The Brain Eaters

Chapter 19

They found Doc Ingersoll in the wire room at the Herald with stacks of wire copy littering the table where he sat and Camel butts spilling out of the ashtray. Doc was bent over a pad of copy paper on which he was making notes, his head tilted to keep the smoke out of his eyes.

He looked up and grunted when Corey and Dena came in. “Learn anything new from Zachry?”

“Not much,” Corey said. “How about you?”

Doc waved at the untidy stacks of torn-off wire-service copy. “Plenty. Too much. I read so much of this crap I started to imagine my brain was being chewed on.”

The other two looked at him sharply.

Doc fanned away the cigarette smoke. “Just kidding.”

Dena flipped through some of the wire stories and read the datelines. “They seem to come from all over.”

“They do,” Doc said. There isn’t a section of the country that hasn’t been hit. God knows how many cases have gone unreported.”

“Any good hook to hang tomorrow’s lead on?” Corey asked.

“You read ‘em. After a hundred or so I felt like I was reading the same one over and over.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

“Anything out of Washington?”

“Transcript of the president’s speech. Inspirational.”

“We heard it.”

“Also, they’re talking about a ban on international travel. Other countries don’t want our brain eaters. Imagine that, after all of their wretched refuse we took in.”

Dena lay down the wire stories and leaned over to look at the notes Doc had been working on. “What’s this?”

“From the stories coming in, I’ve been trying to put together a profile of the brain eaters. Symptoms, duration, chances for survival — that kind of thing.”

“And what did you come up with?” Corey asked.

“Bad news and worse news.” He dug through the jumbled papers until he came up with the one he wanted. “The first symptom seems to be a skin irritation at the point of entry. Dexter Horn showed us at the autopsy how the parasites apparently get into the bloodstream through some small break in the skin. In the reports I’ve read tonight, there seems to be a fair number of cases where the victim reported a rash or low-level irritation following a small cut or abrasion of the skin.”

Corey frowned in thought. “DuBois Williamson’s wife said he was stung by a bee sometime before they drove past Biotron. She thought he might be allergic, the way it swelled up later.”

“That fits,” Doc said. “In the cases where they’ve traced symptoms at all, they usually start with a skin irritation of some kind.”

“What else?”

“A sort of bad cold or onset of the flu feeling. Only lasts a day or two, then suddenly goes away.”

“Like what I saw at Biotron last week,” Dena said.

“Sounds like,” Doc said.

“I can understand the skin irritation,” Corey said, “but why the false flu?”

“Damned if I know,” said Doc. “Maybe the parasite brings some kind of virus with it. If you want a clinical explanation, you’ll have to go to somebody else. All I’m doing is tabulating, looking for a pattern.”

“Okay, go ahead.”

“The last stage before the flip-out seems to be the headache. We know about that, too, from the autopsy.”

“I’ve seen the effect,” Corey said grimly.

“How long do they last?” Dena asked.

“One, two, three days. Probably seems a lot longer if it’s your head. They get progressively worse. No treatment helps.”

“And the pain drives them crazy?” Corey said.

“Something sure as hell does. Once the victim goes into the violent stage, there’s no communication with him. He starts trashing anything and anybody around him. Finally, there are the facial eruptions like we saw on the corpse. These are followed shortly by violent death — sometimes by the victim’s own hand.”

“They all die?” Dena asked in a hushed tone.

“Apparently. There are reports where the victim has been subdued, but ordinary restraints aren’t strong enough to hold them. They break loose and continue their rampage until something kills them. The lucky ones die early, of cerebral hemorrhaging.”

“How long does the whole thing last?” Corey asked. “From the time it gets into the bloodstream to the end?”

Doc Ingersoll pulled out another sheet on which he had drawn a graph that resembled a graduated series of mountain peaks. He said, “As near as I can figure, the average duration is seven days, with some deviation to either side.”

He pointed to the undulating line of the graph. “The beginning point here is June first, the date of the helicopter spraying at Biotron. And here, seven days later, we have Stransky, Williamson, and the girl in Seattle blowing up.”

“Also, Stu Anderson, the helicopter pilot,” Dena put in.

“Then,” Doc continued, “we have nothing until the next peak, a week later. That’s when we had outbreaks that were centered around the locations of the first three. The tallest peak here, just beginning to round off, is this weekend. It started Thursday, with Friday the highest point and a slight downturn Saturday and Sunday.

“You’ll notice how the peaks get blunter and the valleys shallower. Project this for another couple of weeks and you’ll have a steady line going thataway.” Doc Ingersoll pointed toward the ceiling.

“You’re not very encouraging,” Corey said.

“You want encouragement, read Mary Worth.”

Corey studied the graph for a minute, then laid it aside. He shuffled through the stacks of wire copy, selected several stories, and stuffed them into a pocket. “I think I’ll save the doomsday report for later in the week,” he said. “I don’t want to spoil anybody’s day.”

“Besides, statistics make dull stories,” Doc said.

“Exactly.” Corey selected one of the sheets from his pocket. “This one about a little kid in Boston who tore up his nursery school before diving into a dry swimming pool will make a better headline than statistics on a thousand deaths.”

“That’s a fact,” Doc agreed.

“Sometimes you guys make me sick,” Dena said.

“Sorry. Just shoptalk. Why don’t we all go out and get some dinner?”

“I’ll pass,” Doc said. “I want to keep an eye on the wire. I’ve got candy bars here and coffee in the machine.”

“A diet like that will kill you,” Dena said.

Doc removed the Camel butt from his mouth and looked at her. “None of us going to live forever, honey.”

Corey and Dena left the building and walked around to the parking lot. They got into Corey’s car and sat for a moment looking at the near-deserted street.

“Not many people out tonight.” Corey observed.

“Can you blame them?”

“I guess not. Any special place you’d like to eat?”

“To tell you the truth, Corey, I don’t feel much like going to a restaurant. Have you got anything to eat at your place?”

“Sure. Frozen pizza. Chicken pot pie. Hot-dog buns. Half a dozen eggs, I think. A little milk, if it’s still good. Pork and beans. Beer.”

Dena made a face. “That’s what you eat?”

“That’s what’s left over.”

“Have you got a market nearby?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s stop there and pick up something.”

With Dena making the selections and Corey pushing the cart, they purchased two well-marbled Spencer steaks, baking potatoes, butter, sour cream, asparagus, lettuce, onions, tomatoes, and salad dressing. From the liquor department Corey picked out a couple of bottles of California Burgundy.

When they unloaded the bags in his kitchen, Corey said, “This may be the most unfrozen food I’ve ever had in this place at one time.”

“Poor, deprived fella,” Dena said, patting his shoulder. “Does the broiler on your stove work?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s find out.” She turned the proper knob on the gas range, and after a moment there was a whoomp of flames in the broiler. “It works. Can you make a salad?”

“I think so, but why don’t we relax for a minute first. I’ve got bourbon.”

“Bourbon is fine. I’ll put the potatoes in the oven. It takes them a while to bake.”

Corey poured the drinks, adding ice and a splash of water to generous shots of Wild Turkey while Dena scrubbed the potatoes and put them into the oven. Corey was waiting for her when she came into the small living room. She sat down next to him on the couch and picked up her drink. They maintained a careful space between them.

“Let’s make a deal,” Corey said.

“What’s that?”

“Just for tonight, let’s forget all about the brain eaters. Tomorrow we’ll be back in the real world, but tonight I’d just like to relax and pretend we haven’t a thing to worry about.”

“I’m not very good at pretending.”

“Try.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

They touched glasses and drank. Corey appreciated the fact that Dena did not question the strength of the drink.

“I assume you’re not married,” she said.

“Nope. I was when I was twenty-three. She was a cocktail waitress. Looked great in black net stockings. Six months later I was in Vietnam, and she was back hustling drinks. I got the divorce papers while I was in the hospital.”

“Leave you bitter, did it?”

“Nah, I figure I got off easy. Anyway, bitter people are a pain in the ass. Everybody makes mistakes.”

“Have you made any more? Do you mind talking about it?”

“Not as long as it doesn’t dominate the conversation. While I was working in San Francisco, there was Barbara. She was a dancer. She thought it was kicky to live with a hotshot reporter. Kicky. That was one of her words. Imagine her chagrin when the hotshot husband got himself fired and asked if she wanted to come with him to Milwaukee, of all places. Adios, Barbara.”

“Sad story,” Dena said.

“Not really. I only asked her to come along because I knew she wouldn’t.”

“So you’ve survived.”

“Sure. How about you?”

“I came close once to getting married. Or so I thought, to a doctor in Chicago. Trouble was, he already had a wife. I knew that, of course, but like the little simp I was, I thought he’d leave her.”

“They never do,” Corey said.

“So I found out.”

“What about the copter pilot?”

“Stu? He was fun, and I liked him a lot, but there was no commitment there. Neither of us wanted it. We were both more interested in our work than in starting a heavy romance.”

“Do you like what you do?”

“Biochemistry? Sure I like it. Why?”

“Just curious. I get a bad taste from people who hate their jobs. Hell, nobody’s chained to his machine. If they hate it, let them find something else. Do ‘em good to know what it feels like to be out of work for a while.”

“Do you like what you do, Corey?”

“Hell, yes. What I don’t like is not being as successful at it as I ought to be.”

“You’ve still got time.”

He sobered for a moment. “I hope so.” Then he brightened. “Want another drink?”

“Are you going to make a move on me?”

“Maybe. I can’t promise anything.”

“My life is full of men who can’t make promises.” She handed him her empty glass. “Easy on the water.”

By the time they were well into their second drinks, both were feeling the effects. Corey had put on an old Johnny Mathis album, Dena had kicked off her shoes, and they were dancing awkwardly on his living room carpet.

“I think it’s time to put the steaks on,” she said.

“How can you tell?”

She tapped her head with a forefinger. “Women’s intuition. Besides, I can smell the potatoes.”

“Amazing,” he said. “I’ll open the wine. Let it breathe. Whatever that means.”

“Don’t forget the salad.”

The steaks were done rare, really rare, the way Corey liked them and was never able to get them in a restaurant. For some reason restaurant chefs thought “rare” meant “medium rare.” The asparagus in butter was tender, the potatoes fluffy with sour cream topping, and the salad was crisp and cold. They finished one bottle of wine and started on the second.

“Delicious dinner,” he said.

“Anybody can cook a steak.”

“No they can’t. I’m living proof.”

“You give great salad, though.”

“Just lucky.”

After dinner they sat again on the couch, this time with no space between them. What was left of the wine sat on the coffee table in front of them. Corey had Mose Allison on the turntable, the volume turned low.

“I know we had a deal,” Dena said, her head against his, “but …”

“But …” he prompted.

“Corey, how serious do you think this is?”

“You and me?”

“No, damn it, the brain-eater thing.”

“It’s serious,” he said, “but not critical. At least I hope not. I give it a couple more weeks; then people will find something else to worry about.”

Dena drew back and looked at him. “Just how do you see this coming to an end in a couple of weeks?”

He shrugged. “Everything ends.”

“Sometimes I think …” She hesitated, searching his face.

“You think what?”

“That all the brain eaters mean to you is a story. Your story. Something that will make you famous. And maybe rich.”

“Hey, like I told my publisher the other day, I didn’t invent the damn things. I just named them. If the story brings in a few bucks for me, why not? Who loses?”

Dena sighed. She did not protest when Corey put an arm around her shoulders. “I don’t know. I guess I’d feel better if you showed a little more concern for the victims.”

“Dena,” he said, “I put in some time as police reporter in San Francisco. I’ve seen babies left in trash cans after their little heads were twisted around so they’d stop crying. I’ve seen a teenaged heroin addict who drowned in her own vomit. I’ve seen a man who raped and murdered two little boys and was then turned loose by a judge because the police questioned him before his lawyer got there. I had so much concern for the victims I damn near became one myself. You never get used to it, but you learn to lock it away until there is time to cry.”

“Do you cry, Corey?”

“I kind of mist up at movies about the crusty old grandfather who goes all soft and chuckly when the cute little kid climbs in his lap.”

She gave him a punch on the shoulder. “Okay, tough guy, I shouldn’t have brought it up. But if we’re going to have a relationship, we’ll have to sit down sometime and tell each other where we stand.”

“Are we going to have a relationship?”

“That depends on what we learn about each other.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Shall we go to bed?”

“Just like that?”

“What the hell, I bought you dinner.”

“All right.”

He sat on the bed and watched her undress. Her movements were as graceful and unself-conscious as a Degas ballerina. She laid her clothes over a chair and turned to look at him. Clearly, she was proud of her body. Justifiably.

She slipped into the bed and pulled the covers up. “Are you going to join me, or are you having second thoughts?”

He grinned and shook his head. “Be right with you.” He moved toward the living room.

“Hey, no fair,” she said. “You watched me; now it’s my turn to watch you.”

“I was just going to change the record.”

“Do you have to have music?”

“No.”

“Then get out of those clothes and into this bed before I have second thoughts.”

He did as he was told, and they made a music of their own far into the night.