Tommy Nightmare(73)
There was no more information on Ashleigh Goodling, or her parents. They hadn't been identified among the bodies. The whole family seemed to have vanished in a puff of smoke. She found that extremely suspicious, but it was getting her nowhere.
There was, of course, no explanation for the magical disappearing pathogen, either. Over two hundred people had simply developed extreme symptoms for no reason. That was good enough for the White House, so long as the event didn't recur. It wasn't good enough for Heather. She came in early and worked late to crunch the numbers collected by the lab techs. The government was keeping the bodies in frozen storage now, presumably in case some new information or investigative technique turned up, and fending off inquiries from the families. Most of the bodies currently in storage were officially “missing” instead of deceased, in order to downplay the scale of the event.
That didn't sit right with Heather, either, but it was beyond her control. The White House, no doubt, had no interest in her opinion. Not in an election year.
The phone rang, which surprised her. She wasn't officially here for another half hour. She thought about letting it go to voice mail, but then she noticed the area code: 803. That was South Carolina, maybe Fallen Oak.
“Dr. Reynard,” she answered.
“Um, hi.” The voice on the other end was young, female, and very nervous. “Is this, um, Dr. Reynard?”
“Yes.”
“Um, hi,” the voice repeated. “You were in Fallen Oak when all the stuff was happening?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I think I met you. My name is Darcy. Metcalf.”
Dr. Reynard tried to put a face with the name, but couldn’t. She had screened a lot of the girls in town. She wrote “Darcy Metcalf” on a Post-It pad.
“Yeah,” the girl said. Her voice fell to a whisper. “I tried to tell you about Jenny. About the witchcraft, or whatever it is.”
Dr. Reynard remembered a mousey-haired pregnant girl pushing her angry father’s wheelchair.
“Oh, Darcy!” she said. “I remember you.”
“Okay, good,” Darcy said. “Now, I’ve thought about it a lot, and I think maybe it’s not witchcraft.”
“I’m sure it isn’t, Darcy.”
“No, there’s gotta be some science involved. Like she carries the disease, but it doesn’t hurt her, but she can infect other people. Is there a word for that? You know, like how mosquitos can infect you but they don’t get sick themselves?”
“An immune carrier?”
“That sounds right! She could be an ‘immune carrier.’”
“Who are we talking about?” Heather didn’t know what to make of this phone call yet.
“Jenny Pox. I mean, Jenny Morton. Jenny Pox is just what people call her.”
“Why do they call her that?”
“Because, like I said, she can infect people and make ‘em sick. But she doesn’t really get sick. She can suck it back in when she’s done.”
“Darcy, you’re whispering too low. I can barely hear you.”
“Okay, sorry. It’s just, I don’t want my dad to know I’m talking to you.”
“Why not?”
“Cause he’d get mad. Cause he doesn’t want me to get involved. Nobody wants to get involved. But I think you should know about it.”
“Well, thanks for calling, Darcy. Is there anything else?”
“You don’t understand,” Darcy said. “I have pictures. I have to email them to you.”
“What kind of pictures?”
“Of Jenny. Only she’s all infected and gunk. Just like the people who died in the square.”
“Did you see what happened in the square, Darcy?” Heather asked.
“No. But everybody kinda knows. It was Jenny, she flared up with her disease and infected people. They die fast once they get it. That’s why everyone’s scared to talk. Everyone’s scared of her.”
“Well, send me the pictures, Darcy—”
“I already did. Can you look at ‘em now? Please?”
Heather sighed. She opened her Outlook and saw the email from Darcy. She opened the attachment.
A photo of Jenny Morton filled her screen. The girl leaned close to a blond-haired boy, who looked drowsy or asleep, and she had pried his mouth open with her fingers. Her chin and lips were full of leaking blisters and broken pustules. Her tongue was fully extended, reaching down towards his mouth, dripping pus, blood, and clear fluid onto the boy’s lips and face.
Heather sat up in her chair. The girl had the symptoms of “Fallen Oak syndrome,” the mystery killer that they couldn’t identify. She was the first live suspected case.