Fungus, Part Three

Back at our apartment I found an ax standing next to the door, with a price tag and receipt taped to the handle. “Rachel?”

            She staggered out of the bedroom, her arm wrapped in towels taped up to her elbow. “It’s getting worse.”

            Goddamn it. I pointed at the ax. “And what’s that?”

            “I had them deliver it from the hardware store.” She lifted it, then set it back down. “It’s heavy. You might want to take a few swings with it before—”

            “Not going to happen.” I looked at her, my blood running cold. Rachel’s face was pale, and her red hair drooped over her face. “We’re going to figure this out.” Somehow.

            “I know.” She nodded. “I’m just being . . .  practical. What did you find out?”

            “They’re experimenting with some kind of fungus to cure diseases. It’s in a controlled room that Gold had access to.”

            Rachel scratched her elbow. “Okay. I—I need beer.”

            She carried out a six pack of Heineken in bottles from the kitchen, dropped it on the table, and struggled with a cap using only one hand.

            “Here.” I had an opener on my keyring. I popped a cap off, and then another. And then a third one, for me. I’d been taking anti-anxiety meds for months, but lately my doctor had told me I could taper off and have the occasional beer. This seemed like the perfect time.

            Rachel chugged one bottle down, then started on the second. “Oh, god,” she murmured. “Something about . . . whatever’s in the alcohol is helping. Slowing it down . . . maybe.” She sank back in her chair and closed her eyes. In a moment she was snoring, a line of drool dripping down her chin.

“Rachel? Are you okay?”

            Her eyes blinked. “What? I’m fine. I just . . .” She scratched her arm. “Find out anything?”

            I stood up. “I’m going to talk to Gold again. If I can.

            She finished another beer. “I’ll go with you. As long as we stop for more beer.”

           

Fire trucks blocked off the street. I saw smoke in the sky, and smelled it inside my Honda. I had to park three blocks away and wander through the throng of onlookers until I reached the barriers, where viewers wept and took pictures with their phones. Rachel stayed in the car, dozing.

            “Excuse me.” I looked at a woman in sweats and sandals, a bag of groceries at her feet. “Do you live there?”

            She glared. “Are you a reporter?”

            “I’m looking for the building manager—Figueroa? Is he out here?”

            She stepped back. “You a friend of his or something? He started this.”

            “I’m a private detective. I was talking to him about . . .” Wait, what? “How do you know?”

            “I saw him on the stairs! He was carrying two big jugs of gasoline up to the third floor. I could smell it.” She waved a hand in front of her nose. “I was going out to get groceries. When I came back . . .” She pointed. “That.”

            Smoke poured from the upper windows. Gold’s apartment was on the third floor.

            Damn it.

            I nodded. “You should probably tell the police.”

            “Oh, I will.” She nodded strongly. “My apartment’s probably wrecked. Who did you say you are, anyway?”

            “Nobody.” I picked up my backpack.

In the Honda I woke Rachel. “It looks like Figueroa set fire to Gold’s apartment. We’re going back to Fahringer.”

            “Oh god.” Rachel sounded sleepy. “Can we get more beer?”

           

Rachel staggered through the doors with me, lugging a case of Old Style into the reception area that we’d bought on the way.

            The man from before had apparently gone home. An older woman with a blond ponytail raised her eyes. “Ye-es?”

            I dropped the beer on the floor and tossed a card on the desk in front of her. “Tom Jurgen. For Dane Adler. He’s expecting us.”

            “Okay.” She picked up a phone.

            I looked at Rachel. She was shivering. She’d drunk four beers on the highway, and I’d been nervous about getting stopped by the cops with open alcohol in the car while speeding. She pulled the raincoat tight.

            A security guard, tall and appropriately bulky in a gray uniform, walked through the door behind the reception desk. “This way.”

            “No.” I shook my head. “No guards. I want Adler.”

            The guard shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve got my instructions—”

            “Screw your instructions!” Rachel threw the raincoat off. “Look at this! Look at me!” She pulled at the duct tape, letting part of the towel droop down.

The fungus had crawled past her elbow, creeping up toward her shoulder. “You want a piece of this? Just take a bite.”

            The guard staggered back. “Uh . .. what is that?”

            “This is your fungus!” She lifted her arm in the air. “And it’s eating me alive!”

            Adler came through the door. “What’s going on?” He saw me, then looked at Rachel. His eyes widened as he gazed at her arm. “Who are you?”

            “Rachel Dunn.” She smirked. “I’d shake hands, but—”

            “She works with me.” I heard my voice trembling. “She picked this up from Gold. You have to do something. Rachel, this is Dane Adler, he runs the place.”

“Okay.” Adler sighed. “Kent, we’re going to have to evacuate the facility and secure the west corridor of the third floor. Give everyone 20 minutes to leave, but make sure three is secure before you lock it down.” Then he looked at us. “Okay. This way. Please cover up your arm. It’s not much protection, but it’ll do for now.”

            “Where are we going?” Rachel struggled with the raincoat.

            “Third floor. We need to keep the fungus contained up there. We’ll figure it out.”

            I picked up the beer. Somehow I didn’t feel reassured.

People were already starting to leave as Adler led us to the elevators. I hadn’t heard any loudspeaker announcements; the order must have been sent by text message. Up on three, we followed him past 312—where I’d seen the fungus growing in the pot—down to the end of the hall. “In here.”

            The room was almost the size of a high school gym. Most of it was enclosed behind a shield of glass, facing desks full of dark computers. Adler pointed to a door. “In there, please.”

            “You’re locking her up?” I wanted to hit him. “We came here for—”

            “Shut up, jerk.” Rachel punched me with her left fist. Hard. “I don’t want this to get out any more than he does. Just give me the beer.”

            “Hang on.” Adler reached into the half-empty case. “Let me take a few of these for testing.”

            I grabbed one too. I’d probably need it.

            Rachel went through the airlock doors and sat in a metal folding chair in front of the window. She pulled the raincoat off and threw it on the floor. “Now what?”

            Adler started powering up the computers as he punched a number on his phone. “Ben? We’ve got another case down in 300. Yeah, right now.”

            Thirty seconds later Hurzberg and Wilton came in—Hurzberg in his gray lab coat, Wilton in the same T-shirt, shorts, and rain boots. Hurzberg sat down behind a computer. Wilton leaned forward and peered through the window. She picked tapped a button and spoke into a microphone. “Hi, I’m Wilton.”

            “Rachel.” She slurped a beer. “Can you do something about this?” She jabbed her arm forward.

            Wilton blinked. “How did that happen?”

            “I was in Jim Gold’s apartment. I must have touched something.” She glared at me. “My idiot boyfriend there was lucky.”

            “What’s with the beer?” Hurzberg tapped keys.

            “She says it helps.” I remembered what was left of Gold. “He was asking for it too.”

            “Helps how?” He was looking at a screen full of text. “Alcohol can spur growth. Maybe we should—”

            “Rachel?” I pushed my head next to Wilton’s. “Be careful with that beer, maybe.”

            “I heard.” Rachel took one last gulp, then stretched out her arm and poured the last of the beer onto her hand.

            Her arm trembled. Beer dripped on the tile floor.

            Then the gray fungus on her hand burst, spewing particles through the air.

            “Shit!” Rachel jumped back, knocking the metal chair over. She hurled the beer can at the window and covered her mouth with her good arm.

            “Rachel!” Wilton shouted. “That locker in the back! There are blankets! Cover yourself up!”

            Rachel spun around, spotted the locker, and scampered back, holding her infected arm out like the wing of a hawk. She threw the locker door up and pulled out a pile of silvery blankets. One she wrapped around her arm. The others she used to shroud her body to protect her from any bits of fungus drifting through the air.

            “I’ve got the fans going.” Hurzberg pressed more keys. “They’ll suck everything through to the containment tanks. Rachel! Put on a face mask.”

            “Alcohol feeds it.” I shook my head. “What else are you feeding it?”

            “We were focused on helping it grow, not making it stop.” Wilton turned to the door. “I’m going back to 312 to run some tests. In the meantime, I’d pour all that beer down the drain.”

            “On it.” Rachel’s voice was murky through the mask, but she attacked the cardboard case and started popping cans into a drain in the corner of the room.

            Adler closed the door behind her. “We’ve got this contained. It’ll be okay.”

            I’m not a violent person, except when I’m scared. And I was scared enough now to seriously consider strangling him with his necktie. “I don’t care about containment! What is this stuff, and how do we get it off of Rachel?”

            Adler grabbed the door handle behind him. “I have to make a report. We’re doing everything we can.”

            I let him leave. Hurzberg was still crunching data.

            I walked to the window. “I’m going to go down and talk to Wilton. How do you feel?”

            “How do you think I feel, you jerk?” She pounded the glass with her good fist. “I want a beer!”   

            Then she pulled the blanket around her shoulders. “Sorry. I feel . . . okay. Tired. Scared.”

            “We’ll work this out.” I managed to put more confidence into my voice than I actually felt. “Promise.”

            Rachel nodded. “We should have brought the ax.”