False Prey: A Wildfire Novella (Wildfire Saga) by Marcus Richardson

him.
    Danny sighed and put his notebook on the front desk before he leaned on one elbow, deep in thought.   He half-turned and looked out the window toward the parking lot again.   One of the cops was walking around Danny’s car taking note of the license plate number.   Looking back through the front door, Danny could see beyond his car to where a squad car had parked.   Officer Perkins casually rested one thick arm on the roof.   The man wore that irritating smile again.  
    Danny heard the sound of someone retching behind him and turned to look at the manager’s office.   Ignoring the cops in the parking lot, Danny walked up to the cracked door and leaned in close to listen. Now he heard a low moan, followed by what sounded like a whimper. Self-consciously, he looked around before rapping on the door.
    “Sir?”
    A muffled voice replied, “Stay out!”
    Danny looked down at the doorknob and the sliver of light in the door jamb—it wasn’t shut completely. “Hey, are you okay?”
    It sounded like the motel owner was really bad off—either throwing up or suffering through dry heaves. Another whimper through the door caused Danny to put his foot against the bottom of the door and push ever so slightly. The sliver of light in the crack widened as the door opened easily.   “You don’t sound too good…”
    When the door swung fully open, Danny saw the office manager crouching on the floor in a puddle of vomit. The man looked pale—even paler than he had moments earlier. The man looked up with fear in his eyes and a fresh patina of sweat on his forehead. He tried to adjust his shirt again and stand but slipped in his own vomit and ended up on the floor instead.   He reached out with one trembling hand and tried to stop Danny from coming any closer. “Stay back, if you know what’s good for you. Can’t you tell that I’ve got that damn flu they’ve been warning us about on the radio?”
    Danny froze in the doorway. He looked down at the infected man at his feet. The rational side of his mind had known of course, and screamed for him to turn and flee the building as fast as he could. The reporter in him was detached, yet excited at the thought of finding a new patient in a town that had previously been so successful in keeping the flu at bay.
    Instinctively, Danny reached into his back pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to put in front of his face. Through the handkerchief, he said: “Who did you come in contact with that was sick?”
    The motel owner rolled onto his back and clutched his stomach. He closed his eyes and through gritted teeth said, “I don’t know…”   He rolled his head to the side, and coughed. “Had to be one of those boys with Mosby though… Shoulda known those bastards would do me no good…”
    “When did you see them the first time?”
    “Sunday,” the man said and coughed.   “At that…at the church.   St. Stephen’s.”
    Danny scribbled a note about the timing.   If one of Mosby’ thugs was infected and was at the mob scene when Sang had been pulled from the church… 72 hour incubation period.   Fits with the Blue Flu.  
    The poor man on the floor writhed in pain and began coughing again.   His scuffed loafers scraped at the dingy linoleum tiles on the office floor.   Danny took a step back but kept the handkerchief in front of his face.  
    “Try not to move, okay?   I’ll go get help.” His eyes grew wide as the motel owner’s body started to tremble.
    The owner looked like he was going through some sort of muscle spasm. His teeth were chattering and his eyes were screwed shut. Danny could barely understand the man’s mumbling.  
    “D-d-don’t bother. I knew I was going to get sick this time around,” he said. “Never caught it…when the Blue Flu came through town 10 years ago.”
    Danny remained where he was in the doorway, his hand itching to open a cell phone and call for help. Instead he listened to the words of the man writhing on the