Plague: A gripping suspense thriller about an incurable outbreak in Miami

the water fountain, waited patiently.
Dr. Petrie walked across, and took her arm. She looked up at him, her eyes pink with tiredness and suppressed tears.
‘Mrs. Haskins?’
‘Yes, sir. Is George all right?’
Dr. Petrie bit his lip. In a few short words, he was going to destroy this woman’s whole world. He almost felt like saying nothing at all, prolonging her suspense. At least she would believe her husband was still alive. At least she would have some hope.
‘George was very sick,’ said Dr. Petrie softly.
She nodded. ‘I know. He was taken bad right after his lunch. He took his swim in the morning, and then he came back and was taken real bad.’
‘He took a swim? Where?’
‘Where he always does. Off the beach.’
Dr. Petrie looked at the woman’s weary, work-lined face. First it was David Kelly, and he’d taken a swim. Then it was Margaret, and she’d taken a swim. Now it was George Haskins. And all along the beaches, raw sewage was floating in from the Atlantic Ocean. Poisonous, virulent, and seething with diseased bacteria.
‘Mrs. Haskins,’ he said simply, ‘I’m sorry to tell you that George is dead.’
Mrs. Haskins stared at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said.
‘George died, about five minutes ago.’
She frowned, and then looked down at her carrier bag. ‘But he can’t have. I’ve got all his clothes in here.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Haskins. It’s true.’
She shook her head. ‘No, that’s all right,’ she said, with an attempt at brightness. ‘I’ll just wait here.’
‘Mrs. Haskins—’
He was interrupted by the public address system. ‘Dr. Petrie, telephone please. Dr. Leonard Petrie, telephone.’ He held Mrs. Haskins’ hand. ‘I’ll be right back,’ he told her. ‘You just wait there, and I’ll be right back.’
Mrs. Haskins smiled blandly, and agreed to wait.
Dr. Petrie pushed his way past trolleys and anaesthetic cylinders, nurses and porters, and made his way to the phone outside the emergency ward. He picked it up and said, ‘This is Dr. Petrie. You have a call for me?’
‘Hold on, doctor,’ said the telephonist. ‘Okay, ma’am, you’re through now.’
Dr. Petrie said, ‘Adelaide?’
Adelaide sounded jumpy and frantic. ‘Leonard? Oh God, Leonard, something awful has happened! I’ve been trying to call you for the past twenty minutes, but the hospital lines were all tied up.’
‘What is it? Is it Prickles? Is she sick?’
‘No, it’s not that. It was Margaret. She knocked at the door, and I opened it up, thinking it was you. She came straight in, like she was drunk or something, and she pulled Prickles out of bed and carried her off.’
‘She what?’
‘She carried her off, Leonard,’ said Adelaide miserably, bursting into tears. ‘I tried to stop her, but I couldn’t. Oh God, Leonard, I’m so sorry. I tried to stop her.’
‘You say she was drunk?’
‘She seemed like it. She was swaying around and cursing. It was awful.’
Dr. Petrie rested his head against the wall. ‘Okay, Adelaide, don’t worry. I’ll get right back there. I shouldn’t think she’s taken Prickles far. Just stay there, and I’ll get back in ten minutes.’
He laid down the phone. Dr. Selmer was standing right behind him.
‘You’re not going home?’ asked Dr. Selmer. ‘I’m sorry, but I came to look for you, and I couldn’t help overhearing.’
‘Anton, I have to. My wife has taken my little girl.’
‘Leonard, I need you here. You have to talk to Firenza. Please. I can’t get away myself.’
Dr. Petrie shook his head. ‘Anton – I can’t. I think that Margaret has the plague. I have to go get Prickles back, Anton. I can’t just leave her. Look—’ he checked his watch ‘—just give me two hours, and I’ll come right back here. I promise.’
Dr. Selmer looked desperate. ‘Leonard, it’s Firenza. You have to convince him. If we don’t put this whole city into quarantine – well, God knows what’s going to happen. I spoke to him just now. He still refuses. He says that until we find out what’s causing this epidemic, there’s no medical justification for sealing the city off.’
‘We do know what’s causing it,’ said Dr. Petrie.
‘We do?’
‘I think so. It’s the sewage that’s been washed up on the beaches. Every one of the people I’ve come across with plague went swimming – either yesterday, or today.’
Dr. Selmer dropped his hands in resignation. ‘Then we have to close the beaches,’ he said. ‘Go see Firenza, tell him what you think, and insist that he closes the beaches.’
Dr. Petrie looked at his watch again. He had just seen a man die from the plague; he knew how short a time it took. If Margaret was already in the dizzy, drunken stage, she may only have a couple of hours left – three or four at the most. Supposing she died when Prickles was with her? Supposing she was driving her car?
‘Anton,’ he said desperately. ‘Just two hours. Please. No one goes swimming at night, anyway.’
Dr. Selmer wiped his brow with the back of his hand. ‘Go on, then,’ he said softly. ‘I can’t stop you.’
‘Anton, it’s my daughter.’
Dr. Selmer nodded, and looked at Mrs. Haskins, waiting, shocked and patient, by the water fountain, and the white shivering people who were being wheeled in through the hospital’s double doors.
‘Sure. It’s your daughter, and her husband, and his son, and my uncle. Everybody belongs to somebody, Leonard. I’m just disappointed, that’s all. No matter how people criticized you, I didn’t think you were that kind of a doctor.’
Leonard Petrie rubbed the back of his neck. The muscles were knotted and tense, and he could feel the beginnings of a pounding headache.
Dr. Selmer watched him, saying nothing, waiting for him to make up his mind.
Finally, Dr. Petrie sighed. ‘All right, Anton. You win. Where does Firenza live?’
‘Out by the university on South West 48th Street. The number’s here.’
Dr. Petrie took the creased card and tucked it in his pocket. ‘I’ll be right back when I’ve seen him. Then I must go and look for Prickles. You understand that?’
Dr. Selmer nodded and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘I won’t forget this, Leonard.