Free High Water by R.W. Tucker Page B

no reply.
    Attentive to his phone, Walter only saw the cat out of the corner of his eye. Streaking out of the darkness of the road’s shoulder, it made a perpendicular line across the street. Swerving to avoid it, he barely managed to miss a hanging tree branch before regaining control of the car. In the process, Challenger tipped over, spilling hot coals and bong water all over his lap.
    “Son of a…!” The cherry would have seared through his pant leg if it wasn’t drenched with dirty water.
    Sirens and brilliant flashing lights made Walter look up. A line of squad cars raced past, hauling ass in the other direction. He knew where they were headed and pulled his parking break, swinging the car around. The Cutlass’ engine hesitated only momentarily when he slammed on the gas. He sped toward Tahitian Water Adventures, hoping he’d be there in time.

Caliginous Night
     
    “How long has it been?” Liz whispered.
    “At least an hour,” Pete whispered back.
    She didn’t reply. Liz’s phone battery was running down fast as the device tried to find service in the building. Almost everything came back as undelivered, including texts to her parents who lived the next town over. Clutching her bricked device, Liz looked down the ladder. Prowling shapes below fought and carried on among themselves. Pete was done looking. He knew there were many more down there in the dim abyss below, baying like dogs on a scent. Even more disconcerting was that occasionally you could catch them murmuring to themselves with a frightening single-mindedness.
    Ever since they had escaped immediate danger, Pete’s wounds had paraded into his awareness one by one. His fists were swollen up like hams and his ribs had taken a beating. Despite his form when he kicked, his foot felt tweaked as well. Stone cold sober, body and mind alike implored him to stay still, to wait out of danger for his wounds to heal. It wasn’t a choice since they had nowhere to go. Not wanting to make noise, Pete and Liz had kept their speaking to a minimum. The practical response to the danger around them rubbed his psyche thin, forcing him to confront his hurts and demons on his own. He sat in pain pondering his next move. Or whether there would be one at all.
    It didn’t help his idle fears that most of the lights from the stage had gone out a few minutes ago. All that remained was this already murky building plunging into inky darkness along with their waning hope.
    What were the cops waiting for? Were they sealed in? If the authorities were smart, they’d quarantine the building and shoot anyone trying to exit.  That’s what the feds, perhaps even the CDC, would do. It was anyone’s guess how local cops were handling the situation. Pete did not imagine it would end well for anyone stuck in the building, infected or uninfected. That reality kept creeping into his mind, unbidden and unwanted.
    The only choice was to settle in for a long wait. For what, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps some change in the situation that would give them a fighting chance. He shifted trying to find a more comfortable spot, but the metal walkway was not meant for sitting.
    Pete thought through what he knew, trying to settle the unease and paranoia that gnawed hungrily at his already raw nerves. He was looking for something that resembled an answer to Liz’s original concern: what was in the water? The park was warm, wet, and untreated, perfect for carrying to gestation an organism of a sort that Pete had never seen.  Nor his colleagues, he suspected. When, or if, they ever got out, he was determined to get to the bottom of what made it tick.
     
    His graduate work had been on the dominant strain of the malarial protozoa, Plasmodium falciparum , which had spread havoc over multiple continents and affected countless millions of people. The strain was well researched, but still had properties that made it difficult to deal with efficiently. For Pete, it had been both a moral and scientific