Free Alan E. Nourse - The Fourth Horseman by Alan Edward Nourse

who had died in the emergency room of the Rampart Valley Community Hospital up north of Colorado Springs— Terry's parents had just gotten word as Frank walked in the door. Three more here in Canon City were actively infected with something. Maybe the one left behind at Harborview in Seattle had made it and maybe he hadn't—there was no one at his address.
    And how many more were already sick or getting sick? He didn't know. He wasn't a doctor, either, and there was no way to guess whether the picture of contagion he was piecing together made medical sense or not. One thing was certain: nobody else in Canon City was piecing that picture together, at least not yet—and that was what was really scary. . . .
    He knew he had to talk to somebody, somebody who could help, somebody who knew something. Even if it made him look like a meddling ass, he had to unload what he was thinking to somebody. And the horrible part was that Pam must have been the spark. Whatever it was that hit her, she must have passed it on at least to Comstock and the girl. Maybe they infected others in their party in turn—if whatever it was moved just ungodly fast—
    And then he thought of something else, and sat bolt upright on the bed, sweating. If Pam had infected Comstock, who else had she infected? What was it the Super had said when Frank called him after going through Pam's diary? Something about Doc Edmonds not feeling well? And the other two who had helped him bring Pam out? With his heart pounding, Frank leaped across the bed to the telephone, got the operator, rang the Super's home number in Leavenworth. . . .
    It rang ten times before the Super answered. "Oh, Frank? I was wondering when you'd call. Are you okay? Well, that's something, at least." His voice sounded strained and distant. "You're in Canon City, Colorado, you say? Wherever that is. Checking out that camping party." There was a long, long pause. "Did you know that three of them died at Harborview? Big ruckus up here. Fourth one's just hanging on by his fingernails. Nobody's sure what's doing it, it's weird. How are those people down there?"
    Frank told him, briefly. Then: "How is Doc Edmonds doing?"
    "Doc? Oh, he's gone, of course." The Super sounded very strange, almost out of contact. "Dead. Night before last. So is Fred, the guy who flew the chopper in to get Pam, and Barney, who went along to help bring her down. Both dead. The public-health people called in the Centers for Disease Control, but they kept insisting that it isn't plague. They say it couldn't be, it doesn't act like plague. It's moving too fast, with too much person-to-person spread, bypassing the fleas altogether—you know what I mean?"
    "Well—sort of," Frank said.
    "They think it's some new, unidentified bug, don't know what it is, exactly, but they think it's definitely not plague. Plague just doesn't move that fast. . . ."
    They talked a little more, but the Super was definitely not with it, he sounded half delirious, drifting in and out of coherence, so Frank promised to call back next morning, and then signed off. He got another drink, trying to puzzle out what the Super had said. If not plague, then what else? he thought. Not that it matters much, it's killing people like plague. And speaking of that, shouldn 't I keep talcing those little white capsules?
    He got up, took two more in the bathroom, then paced the floor.
    It was plague, it had to be, and he needed help, not just incoherence. On impulse, he picked up the telephone again, got long-distance information and then placed a call to Atlanta.
    He got a woman on the line and started to tell her where he was and what he wanted, but she cut him off abruptly and gave him another party. This one, another woman, at least listened; she even asked him to spell his name. "You say you have information on cases of plague in Canon City, Colorado? Are these cases you're treating, Doctor?"
    "I'm not a doctor. I'm a forester."
    "A forester?" Vague confusion. "I