Gabriel shook his head. “The Black Virus? What the hell is that? Are you talking about the bubonic plague?”
“Tomorrow,” the slug repeated.
Gabriel put the slug back on the wall. He was done listening. The whole thing was too ridiculous for words. Yet, an uncomfortable feeling stuck in his mind like a hooked fish.
“I hope you’re ready.” The slug slithered up the wall and into a crevice in the cracked white ceiling.
Chapter 7:
Cadaver
The morning after Robbie Gore’s death, Gabriel tentatively sat up in bed, his aching, rusty bones creaking with the motion. He rested his heavy head in his hands and attempted to pick the cobwebs out of his brain. As far as he could tell, the room was happily slug-free.
“The Black Virus will begin here. Right here, tomorrow, at Bright New Day. And once the virus begins cutting its bloody path through humanity’s corpses, you will be the only one who can stop it. I hope you’re ready.”
A slug. A talking slug. For Christ’s sake, was he really sitting here, thinking about a talking slug?
The breakfast tray beside his bed held a cup of black coffee, a plate of lukewarm scrambled eggs that smelled heavily of olive oil, a glass of orange juice, and as usual, a small bowl of Corn Pops. They always gave him Corn Pops. When he’d told them that he liked Corn Pops, he certainly hadn’t meant that he wanted them every single day. Next to the cereal was a tiny plastic cup of pills.
According to the talking slug—hardly the most credible harbinger—the whole Black Virus business was supposed to start that day. But he couldn’t believe the words of a slithering little creature from his imagination.
He gulped down the pills and ate his breakfast. He tried to put the slug and its prophecy out of his mind as he dressed for the day.
About an hour later, he traversed the fluorescent-lit corridors of Bright New Day on an aimless, directionless walk, less for enjoyment and more for the purpose of preventing muscular atrophy in his legs. All the usual suspects were about: the Crooner sang his heart out, Bob Baker glared into the hallway, and Edna Foster wheeled back and forth, expressing dire misery to anyone who dared cross her path. As Gabriel approached, she tentatively reached out for him.
A gravelly, Brooklyn-accented voice blasted out like a siren. “Hi there!” Mickey Minkovsky, a cheery, bald-headed, glasses-wearing New York Jewish man, had gleefully grabbed Edna’s hand and spun his wheelchair around to face her. As Edna scowled, Mickey’s brown eyes lit up, and he grinned at her. He raised his other hand triumphantly.
Gabriel stood there shakily. The two of them were blocking the entire hallway.
“Wooohoo!” Mickey whooped.
Mickey was always merry and loud. He could often be seen clapping and joyously shouting out old Yiddish phrases or emitting ear-shattering whistles. Though primarily wheelchair-bound, he was a stocky, muscular man with arms like a wrestler. Once, in a fit of spasmodic joy, he’d shaken the hand of an LNA so aggressively that he’d accidentally broken her wrist. Mickey didn’t appear to remember that incident. It was one of many memories that Alzheimer’s had stolen from him.
“Hi there!” Mickey repeated. “It’s nice to meet you. My name’s Mickey, Mickey Minkovsky. Y’know, like Mickey Mouse!” Mickey squeezed Edna’s hand, enthusiastically shaking it up and down.
Edna glared at Gabriel as if blaming him for the situation. Gabriel considered helping her out, but he was worried that Mickey might then try to shake his hand, perhaps a bit more enthusiastically than his fragile bones could take.
With his free hand, Mickey clapped his knee and cackled. He gave a whooping shout as if he’d just scored a home run. “So,” Mickey said, “will you be my girlfriend?”
Edna gave him her hostile Edna-scowl. “No.” She slipped her hand out of his fingers and wheeled forward, snubbing him.
Mickey went in the opposite direction, still laughing and apparently not the least bit disheartened. His flirting was never serious.
Gabriel continued down the hallway, carefully dodging both sets of spinning wheels. Though he had intended to go out for a cigarette, he instead veered toward the front lobby. For once, the area was mostly empty. Jill, the receptionist, was on the phone at her desk, and only two other residents were there.
John Morris, a grim bald fellow from North Wing, was sitting in front of the fish tank in his wheelchair. He stared at the fish, muttering something incoherent and tapping his fingers against his knees in a pattern that was somewhere between chaotic and methodical. He turned his head to glance at Gabriel, revealing frightened eyes with dark circles under them, a tight upper lip, and uneven facial features, clearly the side effects of a stroke. He quickly returned his attention to the fish and resumed his mumbling.
Once again sitting behind the chessboard was the same narrow-faced, thin man with the buggy eyes and the mysterious 7-shaped scar. He wore yet another fabulous black tuxedo, and with his glistening silver hair combed back and his Van Dyke goatee trimmed to perfection, he appeared as debonair as the previous day. He smiled at Gabriel.
“I want to go upstairs,” John Morris announced, though he didn’t turn from the fish tank. “Pleeeease… please, please, please, I want to go upstairs.”
Chessboard man’s globe-like eyes glanced over at Morris then returned to Gabriel. There was something oddly loving about the man’s expression, something that made Gabriel feel as if they’d perhaps known each other once, a long time ago. The man carefully dusted his tuxedo—not that such a lavish, spotless garment needed dusting—then checked a silver pocket watch. Apparently satisfied with the time, the angular man returned to his solo chess game.
Gabriel knew he recognized the man from somewhere. Maybe he had known him back in California. Or perhaps they’d been roommates at some point in the last five years, and he’d forgotten him.
Clearly, if he wanted to find out, he had to make the first move. But that knowledge didn’t make his next action any easier. Initiating friendly communication with people had never been one of his strong suits.
Gabriel approached the chessboard, his clunky, three-footed steps jittery with apprehension. He nearly stopped, but finally, he made it to the board. Gabriel cleared his throat. “Hello there.”
The man peered up at him. “Why hello, good sir.” He smiled, raising one corner of his mouth and revealing a deep dimple in his left cheek. “Care to join me?” His voice, though warm and friendly, was surprisingly raspy, sounding like broken shards of glass rubbing against each other. He had the barest trace of a Spanish accent.
Gabriel sat on the opposite side of the chessboard. The man was staring at him, studying him, and he was still smiling the way one smiled at a loved one, a friend, or even a favorite student. Gabriel adjusted his collar self-consciously, and the other man dusted off his coat again.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Gabriel said. “I’m Gabriel Schist. I’ve been a resident here for many years, but I came here from—”
“Oh, Gabriel. I know exactly who you are.” The man’s smile spread to both sides of his mouth, like a moving wave. “I think everyone here knows you.”
“No, I don’t think they do because—”
“Yes, well. To an extent, perhaps. I suppose that very few of us here, other than myself, realize that you’re actually the great inventor of the Schist vaccine.”
“Hmm.” Gabriel noted that the man’s response still didn’t let him know if they’d ever met before. “So you do know who I am.”
“Oh, yes! And I am quite a fan, I must say. But you’re correct, Gabriel, to posit that most of the residents here probably don’t know that. However, I can assure you that everyone in this facility certainly recognizes you. Out of this vast plethora of colorful characters here at Bright New Day, you’re one of the most colorful of all.”
“Am I?”
“Why, yes!” The man leaned back in his chair with a giddy, almost childlike satisfaction. “You’re the detective, of course! Who doesn’t know the detective with his charming old cane and fedora?”
