Alan E. Nourse - The Fourth Horseman by Alan Edward Nourse Page B
Authors: Alan Edward Nourse
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cases in the West in a single year since the 1890s.'' The doctor took another sip of beer. " And as for Amy, you can tell her I said we've had plague up in those hills above Grizzly Creek since long before we ever built our cabins out there."
"You're kiddin'!" Harry stared at him.
"Not a bit," Ben said. "Plague doesn't hit people, primarily. Never has. It's a disease of rodents, and it's passed on from one to the next by the fleas that live on 'em. The fleas drink infected blood from the rodent, and when the rodent dies of the infection, the fleas go to another rodent, and vomit up some infected blood while they're biting the new rodent, and it gets infected. People only get it when too many rodents die and the fleas have to look for something else to bite. People will do in a pinch, but the fleas would rather have the rodents."
"Bui we don't have any rats up in those hills near our cabins," Harry protested.
"Not city rats, no. But we've got pack rats around all the time, trying to get into the cabins in winter. They're just native wood rats, is all they are. And then there's the squirrels, and chipmunks, and ground squirrels, maybe rabbits, marmots up in the higher country. There was a case down in New Mexico a few years ago when a couple of kids got fleabites from a dead coyote and came down with plague—I read about it in a journal."
"Then why aren't people just dropping dead all over the place up there?"
"Not that many people around, that's all. I mean, who's wandering around up there, ordinarily? Maybe a logger now and then, cruising timber. A few mushroom pickers in the spring, a few hunters in the fall, maybe a backpacker going through on one of the trails, a fisherman here and there. But it's big country. The odds of any one person actually contacting it are very small."
"Then how did it get there?"
"Just growed, I guess. Came in by boat from China around the turn of the century. Rats from the boats infected some wild rodents in the hills and it started spreading, very slowly. By now we've got low-grade sylvan plague, sort of endemic, in every state west of the Rockies and maybe even as far east as Kansas City or Nebraska. But we don't have to worry, Harry. It takes people to get the plague moving, even when it's around. In fact, if you want to get away from it, you just get away from people. And that was why we built those places up on Grizzly Creek in the first place, wasn't it? To get away from people?"
"I suppose," Harry conceded. "But I tell you, Ben, if that Amy doesn't quit going into a panic every time she watches the news on TV, I'm going to have to belt her one ..."
18
It was almost 4:00 a.m.—7 :00 Atlanta time—by the time Carlos and Monique were checked into the discreet separate rooms Roger Salmon had arranged for them in the new Holiday Inn just south of Colorado Springs. "That's an hour's drive from Canon City, but you'll need some rest before you go down there, and facilities are better here." On the way down Roger had briefed them on the status quo in Rampart Valley and the thoroughly disturbing developments in Canon City—new cases turning up all over down there, an infection that was moving too fast, far too fast, an atypical pattern even for something as volatile as plague. "The first cases down there obviously came from the camping party up in Washington," Roger told them, "but these last ones have got to be secondary cases. Denver is getting very nervous about a major panic down here, and the TV newscasters obviously smell a very juicy scare story. We've got to get a handle on this thing very soon or we're going to be in deep trouble. ..."
Yes, but get a handle on what, exactly? Carlos wondered. He had hoped to get a few hours' sleep before Frank Barrington came pounding on his door—Roger had already contacted the man and set up an early morning meeting—but sleep proved elusive considering the sort of yawning chasm Carlos found himself staring into. Then, just as he was dozing
"You're kiddin'!" Harry stared at him.
"Not a bit," Ben said. "Plague doesn't hit people, primarily. Never has. It's a disease of rodents, and it's passed on from one to the next by the fleas that live on 'em. The fleas drink infected blood from the rodent, and when the rodent dies of the infection, the fleas go to another rodent, and vomit up some infected blood while they're biting the new rodent, and it gets infected. People only get it when too many rodents die and the fleas have to look for something else to bite. People will do in a pinch, but the fleas would rather have the rodents."
"Bui we don't have any rats up in those hills near our cabins," Harry protested.
"Not city rats, no. But we've got pack rats around all the time, trying to get into the cabins in winter. They're just native wood rats, is all they are. And then there's the squirrels, and chipmunks, and ground squirrels, maybe rabbits, marmots up in the higher country. There was a case down in New Mexico a few years ago when a couple of kids got fleabites from a dead coyote and came down with plague—I read about it in a journal."
"Then why aren't people just dropping dead all over the place up there?"
"Not that many people around, that's all. I mean, who's wandering around up there, ordinarily? Maybe a logger now and then, cruising timber. A few mushroom pickers in the spring, a few hunters in the fall, maybe a backpacker going through on one of the trails, a fisherman here and there. But it's big country. The odds of any one person actually contacting it are very small."
"Then how did it get there?"
"Just growed, I guess. Came in by boat from China around the turn of the century. Rats from the boats infected some wild rodents in the hills and it started spreading, very slowly. By now we've got low-grade sylvan plague, sort of endemic, in every state west of the Rockies and maybe even as far east as Kansas City or Nebraska. But we don't have to worry, Harry. It takes people to get the plague moving, even when it's around. In fact, if you want to get away from it, you just get away from people. And that was why we built those places up on Grizzly Creek in the first place, wasn't it? To get away from people?"
"I suppose," Harry conceded. "But I tell you, Ben, if that Amy doesn't quit going into a panic every time she watches the news on TV, I'm going to have to belt her one ..."
18
It was almost 4:00 a.m.—7 :00 Atlanta time—by the time Carlos and Monique were checked into the discreet separate rooms Roger Salmon had arranged for them in the new Holiday Inn just south of Colorado Springs. "That's an hour's drive from Canon City, but you'll need some rest before you go down there, and facilities are better here." On the way down Roger had briefed them on the status quo in Rampart Valley and the thoroughly disturbing developments in Canon City—new cases turning up all over down there, an infection that was moving too fast, far too fast, an atypical pattern even for something as volatile as plague. "The first cases down there obviously came from the camping party up in Washington," Roger told them, "but these last ones have got to be secondary cases. Denver is getting very nervous about a major panic down here, and the TV newscasters obviously smell a very juicy scare story. We've got to get a handle on this thing very soon or we're going to be in deep trouble. ..."
Yes, but get a handle on what, exactly? Carlos wondered. He had hoped to get a few hours' sleep before Frank Barrington came pounding on his door—Roger had already contacted the man and set up an early morning meeting—but sleep proved elusive considering the sort of yawning chasm Carlos found himself staring into. Then, just as he was dozing
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