The Brain Eaters

Chapter 23

Dena slowed the Buick as they passed through the suburbs of Germantown and Menomonee Falls into Milwaukee. The traffic was sporadic and unpredictable. Corey sat beside her, leaning tensely forward.

“Do you want me to drive?” he asked.

“No, I’m okay.”

Dr. Kitzmiller sat slumped in the back seat, saying nothing.

Dena watched the seemingly aimless progress of the other drivers. “I don’t think people know where they’re going,” she said. “Being out in their automobiles gives them a sense of being in control, but once in the car, they feel they have to move, to go somewhere. And there isn’t anyplace to go.”

“The place for us to go right now is a hotel,” Corey said, ignoring the philosophical observation.

“I detest hotels,” Dr. Kitzmiller volunteered.

“It’s only temporary,” Corey told him, “until we find out what’s happening.”

Kitzmiller was unappeased. “I should be back at the laboratory. There is much to do.”

“It will be a day or so before anybody can go back there,” Corey said. “You remember how it was when we left. We were lucky to get out.”

“The police should have the situation there under control by now.”

“We can’t rely on the police,” Dena said. “They are no more immune to the brain eaters than the employees of Biotron.”

Kitzmiller groaned in the back seat. “I wish we did not have to use that term.”

“We can call them anything you want, doctor, but thanks to Corey here, in the mind of the public they will forever be the brain eaters.”

Kitzmiller sat frowning for a minute. Finally, he shrugged. “After all, what does it matter what they are called? They exist.”

“Even the surgeon general will have to admit that now,” Corey said sourly.

“There must be an antidote,” Kitzmiller said. “Some way to destroy them. I should be working now to find it. All my notes are back there at Biotron. I am useless in a hotel.”

“We can at least do some preliminary planning,” Dena said. “I’ll stay and work with you while Corey finds out what he can about any official moves.”

“I detest hotels,” said Kitzmiller, returning to his original complaint.

“Holiday Inns are very nice,” Dena assured him as a sign loomed ahead of them.

“And it’s only temporary,” Corey said again.

“I suppose there is no choice,” the doctor said gloomily. “I hope you will hurry with whatever you have to do, Mr. Macklin. I should not have to remind you that time grows short.”

Something was critically different at the Herald building. There was the feeling of urgency as people strode in and out of the building with an air of grim purpose. But the difference was more than that. It was more than the missing laughter, the almost total lack of idle conversation among employees and visitors. Something vital to the building was missing. It took Corey a moment to recognize what it was. The heartbeat was stilled. The mighty presses down in the basement were not running. At a time of day when the rumble of the machinery should send a pulse through the entire twelve floors of the building, no papers were being printed.

The city room, usually a scene of semiorganized confusion, looked like a ship in the last stages of abandonment. Fewer than half the usual crew was there, cleaning out their desks. Each was absorbed by his own personal drama. They acknowledged Corey, if at all, with a distracted nod.

He hurried past the worried-looking staff and into the office of Porter Uhlander. The city editor sat behind his desk, hands clasped over his stomach, a vacant look in his eyes.

“What’s going on?” Corey demanded.

“Going on? Oh, hello, Corey. How’re they hanging?”

Corey walked closer and peered at the editor. “Are you on something, Porter?”

“Valiums, son. Wonderful little pills no bigger than a BB. Makes everything bearable. I should have discovered them long ago.”

“Shit,” Corey said.

Uhlander smiled beatifically. “You ought to try them yourself. You’re too tense. Take everything too seriously. You need to mellow down.”

“Damn it, Porter, I don’t want to mellow down. I want to know what’s going on here. Half the people who work in the city room are missing. The rest are cleaning out their desks.”

Uhlander smiled at him.

“And the presses have stopped.”

For the first time, the editor showed a little emotion. He said, “You noticed that. The Herald has suspended publication until …” The vague smile returned as Uhlander’s gaze drifted back toward the ceiling.

Corey waited. Finally, out of patience, he snapped, “Until when, Porter?”

“Until the disappearance of the brain eaters or the end of the world — whichever comes first.” The editor giggled.

“How many of those happy pills did you take, anyway?”

“Two or three. Maybe six. It really doesn’t matter, does it?”

“I suppose not,” Corey said wearily. “Is Mr. Eichorn still here?”

“Noooo,” Uhlander drawled. “He beat it back to Houston. It seems his daughter is feeling poorly. The Eich is afraid it might be” — he tapped his forehead — ” you know.”

The editor focused on something beyond Corey. He raised a hand in a cheery wave. “Come right on in. Don’t be shy. The more the merrier.”

Corey turned to see Doc Ingersoll coming through the open door to the editor’s office. He looked even more haggard than usual. His shirt was badly wilted, and the front of his suit was peppered with cigarette ash.

“Thank God somebody’s here who can talk sense,” Corey said. “You’re not popping goofballs, too, are you?”

“That’s not my vice,” Doc said. “But our friend Porter just might have the right idea.”

“What’s the story here. What’s all this suspend-publication shit.”

“That’s the new rules from Washington. Like everybody else, we are now operating as part of a media pool. Every population center has one newspaper printed and one radio and TV station on the air. You can bet that in Milwaukee the newspaper ain’t us.”

“A pool? What the fuck is the reason for that?”

“Attrition, for one thing. There aren’t enough people on their feet to keep everything going.”

“Jesus. That bad?”

“Worse. You remember that graph I drew up? The one that showed the brain-eater attacks growing geometrically? I think I was too optimistic.”

“Who’s giving the orders?”

“Harv Gehrman from over at the Journal was made the pool captain.”

“At least they put a real newspaperman in charge,” Corey said.

“Don’t get overconfident. A man from the Department of Commerce is on his way to take over.”

Corey groaned. “I should have known.”

Porter Uhlander spoke up, startling the two reporters, who had forgotten for the moment that he was there. “You boys might as well take the rest of the day off. Enjoy yourself. Nothing to do around here.”

“Thanks, chief,” Corey said.

“Don’t mention it.”

As they left the office together, Porter Uhlander smiled benignly at their departing backs.

“I hear there was some trouble up at Biotron,” Doc said.

“Where did you hear that?”

“UPI.”

“The wire services are still operating, then?”

“Tri-State shut down, but we’re still getting AP and UPI, along with Reuters and Tass.”

“Let’s go take a look at what they’ve got. On the way I’ll fill you in on the Biotron business.”

The wire-service reports were full of bad news and more bad news.

The number of victims struck by the brain eaters was mounting faster than the names could be recorded. Hospitals were running out of beds, due largely to people who had nothing more than simple colds or the flu or uncomplicated headaches. They had read enough about the brain-eaters symptoms to be justifiably scared out of their wits. Conversely, many who had been legitimately attacked by the parasites refused to accept the fact and screamed their way into madness and death, denying all the while that the brain eaters had them.

In view of the situation, the surgeon general had grudgingly admitted that there was indeed something to be worried about. He announced the setting up of a national task force of physicians to come up with a solution. Since there was so far no effective treatment for the victims, this news did little to calm the populace.

The story of what was now called the Biotron Massacre was reported merely as one more incident in a time of madness. Two security guards, an official of the Department of Health, and an unknown number of brain-eater victims, said to be Biotron employees, had died before state police and National Guardsmen were able to restore order.

The guard had been called out elsewhere, too, primarily in large cities where looting was on the rise. It seemed that for some the lure of an unguarded color television set could overpower any concern about having their brains chewed out. There was a growing clamor for martial law. So far the president was noncommittal.

Commerce and industry were closing down all across the country as people grew reluctant to leave their homes.

The commissioner of baseball announced the suspension of the season until further notice. Fans paid little attention except in Seattle, where the Mariners had the best record of their history and were already talking about the playoffs. The manager hinted darkly that the whole brain-eaters panic might have been a plot by the California Angels, who were in a horrendous batting slump.

Theaters, concert halls, schools, even churches — anyplace where crowds of people gathered — were closed. Stores were locking their doors, bringing on a rash of hoarding and a sudden shortage of consumer goods. Emergency plans for rationing were under way in Washington.

The reactions from other countries were as varied as might be expected.

Great Britain offered help in the form of medical personnel and supplies.

The USSR suggested that the affliction was an expected result of the decadent Western life-style.

France hinted that the decay of American brains had begun long ago.

Mexico lined the border with troops to keep out would-be immigrants.

Cuba threatened a missile reprisal if the brain eaters were spread to Havana.

Canada offered assistance as long as U.S. citizens did not try to move up there.

Central America and the Middle East were too absorbed in their own wars and revolutions to pay much attention to what happened in the United States.

And the horror stories continued. The reports of bloody rampages by victims of the parasites had lost their power to shock, owing to the sheer number of such incidents.

A schoolteacher in Orlando …

A farmer outside Des Moines …

A pensioner in Albuquerque …

A nine-year-old girl in Portland …

As Corey shuffled through the repetitive stories of mayhem and death, he suddenly laughed.

Doc cocked an eyebrow. “Something funny?”

“Not really.” Corey handed him the sheet with the story he had been reading.

DOOMSDAY WATCHERS FLEE HILLTOP

Some thirty members of the New Faith and Final Judgment Church fled in panic from the hilltop outside Biloxi where they had been awaiting “judgment day” when one of their number attacked the Reverend Clayton Cadwallader with a ceremonial crucifix. Witnesses describe a behavior pattern in the assailant similar to victims across the country of the “brain eater” parasites.

Doc Ingersoll let the sheet fall onto the pile. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s not really funny.” Then he laughed. “But what the hell; you can’t cry all the time. Do you suppose the reverend is still sitting up there on the hill?”

“I don’t know, but if his follower got in a good one with that crucifix, he’d better be on good personal terms with the Lord.”

“Amen,” said Doc piously.

“Here you are!” a voice accused from behind Corey in the doorway to the wire room.

He turned to see Lou Zachry looking like a 1950s college boy dressed for a date, in a checked sport jacket and knitted tie. Zachry’s all-American face was flushed.

“Here I am,” Corey admitted.

“What have you done with Kitzmiller?”

“I haven’t done anything with him except check him into the Holiday Inn. Dena’s with him. What’s the problem?”

Zachry paused for a deep breath. “No problem. I just expected you to touch base with me when you got back from Biotron.”

“So I came here first. What’s the big flap?”

“You’ve heard of the president’s task force on the brain eaters.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m heading up the local chapter.”

“You? Why would they pick somebody from the — what was your agency again?”

“IDI–Inter-Departmental Intelligence.”

“Right, so what are you doing on a brain-eater task force?”

“In an emergency like this there’s always lots of departmental crossover. And I was on the scene and had already gotten my nose into this business with you. Anyway, I’m it. Like a lot of government decisions, the logic of it doesn’t matter.”

“Okay, so what do you want with me?”

“I have a job for you. I understand you don’t have a functioning newspaper here anymore.”

“So they tell me. We’re all part of a pool now.”

“Not you. You’re the task-force press liaison.”

“Sounds impressive. What do I have to do?”

“Keep the rest of the media off Dr. Kitzmiller’s back. I want him to head up remedial research.”

“Well, that makes sense, anyway.” Corey checked his watch. “We’d better get over there. He detests hotels.”

“Let’s go,” Zachry said.

“Want to come, Doc?” Corey asked.

“No, thanks, I’m not feeling too red hot.”

Corey looked at him sharply.

Doc grinned. “No, nothing like that. Just lack of sleep catching up with me. I’ll grab a few hours’ shut-eye and be frisky as a colt again.”

Corey nodded. He turned reluctantly and left the building with Lou Zachry.

As they entered the Holiday Inn, Corey was immediately hailed by a reporter and a female cameraman he recognized from the Sentinel. Lou Zachry faded into the background as they approached.

“Well, Corey, you got this one staked out early, didn’t you,” the reporter said. “Where you keeping him?”

“Keeping who?”

“Come off it, hotshot. There’s no more exclusive on this story. We got a tip that you checked Dr. Kitzmiller from Biotron in here this afternoon. We all know what happened at Biotron today, and it’s not hard to figure that it has to do with the brain eaters. Okay, I’m the designated pool reporter, and Lisa here is my cameraman, so let’s have the room number.”

“Well, why didn’t you just ask for it?” Corey said. “He’s in eleven-twenty-one.”

“Thanks.” The Sentinel pair started toward the elevator; then the reporter turned back. “Too bad about you not being the star anymore, buddy, but that’s show business, right?”

Corey showed his teeth and went back to join Zachry.

“There wasn’t much you could do, I suppose,” Zachry said, “but I wish you hadn’t given them the room number. I’d like to have some time with Kitzmiller before they turn him into a media event.”

“Who said I gave them the right number?” Corey asked. “Kitzmiller’s in two-oh-five.”

Zachry grinned. “I can see I picked the right man for press relations. I suggest we get him the hell out of here.”

The government man’s suggestion was just fine with Dr. Kitzmiller. “The sooner I get back to my laboratories, the sooner I can begin the search for an antidote,” he said.

“I’m certainly agreeable to that,” Zachry said. “By tomorrow the National Guard should have the plant secured so you can go back in there. How much of a staff will you need?”

“For the moment Dr. Falkner here and I will be able to handle the research. Then I will need medical personnel-chemists, biologists, laboratory technicians, and clerical help.”

“You’ll get them. Are there facilities at the Biotron plant so the four of us can stay there? I’d like to make that our nerve center.”

“Brain Eater Control,” Corey said.

The others looked at him. No one smiled.

“You could stay there, I suppose,” Kitzmiller said without enthusiasm. “The accommodations will not be terribly comfortable.”

“We’ll make do,” Zachry said.

“What about tonight?” Kitzmiller asked. “You said there are already reporters here looking for me?”

“Yes, and I’d just as soon they didn’t bother you with a whole lot of questions just now.”

“I detest hotels,” Kitzmiller reminded them.

“You can spend the night at my place,” Corey said. “Besides the bedroom, I’ve got a sofa that can be slept on.”

“I do not sleep on sofas,” Kitzmiller said.

“So you can have the bed.”

“I suppose that will have to do.”

“Fine,” said Zachry. “Tomorrow afternoon we’ll rendezvous at Corey’s apartment at one o’clock and head for Biotron. In the meantime, I’ll make sure they’re set up to handle us there.”

“What about you?” Corey asked Dena.

“No sweat. I’m beginning to feel at home at the Beddie-Bye Motel.” She snapped a salute in the direction of Lou Zachry. “See you at thirteen hundred hours, captain.”