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

so? You don’t even know. The first time I saw you, down in the Village, I felt a sensation like I’d never felt before. At first, I couldn’t understand it. I stared and stared at you, and still I couldn’t grasp what it was that made me stare. Then I saw myself in a bookstore window. I saw myself. And I realized what it was about you that attracted me so much. You, Nicholas, are the spitting image of me, when I was in movies.’
Nicholas looked uncertain. ‘That’s not why you like me, though, is it? I mean – that’s not the only reason?’
Herbert Gaines walked carefully back to his chair, and sat down. It looked as if his jumpsuit was filled with nothing more substantial than bent coat-hangers and odd bones. When he. was comfortable, he fixed his gaze on Nicholas again – those deep, disturbing eyes – and he spoke in grave, sonorous tones.
‘Nicholas,’ he said, ‘I love you.’
Nicholas scratched the back of his neck in embarrassment. ‘I know that, Herbert, but—’
‘But nothing,’ said Herbert. ‘I love you. Does it matter why?’
Nicholas lowered his eyes. ‘I guess not. It was just that I wondered if you loved me because I was me, or because, well…’
‘Because what?’
‘Well, because I was you. I mean – is it me you love, or your old self?’
There was an uncomfortable silence. Then, unexpectedly, Herbert Gaines nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is me that I love. You are the personification of what I once was, and what I could be once more, if they would give me a chance. That, and that alone, is why I love you.’
Nicholas stood there, biting his lip. He watched Herbert Gaines for a while, but Herbert didn’t look back. The old actor sat in his Victorian chair, smoking steadily and staring at the floor.
‘Well, fuck you,’ said Nicholas.
Herbert Gaines said nothing.
‘Do you think I can take that?’ said Nicholas, his eyes filling with tears. ‘Do you think I can just stand here and take that? What do you think I am? Just one of your goddamned celluloid images? Just one of your old movies? Well, fuck you, Herbert Gaines!’
Gaines shrugged. ‘Please yourself, dear boy.’
Nicholas wiped his eyes with his arm. ‘Oh, that’s great, that is. That’s just too fucking neat for words. You spend your whole time sulking and moping like an over-age Shirley Temple, and when I tell you the truth about it, you come out with a charmer like that. Well, I can tell you here and now – I’m packing.’
‘Packing?’ said Gaines. ‘What for?’
Nicholas bent forward and hissed the words at him. ‘To leave you, my withered darling, that’s what for.’
Herbert caught his wrist. His mouth twitched for a moment as he searched for the words. ‘You leave me, you young bastard, and I’ll break your neck.’
Nicholas pulled himself away. ‘You might have been a muscle boy in 1936, but there’s not much chunk left on the old bones now, is there, Herbert?’
He turned and walked towards the bedroom. Herbert Gaines, with a curiously intense expression on his face, heaved himself out of his chair and went after him. Hobbling as quickly as he could, he caught up with Nicholas in the doorway, and snatched at his arm.
Nicholas shook himself free. ‘Herbert, it’s no fucking use!’
Herbert clutched his young lover again. ‘You’re not leaving, Nicky. Not really.’
Nicholas turned away. ‘What do you want me to do? Stay here and listen to your ramblings about the good old days for the rest of my life, and how fucking wonderful I am because I look just like you used to look, in one of those two dreary old pictures of yours? Jesus, Herbert, I don’t know which is more boring – you or your second-rate movies.’
Herbert slapped him, quite hard, across the face. Nicholas stared at him, more in surprise than in pain. A red bruise spread across his left cheek. He lifted his hand and dabbed it.
Without a word, Nicholas punched Herbert in the stomach. Herbert gasped, and collided with the doorjamb. Nicholas hit him again, with his open hand, and he fell to the floor with his nose bleeding.
Herbert didn’t cry out, didn’t even raise a hand to protect himself. Viciously and systematically, Nicholas punched him in the face and chest, lifting him up each time he dropped to the floor by tugging his pale blue jumpsuit. There were speckles and splashes of blood down the front, and Herbert’s face was a mass of bruises.
Finally, with his rage exhausted, Nicholas let him fall on to the pink Wilton carpet, and stumbled unsteadily into the bedroom. He collapsed on to the bed, and lay there panting and sobbing, his legs curled up in a foetal crouch.
After a few minutes, he became aware that Herbert was standing at his bedside, his white hair awry, his jump-suit dark with blood. Herbert reached out with a wrinkled and trembling hand and touched his bare shoulder. Nicholas recoiled.
‘Nick,’ whispered Herbert Gaines. ‘Nicky.’
Nicholas turned his face away.
‘Nicky, listen,’ said Herbert thickly.
Nicholas shook his head.
‘Nicky, you still haven’t punished me enough.’
Nicholas turned, and lifted his head. The handsome, wrinkled face was swollen and red. The bony shoulders were bowed.
‘Not enough?’ said Nicholas, unbelievingly.
Herbert Gaines, the one-time movie hero, dropped to his knees. ‘I have sinned against myself,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I have grown old, and unappealing. You must punish me.’
Nicholas sat up. He took Herbert’s hand in his, and gripped it tight. ‘Herbert, you mustn’t say things like that. Nobody can help themselves from growing old. And anyway, what’s sixty? It’s when you get to ninety-five that you’ve got to start worrying!’
Herbert wiped blood from his chin. ‘Sixty is older than twenty. Nick. It’s all my fault. I threw my youth away. Two movies, too much money too fast. They offered me $25,000 for my third picture. I was high on my own conceit. I said $100,000 or nothing.’
‘And?’
‘You know what happened. I got nothing. I was young and headstrong, and I