Tommy Nightmare (Jenny Pox #2) (12 page)

South Carolina Governor Calhoun Henderson
stood at the microphone, looking a bit solemn for his press
conference.

“We’ve held off any public announcements
until the situation was clear,” he said. “We did not want to feed
into any speculation or false rumors—and there have been plenty of
those. Let’s put ‘em to rest now, folks.

“Some of you have been asking my office for
an explanation of the National Guard presence around the little
town of Fallen Oak,” he continued. “As usual, the rumors are far
wilder than the reality. There was a small dye factory in Fallen
Oak, back when cotton was king, but it’s been closed since the
nineteen-fifties. Apparently certain industrial chemicals were left
behind and never properly disposed. The chemicals had a volatile
reaction, in connection with a storm—lightning may have been
involved. A deadly gas was generated, resulting in injuries and
fatalities. Specific details on those harmed are being kept
confidential for the sake of the families.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”
Heather yelled at the television. She was on her feet now.

“I want to commend the South Carolina Highway
Patrol and other first responders, as well as the South Carolina
National Guard, the Department of Homeland Security, the CDC and
other federal agencies, for their rapid response and quick
containment of the situation. Our state and federal officials acted
with speed and professionalism in protecting the people of this
great state. Homeland Security assures me that the situation has
been cleaned up, and no further hazards exist.

“Thank you for your time.” The governor
visibly grimaced as he left the podium, ignoring the shouted
questions from the press. His press secretary moved into place, a
clear sign that there would be no further information of
significance.

Heather raced outside, down along the walkway
under the flickering fluorescent light bars, and pounded on the
door to Schwartzman’s room.

He opened the door looking tired and rumpled,
as if he hadn’t slept much the night before. The TV news was
jangling in his room, too.

“What was that?” Heather asked. “A chemical
spill? That doesn’t even make sense—”

“Keep your voice down! You want to talk, do
it indoors.” Schwartzman stepped back to let her in the room.

Heather glanced at his bed. His suitcase was
open, and most of his clothes were already packed. A few more
items, including his shaving kit, sat beside it.

“You’re leaving?” Heather asked.

“The White House pulled the emergency
funding,” he said. “The quarantine’s over.” He rolled a pair of
black socks and tossed them in the suitcase.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Heather said.
“It’s only been a couple of weeks. We don’t even know what
happened.”

“We don’t know why so many ships disappear in
the Bermuda Triangle, either.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look, our resources are limited,”
Schwartzman said. “We’re up against budget cuts.” He put his
toiletry kit into the suitcase and zipped it.

“Two hundred people are dead, and you’re
worried about budget cuts!”

“It’s not me,” Schwartzman said. “I’d like to
keep looking until we find answers, even if it takes ten years. But
then there’s reality. There have been no additional cases, not even
suspected. There’s nowhere for the investigation to go. The labs
have been running night and day, and there is no pathogen in those
bodies. None, Heather.”

“But there must be something. It’s just very
elusive—”

“We’re transferring them to frozen storage,
for further study. But we can’t do more. We have to keep things
calm.” Schwartzman double-checked each drawer in the hotel room’s
dresser. They were empty. “Maybe after the election…”

“The election?”

“Forget it.” Schwartzman turned off the
TV.

“Oh, my God. That Nelson Artleby guy from the
White House. He did this.”

“The White House did this.”

“But we have to fight it,” Heather said.
“This could be really important.”

Schwartzman sighed and sagged to the edge of
his bed. “The President’s party is facing a very difficult midterm.
They might get swept out of Congress. One big negative event like
this—”

“But this doesn’t have anything to do with
politics.”

“Everything has to do with politics.”

“So, the Governor’s announcement…”

“Calhoun Henderson’s running for the Senate,”
Schwartzman said. “He’s desperate for the President’s
endorsement.”

“So Artleby cut a deal to bury this
story.”

Schwartzman nodded.

“And screw any actual concern for public
health and safety. Am I right?” Heather sank down in the room’s
easy chair. “This is crazy.”

“The National Guard’s leaving,” Schwartzman
said. “Everybody’s leaving. We’ll continue to study what we’ve
collected here. But the field investigation has been squashed. It’s
time for you to pack your things, Heather.”

“What was the point of me coming here at
all?” Heather could hear the bitterness in her own voice.

“No one expected it to go this way,”
Schwartzman said. “You should take some time off. It’s been a while
since you’ve seen your husband, hasn’t it? And your daughter?
She’s, what, three years old now?”

“Four,” Heather said. “And when I leave, who
takes over the investigation?”

Schwartzman just looked at her.

“Nobody?” she asked.

Schwartzman laid his hotel keycard on the
table by the bed, along with a few dollars to tip the housekeeping
staff. “You’ll need to check out today. Give my best to your
family.”

He left the room, and the door closed behind
him.

Heather stayed where she was for a few
minutes, feeling like she’d been hit by a giant truck. A
refrigerated truck, full of mysterious dead bodies, with no
explanation for their demise.

Jenny suffered recurring nightmares after the
events of Easter night—usually just a replay of what had happened,
Ashleigh whipping up the mob, and then blasting away Seth’s chest
with a shotgun. The mob closing in on Jenny, and Jenny killing all
of them with her horrific pox.

A couple of weeks after Easter, she had a new
nightmare, even more vivid.

Jenny wore some kind of rough cloth tunic
that felt scratchy on her skin. Her long black hair was pulled into
a simple braid. She walked across a battlefield littered with
bodies, spears, plumed bronze helmets and circular shields. A
horrific slaughter had occurred, and the iron tang of blood hung in
the air like smoke.

She was accompanied by soldiers carrying
tall, iron-tipped spears that extended high above their heads.
Their round shields were slung over their left shoulders, and their
helmets had bronze cheekplates to protect their faces. They wore
stiff linen tunics with bits of bronze sewn into them. An old man
on horseback accompanied the group, dressed not in armor but in
robes dyed red, with golden rings on his fingers. Jenny knew he was
some kind of priest.

The band of men surrounded Jenny, but they
kept their distance from her. They were terrified of touching
her.

They led her into an encampment with a few
large fires and numerous tents, the largest of which was guarded by
a pair of soldiers with spears. This largest tent was their
destination.

As they approached, one of the guards leaned
into the tent and spoke. Jenny didn’t know the language, yet in her
dream she understood the meaning of his words. He was telling
someone inside the tent they had arrived. The guard leaned back out
and looked at them.

“The priest and the girl may enter,” he said,
in his strange language.

The soldiers helped the old priest dismount,
and one of the guards held open a tent flap for him to enter.

“Follow me,” the priest said to Jenny.

Inside the tent, two men sat on hard wooden
folding stools with squarish seats and legs in an “X” shape. The
bottoms of the stool legs were carved to resemble lion’s feet,
pointed inward. They ate bread and roasted meat from a low, simple
square table.

One of the men, the one who sat off to the
side, wore a white linen tunic, trimmed with geometric green
patterns. The other man was tall, with a thick beard, and wore a
tunic of purple with intricate gold designs sewn into it. He had
bracelets of gold in the same style.

The man in white and green stood to formally
greet the priest. The man in purple remained seated. He glanced at
the priest with little interest, but he studied Jenny intently. She
felt uncomfortable in his gaze. He was a king, and she was a
slave.

“This is the girl?” the king asked the
priest.

“We have studied her,” the old priest said.
“I have seen with my own eyes. She has a gift from Aphrodite Areia.
The power lies in her touch.”

“Is this true?” the king asked Jenny.

“Great king, the war goddess has blessed me,”
Jenny heard herself say.

“Give us a demonstration,” said the man in
white and green. He offered his chair to the priest, who sat.

Jenny held up her hand and splayed her
fingers. Her hand turned a feverish red, and then pustules and
ulcers broke out across her palm and along the insides of her
fingers.

The man in the green-edged tunic, who was the
king’s advisor, turned pale and gaped. The old priest, having seen
far more than this, was interested only in the king’s reaction.

The king leaned forward to the edge of his
stool. “Come closer.”

Jenny took two steps toward him. The advisor
stepped back, as far away from her as he could manage.

“Great Archidamus,” the old priest said to
the king. “The touch of the goddess slays all. No man can touch her
and long survive.”

“That is a great shame.” The king favored
Jenny with a smile. “Come closer,” he said, and Jenny stepped
toward him.

“Careful,” the advisor said. “She is a
helot.”

“You would not wish to slay your rightful
sovereign?” the king asked Jenny.

“I would not,” Jenny said. “But I am a slave
to the goddess, as I am a slave to Sparta. She chooses whom to
slay. I do not. I am merely her vessel.”

“I have sacrificed many fine rams and ewes at
the temple of Aphrodite Areia,” the king said. “The goddess loves
me. She bears me no wrath.” The king reached for her hand.

“Do not touch her!” the priest shouted.

The king scowled at the old priest. “Do not
command your king!”

“Neither beast nor man are spared,” the old
priest said. “The goddess destroys all that the girl touches.”

“If the goddess harms me,” the king said,
“then the rites of your priesthood are false.”

The old priest said nothing.

The king took Jenny by the wrist and brought
her hand closer to inspect the signs of disease.

Jenny shivered in fright. She waited for the
touch of Aphrodite Areia to flow into him, for sores and ulcers to
break out on his hand and spread up his arm, across his body. Then
the king would scream, the old priest would shout, and perhaps the
advisor would draw the short sword at his waist and attack
Jenny.

But this did not happen. The king studied her
fevered, ulcerated hand. The plague did not spread into him, and
she marveled. And she trembled, for now she knew the king was no
ordinary man. The gods must have favored him.

“It looks strong,” the king said. He looked
up at her. The irises of his eyes were a deep, rich amber color.
“And you may inflict a deadly suffering upon men, if you wish?”

“If the goddess wishes,” Jenny whispered. In
all of her fifteen years, she had never touched another without
causing disease.

The king released her.

“You spoke falsely,” the king said to the
priest. “The goddess loves me, yet you said she would do me
harm.”

“I have never seen otherwise,” the old priest
said. He was pale now, frightened at having displeased the king. “I
only sought to protect the king.”

The king eased back on his stool, which was
cushioned by woolen fleeces. He studied Jenny.

“You must know of the recent evils of
Athens,” the king said to Jenny. “The Athenians formed the Delian
League under pretense of constructing a shield between Persia and
Greece. Yet Athens has reduced her allies to mere subjects, and
thinks only of expanding her influence, not of protecting Greece.
She will not cease until the world lies prostrate under the sword
of the Athenian tyrant. Do you know of these things, helot?”

“I have heard such talk,” Jenny said. “But it
is not my place.”

The king smiled at her, and she trembled at
the powerful energy in his gaze.

“The Athenians hide now behind their walls,”
the king said. “The walls reach all the way to the sea. We have
ravaged the Attica countryside, yet Athens remains free to command
the seas. No army may enter the city.”

He paused, looking at her. Jenny did not know
what she might say to this, so she remained silent.

“We cannot assault her from without,” the
king said. “But my priests advise me that you may assault her from
within.”

“We should not put any trust in a helot,” the
advisor said, but the king ignored him.

“The priests tell me they have prepared you
for this,” the king said.

“Yes, my king,” the old priest said. “Years
of exercises at the temple have uncovered the reach of her divine
touch—”

“I wish the girl to speak,” the king
said.

“I can do as you wish.” Jenny’s voice was
soft and low.

“A woman cannot win a war,” the advisor said.
“Curses will rain down on us if we follow this course.”

“If I wanted to hear of curses, I would ask a
priest or a magician!” the king bellowed.

“Magic and sorcery will lead us to
suffering,” the advisor said. “Wars must be fought by men, with
bronze and iron, on a properly blessed field—”