment crew on the way.”

Ray sounded shook up, like he had seen something that he shouldn’t have. In all of his years on the force, Carr had never heard Ray lose his composure. It was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. This all felt wrong.

“Okay Ray, will do.”

The line went dead, leaving Carr staring at his home screen. He pocketed the phone, staring out into the rainswept cones of his headlights. The low rumble of the engine filtering through random percussion of raindrops on the glass. This was starting to bother him. Lots of loose ends, and not enough answers.

Carr opened the glovebox, rummaging through old receipts and scraps of paper. He never had gone fully digital, there were bits of other things he was working on filed away in his personal archive. Pushing them aside, he grabbed two blue nitrile gloves.

Snugging the gloves against his fingers, he fished out a small plastic ziplock bag. Carefully Carr edged out the morgue headshot into the bag, sealing the top securely. That should do it, you can never be too careful. Turning the gloves inside out, he tossed them into an old takeout bag.

If it was important enough for Ray to warn him, then he better take it seriously. Carr grabbed a few more pairs of gloves and stuffed them into his pocket. He wished he had a full facemask, but this would have to do. At least it wasn’t airborne, or otherwise Ray would’ve said so.

Carr put both hands on the steering wheel, drumming his fingers. It helped him think.

The bartender seemed to be hiding something. Carr rubbed his chin as realization struck. Grabbing the folder, he paged rapidly through the dossier until he found the officer report on the dead body. It was on Kennedy Street, not far from where Carr was right now.

Carr closed his eyes, visualizing the layout. The docks had once been the lifeblood of the city, but as time wore on the warehouses shuttered and only a few of the shippers had kept up with the crushing recession. Based on proximity, that left Baxley Freight down near Pier Two.

It was a long shot, but Carr didn’t have anything else to go on. He most certainly couldn’t drive back to the morgue.

Easing back into gear, he pulled away from the curb, swinging a wide U-turn in the middle of the street. It was only a few hours until dawn, and he could grab some shut-eye before they opened up in the morning. No rest for the weary. By the looks of it, the rain would continue until sunrise.

The rain started to slacken, down to a slight mist from a blinding torrent. Carr switched the wipers to “low”, reducing the frantic rhythm to an intermittent squeak. Up ahead, The Red Rose was on the right. Carr idled at the four-way intersection, as the bartender shut the door behind him and locked it up.

Carr switched off his lights.

He had his suspicions, which were amplified as the large man limped down the sidewalk. He appeared to be favoring his left hand, arm crooked at an odd angle as he lumbered down the street. Carr slowly followed, tailing him a half-block behind. The bartender lurched against the wall, crying out in pain.

As Carr watched, the man’s left hand dropped to the sidewalk.

The bartender curled up on the concrete, face twisted in anguish. Carr pulled up, jumping out into the rain. He slipped on two blue gloves, switching on his two-way radio clipped to his belt. The earpiece crackled with activity. He keyed the radio, requesting an ambulance.

The bartender was shaking violently, his severed hand glistening in the street lights.

Carr bent down on one knee, touching him on the shoulder.

“I’ve got help coming. Just hang in there.”

The big man grunted, a guttural noise filled with fear and pain.

Carr looked at the hand more closely. The red striations circled the wrist, crusted and terminating in the oddly-rounded end where the wrist should be. It looked just like the markings on the body in the morgue. Carr stepped back, wishing he had a face mask.

In the distance, the rising wail of sirens drew closer. Carr adjusted his hat, rain dripping off the brim in a steady stream. He would stay on the scene until help arrived, then check on Baxley. The misting rain slackened, as a stiff breeze whirled around him. A growing unease was brewing in his gut, bringing back past regrets.

Carr stared into the night, pinpoints of red light resolving into a boxy city ambulance.

He half wished he could just ride back to the hospital, into sterile rooms and the sharp smells of antiseptics. Carr shook his head, random facts churning in his mind. There was more to this, and it was staring him right in the face. He just had to find the right perspective.

Lightning crackled overhead, low rumbling like boulders rolling down a mountainside.

(To be continued.)

The Red Rose wasn’t on any tour guides, and for good reason. Built before the influx of trendy condos and lofts, it was primarily a gathering place for dock workers and barflies. Carruthers pulled into a parking spot, tires crunching on broken glass. He remembered this neighborhood, back when he was on patrol.

Peeling paint on faded signs drooped from adjacent buildings. It once had been home to vibrant district of manufacturing and retail, but both had been subsumed into the great digital collective. The Red Rose stubbornly refused to join the online club, it didn’t even have a website.

Carr was pretty sure that the owner didn’t even know what a website was. Stepping to the curb, and double-checking that his door was locked, he made his way over drifting papers and discarded styrofoam cups swirling in the evening breeze.

The Red Rose had an equally red door, dinged and scraped like someone had tried to push a cargo container through it. Carr leaned on the heavy door, parting the red beads draped near the entrance. The smoky interior was just like hard drinkers liked it.

A small string of bulbs near the bar, just enough to see the glass in front of you and not much else. Low amber glow from filaments inside hand-blown bulbs. They looked like relics from the 1900’s, and possibly were. A few patrons sat at the bar, one had his head down and was snoring.

Carr took the last seat and let his eyes adjust to the dim interior. Framed pictures lined the walls, grinning faces from local celebrities and random party goers. A stark contrast to the state of things now. Carr was staring at a large bottle, trying to figure out of it had been opened in the last ten years when the bartender came out from the back room.

“Hey buddy, what’ll it be?”, his face was scarred like he had been in a few fights, crooked nose from where it had been broken and set wrong.

“Not here to drink, just need to ask some questions.”, Carr took out a headshot of the body cooling in the morgue, pushing it across the bar top.

The bartender started for a second, then slowly put the bottle of liquor down.

“I ain’t seen nobody like that. Friend of yours?”

“Not the kind that keeps talking. Look closely. You’ve never seen this person before?”

The bartender squinted, shaking his head.

“Nope. Can’t help ya.”

“I see. Hurt your hand recently?”

The bartender had some gauze wrapped around his left hand, tacked in place with two dirty pieces of cloth tape. If he worked anywhere else, it might be a hindrance. As it was, he probably could serve everyone here with one arm tied behind his back, while wearing a blindfold.

“Cut it on a broken glass.”

“Sorry to hear that. Is the owner in?”, Carr peered at the back entrance, but it was too dark to see anything.

“Nah, he doesn’t check in like he used to. Maybe if you call, he’d meet you here.”

Carr nodded, standing up from the stool.

“Sure thing. Appreciate the help.”

Walking outside, Carr pulled out his phone. Something didn’t feel right about how the bartender answered his questions. The bandaged hand didn’t make sense either. Why would you wrap up your entire hand to the wrist from a simple cut? There had been no blood seeping through, either.

The line rang a few times, faint signal making for some slight distortions.

“Ray here.”

“Sorry to bother you Ray, I have a few more things I wanted to follow up on.”

“No problem, come on by when you get a chance.”

“Will do. Thanks, Ray.”, Carr ended the call and pocketed the phone, walking towards his car.

It just didn’t add up. A bar that didn’t have more than five people, and the bartender didn’t see the victim? The body had been found just a street or so over, within easy walking distance. There were other threads to pull on too, but Carruthers had a hunch.

He had to talk to Ray again. It might help string some of these dangling bits together.

Starting the car, he pulled on to the rainy street. Fat drops fell from overhead, smacking the windshield.

Like weeping angels, he thought. The dead need no mercy, but the damned wail until the moon sets. How perfectly morbid. This assignment was seeping into his brain like a dense fog. He shook his head, rolling up to a flashing traffic light.

The rain intensified, mist curling off of the car hood. Carr drove up the street, back towards the morgue. He had more time than answers, and it was bothering him.

(To be continued.)