"Death Stalks the Night" by Deborah Cullins Smith

    Fog settled over the sleepy streets of Lincolnville, a silent thick shroud of misty vapor that chilled the bone and marrow.  Few people wandered at night anymore.  It simply wasn’t safe.
    Cold eyes surveyed the empty streets and smiled with grim satisfaction.  Fear was a powerful ally, especially to a stalker such as he.  Terror weakened.  And he relished that weakness, fed on it.


    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~

    Erica Holt zipped her jacket and pulled the faux fur collar up around her face against the chill in the air.  She scurried swiftly from the entrance of the building to the parking lot, her keys gripped tightly in her fist.  It had been another long, hard day, and she was tired.  Her step quickened as her thoughts filled with visions of dark strangers prowling among the cars in the far-away employee parking lot.  But there were greater dangers in the world these days than muggers.  A killer lurked in the streets of Lincolnville, and no one was safe any longer.
    She’d felt that prickly sensation on the back of her neck all day, that feeling of being watched, assessed, and singled out by a vicious predator.  Her keys jingled as her hands trembled.  Fear more than cold weather rattled her nerves and her fingers.  She managed to click her locks open at a distance of only a few feet, then threw herself into the little red Sunfire, slamming the locks down the minute the door was closed.
    Safe.
    At least for the moment.
    Erica’s teeth chattered as she started the engine and backed out of her parking spot.  Home.  Home and a cup of hot tea.  Home, a cup of hot tea, and a steaming bath.  Her apartment was a haven after the chaos of her office cubicle.  The stream in and out had grown from a trickle to a raging river over the last three weeks, as Erica had processed one file after another.
    File.  Why couldn’t she think of them as people?  Every “file” that flew across her desk represented a person, a living being in need of help, but nine out of ten ended up sent to one of the mortuaries in the surrounding five county areas.  And all of them were overflowing with the recent increase in the body count.  Nerves quivered on edge all over town.  When would they be able to put an end to the terror?  People came to them for help, and left in body bags.
    Death had come to Lincolnville.

    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~


    Colin was waiting for Janet when she opened the door to her apartment.  More and more often, he was staying at her apartment, ostensibly because it was closer to the airport where he worked as a security guard.  But the truth was that Colin worried about her.  She was a high risk for attack by this newest killer, and he was determined to be on hand at the first sign of trouble.  His arms were warm and comforting, and Janet melted into his embrace without even taking the time to shrug off her coat.
    “Something smells good,” she mumbled into his shoulder, sniffing the air appreciatively.  “Lasagna?”
    “Manicotti,” he said, massaging the back of her neck, “and garlic bread.”
    “Mmmmm…” she hummed, burying her face in Colin’s cable-knit sweater.  “Smells good, but I’m too tired to chew.”
    “No way, Babe,” he said firmly.  “You gotta eat.  Can’t let you get all wimpy right now.  You need your strength.”
    Janet pulled away with a groan and headed for the coat closet.
    “How about a rum and coke?” she asked.  “That on the menu, too?”
    Colin glanced shrewdly at her pale face and sad eyes. “Looks like you need some hot tea with honey.”
    “I’d prefer the rum and coke,” Janet said with an impish grin.
    “Yeah, but you need the tea and honey,” he said, matching the grin and placing a paternal hand on her forehead.  “You’re warm, Janet.”
    She pulled away, avoiding the alarm growing in his deep blue eyes.  “I’m just tired, Colin.  I’m okay.  Really.”
    She headed for the bathroom with her fuzzy sea-green robe in her arms.  Colin hesitated for a few minutes, then headed for the kitchen and turned on the burner under the copper kettle.  
    Tea, he resolved.

    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~

    Erica locked her apartment door and leaned against the jamb with closed eyes.  The silence of her home wrapped around her like a cocoon.  She locked Death out, held it at bay with locks and deadbolts…  at least for the moment.  Heaving a sigh of relief, she pushed away from the door and stumbled to the bedroom.  She dropped her nametag and credentials on the top of the dresser, and kicked off her high heels.  She grabbed a pair of silk pajamas from the middle drawer.
    Comfort, food, tea, bed, in that order, she told herself.

    Her stalker watched and waited as she changed from her work clothes and threw together a haphazard meal of nuked leftovers, then sipped her tea while the canned laughter from an old episode of M*A*S*H scrolled by on the television.
    His smile was filled with malice.

    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~

    “What’s wrong, Babe?” Colin asked, putting down his fork and gazing across the table at her.  He had tried his utmost to keep the conversation casual through dinner, but the translucent pallor in Janet’s cheeks was causing his heart to double clutch.  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to guess what kind of day she’d had at work.
    “Nothing,” she said listlessly.  “Just tired.”
    After a moment’s hesitation he asked, “How bad?”  She didn’t even have to question what he referred to.
    “Twenty,” she muttered glumly.
    “Twenty!” Colin exclaimed.  “Twenty?”  The repeated word was a question instead of a statement.  He felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.  “In one day?”
    “Yup,” Janet said, rotating her neck from side to side.  She couldn’t even look him in the eye.
    “Numbers are climbing,” he observed.  She said nothing.  Colin watched her jerky movements and a fresh burst of anxiety washed over him.  Her eyes were smudged with dark crescents.  The tension was wearing her down rapidly.
    “What’s being done?” he asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice and failing.
    “Well, we figure when enough people have died, we’ll just close up shop and move to the next town!  What do you think we’re doing?”  The sarcasm and anger exploding in her voice was so out of character, Colin could only stare.  Janet took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of her nose to stave off the headache that was roaring up her neck and radiating to her facial muscles.
    “I’m so sorry, Colin,” she said softly.  “I didn’t mean…  It’s just … I’m so tired I …” She seemed incapable of completing a thought.
    Abruptly, Janet got up and strode angrily to the massive sliding doors that overlooked the twinkling lights of her beloved hometown.  Only there were fewer lights these days.  The death toll was mounting rapidly, and those still living cringed behind closed, locked doors, hoping that Death would pass them by.  Janet felt helpless.  It was her job to protect these people -- her neighbors, her loved ones.  Colin.  But she was failing.
    Colin came up behind her and wrapped both arms around her frail figure.
    “You’ll think of something,” he said.  “You are brilliant, you know.”  He kissed her neck.
    Janet sighed.  “Twenty people died today, Colin, seventeen yesterday, fifteen the day before.  We’ve lost 106 people in just over a week.  I don’t feel brilliant.  I feel useless.”  She paused for a moment and swallowed her tears.  “How do I make the insanity stop?” she whispered into the darkness.
    “You’ll think of something,” Colin insisted, holding her a little tighter, and wishing for the thousandth time that he could tie her to the bedpost to keep her far away from the entire mess.  Fear for her safety was escalating as fast as the death count.
    “A world without conscience; that is the horror of our condition,” she murmured.
    Colin was silent for a moment.  He was accustomed to her penchant for obscure quotes.  “Shakespeare?” he asked.
    “George Bernard Shaw,” she said, leaning back into his arms wearily.
    “Conscience does make cowards of us all,” he said with a sigh.
    “Shakespeare.” Janet smiled.  He rarely played her little game.
    “Play?”
    “Hamlet.”
    He nodded.  They stood at the window and looked out over the city in silence for a long time.  Finally they drew the drapes and collapsed into bed.

    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~

    Erica bolted up in bed, heart pounding.  A cough rattled in her chest, and she tried to stifle the sound.
    I’m not alone, she said to herself in panic.  I know I’m not alone.
    She crept from the bed and staggered to the bathroom.  Her legs trembled and she leaned weakly against the sink, then doubled over and wretched into the toilet until the room swam.  She flushed, then ran cold water in the sink to splash on her face.  Beads of cold sweat dotted her forehead.  She quivered as fever tore through her body, and her heart skipped beats erratically.
    She raised her eyes to the mirror and froze.
    Death stared back at her.


    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~

    The phone rang, yanking Janet and Colin from a deep sleep.  Janet’s sleepy greeting quickly turned into terse questions.  Colin saw the wakeful tension shift into high gear, and knew that the news wasn’t good.
    Janet was out of bed and grabbing for clothes as soon as the conversation disconnected.
    “Jan?” he asked.
    Her face was a mask of frustration as she yanked on jeans and a t-shirt.  She tied both tennis shoes with sharp jerky motions, then stopped and ran her fingers through her short dark hair.  The gray eyes that finally met his were red-rimmed with unshed tears.
    “The body count just went up,” she whispered, then she added, “a lot.”

    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~

    
    A figure in a white lab coat hustled down the corridor toward Janet as she raced through the security doors.
    “Dr. Maguire?” said the young man, scurrying breathlessly toward her.  “Dr. Maguire, thank God you’re here.  It’s terrible!  Everyone is in a state of panic.  We just don’t know what to do anymore.”
    “Yes, Toby, I know,” said Janet tersely.  He caught up with her, did an abrupt about-face, and followed her deep into the labyrinth of top security laboratories at a jog.
     “How many bodies have been brought in now?”
    “Thirty-five,” he said, his voice practically squeaking.
    Janet stopped in the middle of the hallway and stared at him.  “Thirty-five?” she asked incredulously.
    Toby stopped and gulped before nodding mutely.
    “In just the last hour?” Janet whispered, her face deadly pale under the fluorescent lights.
    Again Toby nodded.  “All from the same apartment complex over on 12th Street.  Mostly medical personnel from Lincolnville General Hospital, since it’s only a block away.  A lot of the interns rent those apartments since they spend the first few years virtually living at the hospital.”
    Janet reached one hand out to steady herself against the wall.
    “Dr. Maguire?” He was torn between wanting to reach out to her and wanting to turn and run the other way, just in case….
    “I’m fine,” she said, shaking herself from the depths of her shocked reveries.  “Let’s get busy.”
    They were suited up in biological hazard gear for a level four hot zone.  The figure on the table was an attractive woman in her early thirties.
    “Erica Holt, 206 South 12th Street, apartment 252,” intoned Toby for the benefit of the autopsy recorders.  “Worked at Lincolnville General Hospital in patient processing.”
    Her personal property was laid out on an adjacent table.  Janet fingered the purple silk pajamas, then gazed at the photo id on Erica’s employee badge.  The investigators had brought it in, along with her purse, wallet, and driver’s license, to facilitate identification of the corpse.  She had a cute pixie-ish face, an upturned nose that sported a splash of freckles, and long brown hair, pulled back at the nape of her neck with a clip.  She was too young to be laid out on a table in this sterile lab.  Too young to have her life cut short.
    “So she’s been dealing with all the sick people coming in, coughing on her desk, sneezing, tossing used Kleenex in her wastebasket, then out-processing bodies to the morgue.”  Janet sighed.  “No wonder she’s here.”
    “That’s about right,” said Toby.  “Guess it finally went home with her, huh?”
    Janet looked at him sharply through the plastic faceplate, but there was compassionate sorrow in his eyes, not flippancy.  She turned back to the body and paused to lay a gloved hand on the neatly trimmed bangs, plastered to the cold forehead.
    “I’m so sorry,” she murmured.  “This is one killer we can’t put behind bars.”


    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~    ~*~

    The toxicology and pathology reports were being processed and Janet sat in her office, moodily staring at her computer screen, willing it to display some miracle that would save her hometown from utter destruction.  An older gentleman with graying hair and stooped shoulders tapped on the door and entered at her beckoning gesture.
    “Dr. Callestri,” Janet said, trying to smile, but falling short.
    “Dr. Maguire,” he nodded.  “Any news yet?”
    “No.”
    “Nothing from tox?”
    “No.”
    His keen eyes searched past the weariness.  “How are you holding up?”
    “As well as I can, I suppose,” she said with a grimace.
    “You know it couldn’t be helped,” he stated.
    “Really?” Her red-rimmed gray eyes narrowed and her voice could have frosted a frying pan.  “We are up against a mutant virus, Dr. Callestri.  We tried to harness these viruses for ‘military applications’ to use against countries we wish to, shall we say, ‘dispose’ of,” her sarcasm rose with every word.  “Then we are shocked when a killer virus attacks our own populace, and we sit by powerlessly while it decimates an entire town.”
    “This was never meant to happen, Dr. Maguire,” the older man said, attempting to keep his voice gentle.  She was well past exhausted, and he didn’t wish to antagonize her.
    “This bowl of porridge is too hot,” Janet intoned mockingly, “and this bowl of porridge is too cold…”
    “Stop it!” snapped Callestri.
    “Don’t feed me fairy tales,” shouted Janet, jumping to her feet and slamming her palms on the desktop.  Both scientists froze, staring at one another.
    “We’re murderers,” Janet said softly, slumping back in her chair.
    “We’re NOT!”
    “We ARE! We released a monster and now it lives and breathes,” she snapped.  “It walks the night like an assassin, a wraith of viral germs that hunts and prowls and stalks…”  She paused and took a deep breath to calm herself.  “They sow the wind and they shall reap the whirlwind,” she added with quiet certainty.
    “Quoting the Bible now, Dr. Maguire?” Callestri’s voice was sarcastic.
    “Book of Hosea,” Janet said.  “Chapter 8, verse 7.  Appropriate to quote one of the prophets when the end of the world is upon us, don’t you think.”
    “I won’t tolerate this kind of talk from a member of my staff,” demanded Callestri.  “I simply won’t ….  Ah…ah...ah…” His comment broke off with a ferocious sneeze, followed by a deep, raspy cough.  Dots of sweat broke out on his forehead and his eyes filled with horror as he stared into Janet’s unsympathetic face.
    “You know, someone sent me an email the other day, one of those joke-type forwards,” she mused.  “It said, ‘I shall seek and find you.  I shall take you to bed and have my way with you.  I will make you ache, shake and sweat until you moan and groan.  I will make you beg for mercy, beg for me to stop.  I will exhaust you to the point that you will be relieved when I’m finished with you.  And you will be weak for days.  All my love, signed The Flu.’ I thought it was funny at the time.”
    Janet grabbed a kleenex and dabbed her nose as a sniffle echoed in the tiny office.  Beads of sweat dotted her face, too, and she smiled grimly.
    “Yes, Dr. Callestri,” she said in a clipped tone.  “Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once said: ‘The day we see the truth and cease to speak is the day we begin to die.’  I think our day may have come.  We knew this was a possibility months ago, yet we did nothing to warn people, nothing to protect our citizens.  Now it’s too late.”
    The old man collapsed into a plastic chair opposite her desk, speechless for the moment.  His heart fluttered in his chest, as both doctors became aware of the presence of Death.  Even in their sterile, bio-hazard labs, Death had found them. Their days were numbered.