Vegas Blues: A Thing Called Love
Some days you're better off staying in bed.
Detective John Sheppard nodded as the thought went through his head. He stood over the kitchen counter in his apartment, sipping his second cup of joe. Eyes on the television screen as a reporter gesticulated wildly behind her. The shot panned wide to reveal a suburban neighborhood. Clean houses and meticulous lawns. Paved driveways and clean sidewalks. Except now the entire area was littered. Dozens and dozens if not hundreds of blackbirds lay scattered, turning the ground into a black, feathered carpet. All were dead. Small bodies like some macabre confetti marring the otherwise well-to-do environment.
Clean-up crews were in the background, scooping up the hapless creatures with large shovels. Meanwhile the reporter droned on and on about global warming, a shift in the Earth's axis and magnetic field, pollution or contamination. John flicked the channel. The story was running on every news channel. Each station scrambling to find their own experts, their own theories. Each fighting for eyewitnesses and the usual crackpot who would expound a conspiracy theory of his own involving the government or aliens or secret testing of chemical warfare.
The phone rang. John snatched it off the counter. Lifted it to his ear. "Yeah?"
"Detective Sheppard? This is Carson Beckett," came a melodious Scottish voice. "I've got those results you were wanting. From that sample you gave me?"
"I remember," John noted. He flicked the channel again. A closer view now, of some of the dead birds. Little black beady eyes staring at nothing. There appeared to be no trauma to the avian victims. No marks. No blood. A witness was proclaiming how they had just all fallen out of the sky. As if felled by a single blow. The woman's face was pale, shock in her eyes.
"Come down to my place. I'd rather not discuss this over the phone."
"Okay. On my way." John slid the phone into the back pocket of his dark gray slacks. Pulled on his dark gray jacket over his dark green woven shirt. He'd made an effort this morning. The clothing was less wrinkled than most. He had even shaved, had even combed his hair but it still sprang into its messy disorder. Had no idea why he was being so conscientious about his appearance. Grabbing his shades and his keys he exited his apartment. Locked the door. Checked the badge at his hip. Nodded absently at an elderly woman who was retrieving her paper outside her door.
ANOTHER AFLOCKALYPSE? MORE MASS DEATH IN...
John scowled at the tabloid headline, not bothering to finish reading it. He quickly headed for his car, keys jangling in his hand. It was another hot day. The sun was rising amid a clear yellow sky. Hints of orange glinted over the hills far to the west. The noises of the city assaulted. Traffic jams. People yelling. Horns honking. Commerce non-stop.
Vegas never stopped. And was never silent.
John strolled to the bar. Even at this hour of the morning there were patrons. Sitting at the small tables, nursing their beers and their woes. The dim lighting made John remove his shades. He paused at the bar, smiled at the barmaid who approached. "Beckett?"
"Oh. You." Her smile faded upon recognizing him. Remembering that he was a cop. "In back. He's expecting you." She jerked a thumb towards the back. "You wanna drink?" she asked, as an afterthought.
"Not yet." He made his way to the back. To where more private booths were located. He stopped. A woman was sitting at one. Long brown hair secured into a ponytail that snaked along her lilac shirt. Her rear snug in the faded blue jeans as she leaned over to grab a fallen napkin. John's lips quirked into a smile. "Moira O'Meara."
Moira O'Meara turned, startled. She dropped the napkin again. She stared at the handsome man standing near the booth. "John Sheppard." Her gaze took in his dark clothes. The shirt opened at his throat, revealing a glimpse of his chest. The belt buckle a shiny silver square at his waist.
"What are you doing here?" they asked at the same time. Smiled.
John sat next to her, forcing her to scoot and scoot over until she was practically up against the wall. "Beckett's got results on a sample I gave him. What about you?" His eyes momentarily lowered to her breasts, where a Celtic design was emblazoned on the t-shirt.
"The same. What was yours? Detective?" she reprimanded, but her own gaze was raking along his long, lean form. The opened shirt. Down to his waist where it had come partially untucked, revealing a flash of skin as he moved, getting comfortable.
"Dead body. Possible pathogen." Their eyes met.
"Same here. Not human, though. Yours?"
"Human. From a bird? I saw the news this morning."
"No. Mammalian. We were in the desert cave system and found them. Hundreds of them."
"Found what?"
"Bats."
"Bats?" he questioned, puzzled.
"Good, you're both hear. I can kill two birds with one stone, then. Och, sorry!" Carson Beckett shrugged seeing Moira's look of reprimand. "I saw the news. Another one, eh?"
"Another what?" John asked. Recalled the blaring headline he had read. "You mean this has happened before?"
Carson ignored him as he took the seat across from Moira. "It's all identical, Moy."
"What? How?"
"Pathogen. A single strand that is foreign to everything else."
"Specialized?"
"Across the board."
"Whoa! Full sentences, okay? Does that include mine?" John asked, irritated. He was being ignored as the two scientists seemed to have their own shorthand, like a secret code.
"Yes, detective, it does. That's why I called you."
"Whoa!" Moira echoed. "But his is human! That can't be right, Carson. That's impossible!"
"Apparently not, love. The diseases are different, the causes are different but in each sample that same unknown viral agent is there, and only there. No where else."
"So these die-offs aren't like the other ones! I knew it. The mass die-offs are not natural at all and I've tracked them all across the nation and then Nevada and then specifically in Vegas and if you're saying this unknown pathogen is the common factor in the–"
"Whoa, whoa, hold up!" John said, shaking his head. "What the hell are you talking about? I feel like I walked into the middle of something. Bats, then birds? What else? And how could any of that link to my vic? Well?"
Moira turned to John. "The birds. They are only the latest in a strange series of mysterious die-offs that have been population specific, as well as environmentally specific." At his blank look she continued. "This one is the latest to have happened here. Most of the time the die-offs are naturally occurring, but lately this hasn't been the case. They are far too frequent and I have tracked them geographically, as well as chemically with Carson's help." She pulled a file to her. Opened it. Showed him a map of the world, then the United States. Then Nevada. "You see?"
John was silent. He took the maps, reading her writing on them. Names of animals, birds, fish, even trees and insects. Map by map. Region by region. Except the ones on the Nevada map were written in bold red. As if they differed somehow. And they seemed to follow a trajectory. Straight into the desert outside of Vegas.
"Yes," she said to his unasked question, watching him. The curve of his perfect lips as he considered. Green eyes narrowed in thought. A trace of scruff shadowing his strong jaw. "Most of the time these die-offs occur unreported. But recently there have been sporadic groupings of them. Across the species board. Colony collapse disorder in honeybees. White nose syndrome in bats. Chytridiomycosis in amphibians. Avian flu or magnetic interference in birds. Red tide killing hundred of fish. Sudden aspen decline killing trees across the West. Except for here. The one thing they all have in common, and only have in common here is what Carson found."
"The unknown pathogen," John surmised. Still eying the map. He traced his finger across a line leading from the outskirts of the state to the city of Vegas. "It's following a route?"
"We think so...whatever this unknown bacteria or virus is, yes...but we need to find the point of origin. We need to find what is causing it in the first place. It's unlike any known virus or bacteria I have ever seen," Carson stated. Frowning. "If I was a betting man I'd venture a guess that this chemical isn't even...terrestrial."
John licked his lips. Set down the maps but kept hold of them. Met the doctor's blue gaze. "Well, I am a betting man. And I bet you may be right, doc."